PLASTIC FLOWERS ( k. bakugou )

chapter 05

' dead souls dream only of death. '

━━━━━

Bloodstained sheets and glass shards decorate the expanse of the once unsullied marble floor. Thick pools of crimson stain the once spotless marbled floor, there is a silence in the room that is too cryptic to be fathomable. The youth's breathing is laboured, and the hilt of the knife in which her fingers grasp onto like her life depends on it trembles because of the apprehension she feels from the mangled corpse lying in front of her.

She is uncertain. What could be the reason for the lurching of the muscle in her chest?

...ah, maybe it is because she had just committed murder?

"No," the youth breaths and the word is airy and light.

She figures it out once she sees her vague reflection on the shards of glass littering the floor. The almost unnoticeable tugs at the edges of her lips. The ghost of a smile.

She is trembling, because she knows that this is only the beginning of her struggle, that this is not the first time she will kill. She tucks the sheets closer to the body until crimson begins blooming in the white expanse of the fabric and she can no longer see the dislocated jaw and the multiple knife stabs she has created.

Her fingers touch the surface of the wooden walls. Four hundred, seventy thousand and eight hundred forty four hours, more minutes, more seconds. She can stay here temporarily.

Besides, the men were outlaws. No one would mind if they went missing and the youth has been used to too much revolting things that she doesn't even mind the acrid stench of blood. Sulphuric? Metallic? Her hands trail the carvings in the hilt of her knife. One, two, three, four carvings.

Clicking her tongue in dismay— she could have used those sheets as blankets for the cold nights— the youth steps over the body and heads to the kitchen. The man was a drug dealer, sold some kind of substance that made quirks stronger or whatnot. Probably a fake, but the youth had volunteered to be a runner of sorts before the man became stupid enough to think that she would fetch a higher value than the goods he would have her deliver.

The moment that revolting face of his meshed to that cruel, calculative, more hideous face, the youth's knife had found its way to his throat. She is infuriated at the fact that she has been betrayed but she guessed that there was a silver lining to these things. The murder was blissful, at least to her.

She's learned so much after a couple of months, four months, one hundred twenty two days, two thousand nine hundred and twenty eight hours, one hundred seventy five thousand and six hundred eighty minutes.

Slitting throats was more effective, prevents the screaming, quicker death and if the stab's not deep enough, hit the heart. The youth probably stabbed the man thirty seven times just to make sure. She admits that she enjoyed it too so there was that.

The kitchen was bare, if anything, something that reminded the youth of hospitals. Plastered, white walls, white marble floor, a fridge and a plastic dining table for one. Her hands open the fridge and she scavenges for some provisions. Her forehead creases in exasperation when she realizes that the only decent thing she can eat is a bowl of peanuts, some crackers and two apples. The rest is full of the disgusting substance and beer, of course there was beer. The cold, alcoholic beverage which reminds her of the broken bottles she used to pour unto her throat to quench her thirst. Searching for a drop, rainwater, soft drinks, water, anything!