COLLISION, assassination classroom

CHAPTER #007. TOXIN TIME!

          After attending the remaining hour of prep school, Hajime returned home that night with a deep tiredness in his bones. He stood in front of the house gate and shoved his hands into his pockets to search for his key. The light on the second floor left side window was on, meaning that his younger sister had arrived earlier and was cooped up in her bedroom. He assumed that his mother was home as well, unless she had an impromptu dinner date with her friends. Hajime had no method of keeping track of his father's whereabouts, so the male didn't bother. The rusted silver key clanged against the metal gate as Hajime tried to insert it into the keyhole. As he pushed the gate open with his foot, something dropped to the ground.

Downturned eyes blearily peered at the white envelope. Frustration began to swell inside of him. He had a long afternoon -- terribly, frustratingly long -- and the mailman knew better than to leave the letters crammed on the door gate when there was a perfectly functioning mail box not even three feet away. The brown haired male bent down and snatched the letter with a huff, attempting to crumple the offending item in his palm but regretting it immediately afterward.

Pain flared from his palm as Hajime dropped the letter in surprise. Blood began to pool in the small crest of his cupped hand. The letter was once again on the ground, this time colored in hints of red. The male sighed, low and burdened, then reached down with his uninjured hand to pinch the corner of the envelope. Now that he was more observant, he noticed that there was a heaviness within the carrier. The male shook his head, the day just wouldn't end. Hajime ambled inside his house and slammed the door shut harder than usual.

The envelope was dropped onto the nearest surface, which happened to be the living room coffee table. Droplets of blood splattered across the dark wood; red also trailed down the smooth curvatures of his wrist as Hajime kept his hand raised and close to his chest. It was not often the brown haired male got hurt to the point of bleeding. He was meticulous enough with his plans and actions that these kinds of things just didn't happen. Staring at the wound, Hajime was conflicted. There was an inkling of an idea toward what was happening, but the male couldn't bring himself to believe it. This kind of thing only happened in movies. The young male crouched into a squat and set his hand on the coffee table, palm facing up, and used his other hand to painstakingly open the envelope. He carefully ripped the top and turned it upside down, allowing the contents to fall out.

Detached razor blades fell with a dull thud, the sharp edges stained with his blood. Tension crept along his form, muscles tight and nerves on edge because who could have done such a thing? The person who sent this awful letter must have been aware of his home address, and his schedule if he was the one to come across it first. Hajime tasted something acidic at the back of his throat as he swallowed at the thought of his younger sister or mother being the one to find the letter. They could have gotten hurt the same as he had. Hajime glanced at his injured hand and clenched his fist tightly, enduring the ache of pain.

Then again, Hajime eyed the razors and the torn envelope, he wasn't certain just yet that it was meant for him specifically. This underhanded threat was low-scale if it meant to intimidate either of his parents, but he wouldn't rule out the possibility just yet considering who they were. Hajime had to have gotten his terrible habit of inconveniencing the lives of others from someone, after all. Miho was out of the question though, seeing as she was a sweet bean that didn't have the capacity to hurt anyone, intentionally or not.

He noticed something stuck within the envelope and pulled it out. It was a piece of paper ripped from a notebook. Hajime read the scrawl written on the paper and scowled.

I'LL MAKE YOU PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID TO ME, TAKANO HAJIME. THEY WILL SEE WHAT SORT OF TRASH YOU REALLY ARE.

The male ran his uninjured hand through his hair, ruffling his brown locks in contemplation. Beneath the calculating exterior he carried, something trembled in anxiety at the message– the threat directed at him.