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Angst! This chapter is very heavy!!
Quote is Edgar Allen Poe

Tomioka Giyuu

Author's Note:

This chapter  was already written on a different account, if  you want to find the original version, here's  the link: 

https://www.wattpad.com/1407642911-%CF%84%C4%A7%CE%B5%CF%93-%CE%B8%C9%B4%CE%B9%CF%93-%CF%8E%CE%BB%C9%B4%CF%84-%CF%93%CE%B8%CA%8B-%CF%8E%C4%A7%CE%B5%C9%B4-%CF%93%CE%B8%CA%8B%27%E0%AA%B0%CE%B5-%C8%99%CE%B5%CE%BD%CE%B5%C9%B4%CF%84%CE%B5%CE%B5%C9%B4

idk why its so long lol 

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Tomioka stared into the dark space between his creaky old porch and the twisted and bare wisteria trees, looking like something of a fever dream.

For a second, he could've sworn that he could feel someone breathing down his neck.  He turned abruptly. There was no one there.
Honestly, he wished there was someone who had been there. Maybe then it could put an end to the grief and pain. The sour taste of bile growing on the back of his throat.
He stood abruptly, and walked into his house where generations of spiders meddled in the windowsill and mould grew in the corners.

Back to where the scars that ached on his body chose to sting again, back to the place where the uncleaned blood grew into another organism on his floor, back to the shitty food he exposed himself to, and the horrible conditions he lived in. Why? Because there was pain like a dagger in his lungs that seemed to ache even more when he breathed, moved, or even woke up to tell the truth.

Honestly, he wished that a big, scary monster would make a show of itself, and come and kill him. He didn't want to do the dishonour of killing himself, though sometimes he wanted to. It wasn't like his honour was golden and shiny. His honour was probably made of wood, and well damaged. Giyuu had honestly lost all hope, and it was scary. It makes you feel like a kid who stays awake because they're scared of the dark. It's like that all over again. But Giyuu wasn't afraid of the dark.

Just himself.

Giyuu suddenly became aware of the fact that he was sitting on the floor, bleeding from several cuts on his chest.
How obscenely odd.

He hadn't been like this  when he walked in. He lifted a bloody hand, and confusedly stared at the open wound on his wrist. Funny, he didn't remember doing that. A knife grasped in his other hand, he tried to remember where he even was, or if he'd been wearing a shirt when he walked in.

Why the hell was he crying like a child, bleeding out on a floor that was caked with grime and mould? When he stared up at the ceiling, something stared back. All those fuzzy memories of childhood leaked in again, and he started to smile.
Not that it mattered now.

He was 21 now. It had been years since the incedent.

Or was he nineteen?

And who the hell was this lady screaming for help and running towards me?