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There he lay, his death hanging above him.
He’d done as he’d planned. Prepared the poison, prepared the fire. Prepared how they would find his body, prepared the music.
He closed his eyes and hummed under the duct tape. Was it strange that the choir music was what was bothering him the most? His wounds throbbed, but that was a given. Tearing his thighs to shreds hadn't been the most pleasant experience. But it was worth it, of course it was worth it! This was nothing to Super High School Level Hope!
A chuckle bubbled to his lips and came out muffled. This was all for the sake of that one thing. Hope. If he could light the path to that hope, a path for the so-called ‘traitor’ to tread…
His wounds were beginning to sting. Hot, sticky blood was ruining the legs of his jeans.
But he couldn't move, or it would be worse. The slashes on his legs, his arms, the knife through his hand. They didn't have to be as deep as he’d made them; of course not. Just enough for everyone to believe, initially, that he’d been tortured. And he had. But he’d done the torturing himself.
After all, even if it was an act, even if it was to get them all killed, he deserved it, right? He’d always known he was no better than spit on the pavement, but this was too much. To be despair, despite everything. Despite hope.
But torturing himself, killing himself for the sake of that hope, that meant he was atoning, right? That in some small way, he could repent. If he wanted to eradicate despair, after all, he’d have been a hypocrite not to include himself.
There was a lull in the music as the track ended. A couple of moments of silence, and then the same track restarted. He’d set it to repeat, but it still made his skin prickle.
He twitched the fingers on his right hand, fingers that no longer seemed to belong to him. The white-hot pain that lanced through his arm immediately reminded him that they still did, for now, and his body jerked, making his other wounds shriek. He tightened his grip on the cord of the spear. The arrowhead swayed dangerously. Tantalisingly.
It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? To ruin his plan, to loosen his grip. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it, to fall into despair?
It was a selfish thought, but he hoped the others would be here soon, because then his pain would end. It was a selfish thought, and he didn’t deserve it, but he hoped for death.
It just went to show how useless he was. He couldn’t even die properly. Though it was worth it – it was worth it, he told himself through gritted teeth, it was worth it – to be hope’s martyr. There had only ever been one person on this island worthy of being called a symbol of hope, but he could reach that title. He could. Just as long as he didn’t let go.
Who was that person, though? The one person who hadn’t given in to despair. Who was that person – the reason he was still alive, the reason he had to force himself to breathe for just a little while longer?
The sight of his own blood was making him feel queasy, so he shut his eyes. Strange. He’d never been squeamish about seeing the other bodies. And this wouldn’t do – it wouldn’t do at all if he retched and choked to death on his own vomit. Not a death worthy of Super High School Level Hope. He was alive. For now, he was alive. As long as he kept telling himself that—
Perhaps the traitor was Owari, or Souda. The thought almost made him smile. If he’d been a betting man – and considering his trash talent, maybe he should have been – he’d have wagered not. He could easily imagine both of them succumbing to despair.
Then again, what did he know? It might all have been an act. Typical of someone like him to underestimate a symbol of hope! If he hadn’t been in such pain, perhaps he would have had room to feel embarrassed.
But if he was being honest, really honest, there was maybe one small bias he had. One person who he’d seen rile the other students up to new heights of hope during every trial, someone who, despite being a talentless nobody like him, was truly worthy of being called a symbol of hope.
Or perhaps it was just wish fulfilment. Perhaps he was so desperate to become everyone’s hope that he was reading too much into the actions of someone who was so much like him. If that person, too, turned out to be a remnant of despair, well… it was disappointing, but he supposed it couldn’t be helped.
A tongue of flame flew to life on his right. One of the Monokuma cut-outs had fallen onto his lighter, and the curtain had caught fire. Someone must have opened the door to the warehouse… This was it.
Now he just had to wait for the traitor to kill him. Just a little longer… The fire was roaring now, drowning out his awful music. He felt sweat shiver down his neck – or was it blood? It was hard to tell. It had to be soon. It would end soon, his useless life would be over soon.
Smoke was heavy in his nose. What if he suffocated to death? So predictable that someone like him would fail. Would his death be ruled a suicide, then? Would the one who had opened the door be judged the killer? Perhaps it would still work. Perhaps his luck was good enough that the traitor had been the one to open the door.
They had to hurry. He was shaking. He could hear the knife in his hand against the floor more than he could feel it. Nothing but hot, white noise in his head, and the thought of hope – it’s worth it for hope, it’s worth this pain ten times over, don’t let go, don’t let go—
When the poison finally came, it was heady and sickly-sweet, like the drug he’d been missing all his life. The world slowed and he breathed in a shuddering breath, a breath of deadly hope.
Komaeda’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he let the cord slip from his grasp.