Chapter Text
Within the book of life, different pages tell different stories. As the story progresses, the characters and events within begin to unfold into a bigger picture. Every story possesses a similar structure- a beginning, a middle, and an end.
The end is the most important part, as it concludes the story. But alas, in life stories are never-ending, and in this life the end never nears. The characters are forever trapped in the endless middle.
What matters most is the beginning. The beginning of a story is crucial to how it develops. One small action can result in a big change in how the story unfolds, and can either result for the better or worse. It is important to get the beginning right the first time, as it affects the entire streamline of the story.
In this book that we call life, there are multiple chapters and multiple outcomes. Multiple outcomes insinuate multiple beginnings and can result in the inevitably foreboding multiple ends.
Perhaps a mentor rejected one boy for the other? The outcome has changed and as a result, he dies in the end. Perhaps he stays with the mentor and leaves the other to suffer a bit longer? The outcome is better, yet not as desired.
What if we went further back? Before the main characters of interest were even written into the chapters. What if we shifted the narrative off of the mentor instead, and changed his beginning?
What if the child had been saved, placed out of harm to which he would've ensued? What if perhaps instead the child had been placed in a loving environment that did not aim to push him beyond his limit? Surely that would change the narrative.
Of course, all stories need balance. Not everyone can have a happy beginning or a satisfactory end. What good would it be if all got what they wished for?
What if in place of the saved, there was the punished, the one who had done no wrong, yet had been subjected to a twisted fate regardless? Did she truly deserve what she had gotten? Maybe not, however, the scale must be balanced.
Maybe in another lifetime, there will be an outcome where all live a pleasant life free of pain. However, in this lifetime, one must suffer for another to succeed.
One small change results in a large outcome.
𐀔
Three years
She had been left there for three years
Day in and day out she stayed in the dark of the isolation facility. The pristine white clothes that she had been forced to wear matched the disgusting shine of the tiles, which smelled strongly of bleach.
Rarely did she go outside. Yes, she was allowed to, there were rules and regulations for that. But for a 'high-class criminal' like herself, she had few opportunities to roam without the watchful eye of the guards who worked there, much less so without the wheelchair to which she had been confined.
It wasn't like there was anywhere she wanted to go anyway. Everywhere was the same, the same white walls and the same white tiles. Opting to stay in her room even with the option of leaving, she tried her best to contain the little sanity she possessed by counting the tiles within the room.
…one…two…
It was hard to tell exactly what day it was, much less for how long she had been held there. She had only known by overhearing the guards who worked outside her door. It was difficult to tell whether it was night or day, or the time for that matter. It wouldn't make any difference, everything was the same.
…fifteen…seventeen…
All she knew was that by the time the man walked in, her untouched dinner had just been taken away.
...twenty-five…twenty-eight…
She didn't look at the door at first, she never had visitors to look forward to seeing or visitors whom she wanted to see. Hearing unfamiliar footsteps that resembled leather shoes is what prompted her to glance in his direction.
thirty-nine…forty-four...
Not even bothering to look surprised, she glanced back to her mindless task of counting the tiles on the wall. The man let out a small chuckle, supposedly laughing at her antics.
"Finally, I found you."
fifty-seven…fifty-eight…
Taking note of her outgrown and unkempt hair, and her dead eyes, he held out his hand. She blinked at it, making no move to acknowledge the gesture. The man smiled.
"Your ability is required once more."
sixty-two.
She counted sixty-two tiles as she was wheeled out of the familiar room she had lived in for the past three years,
and from there, followed three more years of unprompted hell.
𐀔
The tenebrous room illuminated faintly under the light of the dim chandelier, resembling a stagnant lake beneath a moonlit night. Though the air was cool, everything stood at a standstill, as if everything in the city held its breath for what was about to come. The large four-poster bed which was made of rich dark oak was painted a sickening fragmented yellow by the massive stained glass portrait that loomed over the inhabitants of the room.
The presence of death hung thickly in the air and seeped into the room's hollow surfaces. Despite this, the room was well kept, with refined wooden floors waxed to perfection. It held a certain cleanliness as if the inhabitant were already dead, despite merely brushing the entity's prescience. There was a lack of personal possessions or trinkets, the only notable item being the bed that stood in the very centre.
Despite appearances, anyone who resided in the city knew that the leaders and members of the government were nothing but a portion of those who controlled the happenings within, a pawn in Yokohama's chess board. The other half ruled in the ominous shadows, where those smart or lucky enough to not be involved dared not to go. The iron fist of the Port Mafia could only be described as a dark monarchy, a shadow kingdom that envelops its subjects in nothing but endless darkness.
Lying in the bed held what could supposedly be said to be the most notable figure in the city of Yokohama, the King of the Mafia. Rather said, a husk of what a king should be. Once a hardened and ruthless leader, as he succumbed to his ailment he grew more cruel and erratic. As his lifespan ran out, he aimed to drag the entire city down with him, an unrestrained madness that resembled his declining mental state.
No longer possessing the strength to sit upright, he stared blankly at the ceiling of his four-poster bed. His eyes glazed over vacantly as if seeing something that wasn't there. Under his breath, mumbles of nonsense permeated the silence, all of which somewhat suggested the presence of madness.
"How do you feel, boss?"
His line of sight made no movement or indication of change, eyes remaining transfixed on the dull ceiling. Yet his laboured breathing posed as the only indicator of his awareness to others in the room, making no move to perceive the one whose shadow stood over him.
The Mafia's humble doctor stood dutifully beside the boss, patiently awaiting a response. He gave the air of a simple man, with seemingly simple intentions. His body turned away from the fragmented light of the window, his hair shadowing the most distinctive areas of his face. Adorned in nothing but plain clothes and a lab coat, he looked insignificant compared to the extravagance of where he stood.
His duty was not as powerful or important as that of a king, yet he possessed much knowledge and was given an advantage without a second thought compared to the other jobs of the organisation. No mere underling would be allowed access to various medicines and chemicals that he did, not even under the guise of normal law. No common person would be allowed to be alone with the most influential figure of the underground in Yokohama. No one would expect the one trusted to heal to cause more harm than good with what he was expected to do.
The Mafia boss's breathing came out short and ragged as if each breath threatened to be his last. Too weak to move a muscle in his body, he mustered the last bit of his strength to shift his head slightly enough to face the doctor hovering above him. Under his feeble breath, incoherent muttering could be heard, incomprehensible words bleeding spouted out of the man like a fountain of insanity.
The doctor bent forward, his dark hair obscuring his face further as he leaned in to hear what his employer had to say. A small smile plastered on his perfectly crafted mask to calm the old man. Pearly white teeth peeked out from behind the curl of his lip, glinting sharply.
"Apologies, I was unable to hear what you said."
"Doctor…"
The breaths seemed to grow more irregular by the second as if the oxygen contained noxious gas that aimed to kill him as painfully as possible. His knarled, wrinkled hands clenched the comforter sheets of the bed.
"Tell the executives to murder them all."
Expression unchanging, the doctor simply stared at the feeble man below him. He hummed as if considering the order given, his fingers drummed unconsciously against his pristine lab coat. The fabric bleached clean and pressed smooth, displaying the symbolism signifying the aim of all doctors; to help the weak, and to heal the injured.
The boss continued, uncaring of the man's potential reaction.
"The opposing organizations, the military police, everyone who opposes the Port Mafia," a dry cough escaped his lips, and his body shook, "I want them all dead. By sundown."
The small smile on the doctor's face remained, yet it held no warmth, and the smile didn't reach his eyes. He cast a doubtful raised eyebrow, "That does not seem to be a rational course of action."
All sanity vanishing in a moment, the old man's mumbling became more slurred. The sounds got louder and louder, till his wish rang throughout the room.
"I don't mind how many of our own need to die. Kill them, just kill them, kill-"
In an instant, the drumming against the coat ceased. Slipping one hand into his left pocket, a scalpel was pulled out. It seemed to have been sterilised before entering the room, clean and pristine as the cold metal glinted in the light and reflected the colours shining through the stained glass window onto the opposing wall. He examined the sharpness of the medical tool with little interest. Without hesitation, the instrument found its way to the boss's neck.
A widening smile, purple eyes glinting in malice as he looked down at the frail husk of flesh.
"Goodbye, boss."
In an instant, the previously white lab coat was dotted with varying sizes of red. Almost immediately, the wrinkled hands loosened their grip on the sheets, falling limp like a bag of sand. What little sanity, or lack thereof, that was left in the boss's eyes slowly faded away as he looked up blankly at absolutely nothing at all.
Unphased, the man drew the scalpel back and polished it clear of blood, slipping it silently into his pocket. It made no point in attempting to wipe his stained coat as it was much too covered in blood to ever be clean, much like his own two hands. Streaks of blood lingered on the man's face, yet he made no move to wipe it clean.
The slight movement caused the coat to slip slightly from his shoulders, showing the black button-down shirt underneath. Unlike the blinding white of the coat, no blood was visible on the shirt, blending in with the darkness of the cotton fabric. Shrouded in white yet covered in black made the man look somewhat like an angel at first glance, his sole purpose in life his job to heal the ailing. Yet in killing without a second so ruthlessly- it was thought that he looked more like a grim reaper than anything else.
The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, the stench quickly filling the room in place of the stifling stale air. Almost drawn in like honey, the flutter of wings gently brushed past the doctor's head. Settling on the corpse's neck, the red and black butterfly flapped its wings twice. The boss made no move in response, his life far too gone to be saved.
The doctor chuckled, paying no mind to the scene before him, extending a long finger towards the blood-drawn insect. With hesitation, the butterfly fluttered its wings almost nervously, before reluctantly crawling on the man's pale hand, blending in with the splotches of red that were dotted sporadically throughout his skin. His smile widened, his teeth giving contrast to the scarlet substance on his face.
"The boss has passed on due to his illness," he flicked his hand, and in an instant, the butterfly jerked and flew away. "He left word saying that I will inherit his position as boss."
Violet eyes followed the path of the butterfly, both pairs as unyielding as the other. On the other side of the room, in the fragmented light of the stained glass window, it landed on another pale hand. Unlike the doctor, the hand was clean and pristine like a marble statue, with no visible sign of blood tainting skin. The insect displayed no sense of caution or fear to the gentle hand that held it. Fluttering from the palm, it rested on the cheek, bowing its head in a way that resembled shame or failure.
Where there is a reaper, there is an angel. Where there is death, there is always one watching over. At times it becomes difficult to distinguish which is which. Both entities possess the power to mitigate such suffering, yet one chooses not to, and one has no such choice. Identical to the other, the angel and the reaper become one and the same, with no way of knowing the difference.
Mori Ougai stared at the seventeen-year-old girl who stood near the window. Her skin illuminated a purple hue from the light, her purple eyes devoid of emotion as she looked on at the gruesome scene. Looking back at him, her face displayed no signs of disgust or fear, as if it had been carefully constructed into a blank mask. In an instant, as if she had willed it as an order, the butterfly nervously fluttered its wings twice before it vanished from her cheek.
"You're my witness, understood?"
The reaper and the angel, oftentimes most don't know the difference. Perhaps there isn't.
With a dead stare and an expression of having given up long ago, Yosano Akiko bowed her head towards the doctor in obedience, and silently nodded in response.