▪in which encounters are fateful▪
《 and don't you dare forget
she does not discriminate
between sinners and saints
she takes
and she takes
and she takes
and she never gives back 》
DISCLAIMER||
Those short stor...
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She stands in the emptied streets of Shibuya. Blood licks at her feet, clinging to her soles like many avid hands, burning through the fabric.
She goes on.
Under many, many layers of flesh exquisitely preserved from the assaults of Time, shielded by a cage of bones, her heart throbs. Each pulse, absolute agony. Her blood is ice cold in her veins, and didn't it just freeze and pierce her skin?
There.
Face down, eyes never seeing. So many people lay dead under ruined walls, shattered gravels to match lives and brittle dreams ripped to shreds by merciless hands.
Funeral shrouds of opaque clouds, dark and heavy with regretted tears she could not shed dance in the midnight sky. Thunder rumbles in the divine heights of gods who had long ago abandoned their creation. (They could never stand the sight of their failure now, could they?)
Oh, of course, a time would have come when greeting them all would have been inevitable — human life is so very brief after all, barely a century compared to the burden of eternity. But this...
This...
Nails dug in ancient skin, deep and harsh. Crescent shaped wounds blooms under her gloves.
Everywhere, her gaze falls on the same sight. Shapeless bodies and deformed silhouettes and disembodied frames lay in a twisted work of art.
On and on she walks, and the pain never subsides. It never could.
Shadows deepen under a sprawled frame. They're hardly distinguishable from the blackness of a dreadfully familiar uniform.
This thick darkness can't possibly grow closer to her feet each time a pained breath comes out of her lips, could it?
Limp in a watchful seat on a throne of debris is Fushiguro Megumi, pale hands like broken bones resting at his side. Light green eyes so vibrant, so soft under that summer afternoon's gentle light are now desperately hollow. Shielding them from the horrors to come is the least she can do.
She descends the stairs, down in the subway. Down to B5F where her fate lays. Dim lighting cast a deep shadow on the lingering cracks of the wall.
Steps echo quietly in the greenish penumbra, each one a match to the drums and cries for vengeance beating in her ears like the heartbeat of a warrior she is alive she is alive she is alive
(and they aren't anymore)
The skies are hidden by many, many floors of metal and asphalt. It's a complex structure devised by a decadent humanity unconscious of its faults—
Lies as always.
Men have always, always been hypocrites, always so very prone to forget their sins. (Hide would be a better word.)
