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Your hair shadows an entire side of your face. Your skin is pale and unblemished, soft to the touch, and your lips are pink and small like a doll's. You know what those are because your visitors pushed a few into your hands, a few days ago, eyes shining oddly as they watched you twist limbs and pull out tufts of false hair and shove a couple of fingers into your mouth. You slide your own fingers across the white surface of the sink. Your skin is white to match. The walls are white too. Everything is white.
Pretty, you think, in an echo of something, and your reflection blinks at you. Skin momentarily envelops your sight.
Pretty? You're not sure what that word means.
But it's alright because you're allowed to ask questions. Not too many though. You need to feed them your curiosity in small, carefully-timed portions. Give them too much at once and they get upset.
His head is yellow and bright and the sun beaming at the world from overhead, deep like the foul-smelling butter untouched in your plate of other foul-smelling items. He stretches his lips, bares all his teeth and the skin between his brown eyes are glistening.
He says hello and he babbles. It's the harshest sound you've heard since waking up, and you can't help the way you jolt.
Your kagune slithers out but the wing halts directly in front of his chest, a second away from piercing his heart. The muscle doesn't move any further regardless of your will for it to and something twists your intestines about. The nausea surfaces and you fall in a mist of red.
He's quiet now and you let the lull of your own mind rock you towards unconsciousness.
She cradles your face, fingertips skimming along your cheeks with the assuredness of having done so a thousand times.
"Touka-chan," her voice is soft, and for the first time, you feel the warmth of physical security blooming in your chest, shrouding you like a blanket in the cold.