Chapter Text
the nightmare is always the same. your mother waits for you in sensei’s atelier, radiating a golden light that you can only describe as holy. her lips lift ever so slightly into a gentle smile as she gestures for you to follow her. the sweet smell of incense beckons you closer, so that when you cross the threshold, it’s like a shot of adrenaline to the heart.
you blink and you’re in her studio. her back is turned to you, but as you step closer, her light only grows more radiant as she adds the finishing details to the child’s face. your face. it’s difficult for you to read expressions, but you could feel the joy emanating from each stroke of her brush. it's almost hypnotic watching her work on her masterpiece. such pride... such beauty. a shaky smile creeps up on your lips, and for a moment, you want to be in her arms. all you want is to be transported into this fantasy world, to be gazed upon with the same adoration as the woman in the painting. such desires are childish, but all of your cares seem to melt away. if things ended here, you would wake as the happiest man in the world.
your reverie ends when the air next to her morphs into sensei’s form, a pleasant smile plastered on his face. you know that smile to be duplicitious, full of honeyed words to manipulate her how he wishes. as they converse, you swear you could see her aura flicker ever so slightly. his keen eyes take in every brushstroke upon the canvas, analyzing the ratio of colors being mixed upon her palette. he whispers something in her ear ––
and she freezes.
the clock ticks midnight. her scream pierces the dusty air, as she collapses to the ground as if her muscles had frozen in marble.
one minute. adrenaline floods your system. it pumps and beats like it’s trying to escape. you think your heart is going to explode and your eyes are blown wide with fear. you want to run, call for help, but you just stand there, frozen.
two minutes. the convulsions swallow her whole, her pale arms spread wide like the passion of the christ. out of the corner of your eye, you notice sensei inspecting his fingernails as if he were listening to his students describe their paintings.
three minutes. your arm won’t work –– paralyzed, naked, cold. a sickening bump fills the room as she rolls into the teakwood shelves. bins of paint crash upon her body, dying her white cotton apron a sickly rainbow.
four minutes. though she’s meters away from you, the incense is so heady it’s almost poison. with your remaining strength, you wrench your eyes away from her to the painting. clouds of gray obscure her marble face and the babe’s eyes are wide with horror.
five minutes. you can’t take your eyes off of her face, pale blue and fixed in a cry for help. your mouth forms the words, “can you hear me?” but no sound accompanies them. you turn to sensei, eyes bright and wild with desperation. “sensei… please, we must do something! call the ambulance, now!”
but you may as well have been screaming into the void. wordlessly, he plucks the painting off of the easel as if it were the apple that sent adam and eve down to earth. his lips are stretched into a triumphant smile, the moonlight glinting off of his perfect, white teeth. his brown hakata melts off of his body, revealing his garishly bright shogun outfit.
“sensei, stop!” you plead, reaching for the painting. sense–– madarame dodges you with surprising quickness for his age. you feel your strength seeping from your body with every movement, your voice growing hoarser with every word that lurches from your lips. “please, we must get help!”
but no words came out of his mouth, only laughter. his laughter reverberates around you, trapping you in a coffin of sound, and all you can do is pray for silence as the convulsions turn into earthquakes and––
she’s still. breathlessly still. the locks on your body break free, and you rush over to her, shaking her body. her eyes are no longer rolled back in her head, but they are frozen upwards, as if pleading to god for salvation. her black hair is slicked with cold sweat, clamping the stringy strands to her forehead. you reach for her hand and immediately recoil as if you had touched a glacier.
“mom,” your voice cracks as you bury your face in her shoulder, tears drenching her striped shirt. “please, please wake up.”
a sudden gush of pain cracks through your ribs as he kicks you away from her body. he kneels beside you, gnarled fingers wrenching your chin upward, forcing you to look into his eyes –– all bright and wild like a wolf about to gorge on his prey.
“you are being foolish again, yusuke,” he hisses, lipsticked mouth contorting into a snarl. “because of you, she shall never wake again.”
of course. how could you be so stupid? dead is permanent. dead is when the spark in her eyes is utterly extinguished, yet unlike fire, is utterly without smoke. only the cold shell of her body remains, the anguish preserved in her face for the rest of eternity. it’s your fault. you did this to me.
he releases his grip and rises to his feet, chuckling to himself. “however, you have my gratitude. because of you, ichiryusai madarame shall become a household name!”
he sits on her stool and paints over the babe, and you could feel gray oil dripping onto your skin, seeping into every pore. a baby's cry rings in your ears as you reach out but the oil keeps rising and rising like a flood ––
and before you could gasp for breath, you sink into its depths.