escape
escape from reality
a slit on her wrist
soon followed by two or three
all covering both her arms and legs
until only a group filled with lies remains after she left.
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-trigger warning: suicide, self harm, bullying, harrassm...
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‟Good night.”
The ash blonde locks his phone as soon as he hangs up and puts it down next to him. He flips the page of his notebook and rests his cheek in the palm of his hand. His bloody red oculars stare at the pages laid under his nose and his forehead creases in desperate attempt of concentration. He gently taps his biro against his index finger at a constant tempo as he forces himself to read the text written in his notebook.
His eyes move from right to left, but his brain barely register whatever he's reading. His mind doesn't capture anything from what he's reading, his eyes barely gaze at each character printed on the pages of his textbook and forgets about it the second his eyes switch to the next one.
A sudden chill hits his nape and the back of his ears.
Katsuki hums curiously. He's sure he hasn't opened any windows in his room. Upon realising this detail, his eyes widen. The cold feeling returns and somehow, it feels familiar. He doesn't like it.
That haunting cold that used to be comforting and warm. It's back again. Katsuki exhales in defeat, ready to throw his biro and slam his textbook closed in defeat. He knows it's no use if he's going to lose his concentration entirely, he's better off tidying his desk.
Windy, invisible fingers caress his nape cautiously, the tip of these fingers tracing every inch of the back of his neck. The imaginary hand relaxes against Katsuki's skin and a gush of wind hits his ear shell, making the ash blonde's shoulders quake slightly.
‟History, huh? Boooring.”
The ghostly, imaginary voice whispers ever so huskily in his ear. Katsuki swears that if only the voice was real, he'd be slightly turned on at the moment.
‟Who cares what happened during the french revolution, right?”
Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut, forcing himself to get his mind off [Name]. As long as he can think of something, anything unrelated to the late adolescent, it's fine.
‟I mean, what happened in the past doesn't matter anymore.”
The ash blonde furrows his brows in concentration, in a desperate attempt to silence the voice belonging to [Name's] ghost. There's a slight pause, that Katsuki doesn't really like, because even if he can't see her, he knows her lips are slowly stretching out into a smirk.
