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The Crimson Demon of Hikorikawa was a name feared by all. The real demon never intended it as such. Kawada Chimari decided, one day, that she had had enough. It didn’t matter what she did, everyday the words, from the girls, followed her home and cut into her heart.
Sitting high, on the ledge, that day, she sobbed and leaned far too much forward, yet just as much as she intended. Chimari was already mid-fall when she realized that the tears did not taste of salt. No, they tasted metallic, like iron.
Fate was cruel that day, for the girl did not land on hard concrete, her body was not twisted all sorts of ways in a tiny backstreet alley. Instead, Kawada Chimari landed in a tall pool of liquid. Crimson liquid that flowed from her eyes instead of the clear, glassy tears that should have fallen instead.
Her sorrow quickly turned to anger as she cursed life, cursed the girls who had done this to her, and on a whim, her cursed tears attached them to their origin’s body in the shape of beautiful wings and horns. It was a sight that started the legend of Hikorikawa.
The end of her black dress, as if she was preparing for her own funeral, was tattered and ripped at the edges. The vivid red additions to her form stood out, the horns always shifting, and the wings dripped blood everywhere. The girl was still crying, as if she was an endless fountain of grief and sorrow, and the fluid stuck to her body, as if they were spots on her own skin.
She flew to the houses, and reveled in the screams of her tormentors as she stepped in their room and ripped their possessions to shreds. She flew to the school, marking everything in red. When she was finished, she flew in front of the shining moon, and watched as all in the town of Hikorikawa took in her sorrow and her rage .
From then on, it was whispered from parent to child, of a demon born of grief and rage came, every once in a while, to take revenge on those who took advantage of the weak and helpless. The “victims” were barely seen afterwards, too afraid of her return.
Later, what remained of Kawada Chimari sat in front of a shattered mirror, head in her hands as she sank to the ground of the bathroom. This isn’t what I wanted to be, this isn’t what I wanted to be, tHiS iSN’t WhAT i wANteD- became a broken mantra in her head for hours on end.
Much later, she was still there, still covered in blood.