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Your name is Saihara Shuichi.
You know this.
It has been thirteen hours since your best friend died miserably, shaking in your arms and begging you to finish the job.
You know this too.
You also know how you were too weak to do anything, despite this whole scene being your fault and yours only.
You are seven years old. The man with the street light hands has just finished pumping his fingers in and out of you.
You pretend not to notice this, focusing on the generic pop song playing through the school bus radio. It’s a catchy one, you’ll admit. He wipes his fingers on your underwear. You briefly wonder if the timing of his thrusts were the same as the beats. But that’s such a silly thought, you think. Why would he let himself be restricted by something stupid like music?
Not that it matters, you think again. You’ve stopped in front of your house already. You grab your bag and hurry to get out. He laughs and reminds you to wave.
You do as he says. You always do that. Such a shameful girl you are.
Your mom is in the living room when you open the door. She does not look up and you do not say anything. You know better than to make her notice you.
You already get noticed enough by him.
(You try not to focus on that.)
You are twelve years old.
You have made the foolish mistake of God knows what and her hands are around your throat. You can see the fiery gold of her eyes, shining with an intent you do not wish to place. Her nails stab at the back of your throat and your eyes sting with something you dare not label as tears and then you are gone.
You don't remember a lot after that.
You do wonder if her fingers left a watercolor painting of bruises and scrapes on your neck.
It does not matter. It should not. You do not grab your throat to feel the warmth. You do not try to imagine the power of having someone’s life in your hands. You do not giggle, feeling victorious and perhaps slightly deranged, at the accidental pun and squeeze more. You do not black out.
You are thirteen years old.
You know now how to hide behind the hat your uncle gave you. He pretends not to notice the bruises splattered on your body and you do not ask. After all, this is not your body. This wretched thing is a canvas of hands and fingers and occasionally metal pipes now, when she feels particularly vengeful.
She has a point though, you muse. After all, you hide any blade you can find in your bedroom.
They do not see the cuts and wounds and it does not matter.
So you imagine bashing her skull in with a hammer. You imagine the blood coating the dull white walls and you imagine it’s her skin you’re slicing open and not your own.
And so you rip open your flesh until the bathroom smells like death and decay and you do not think about making it last.
You are fifteen years old when you meet a boy.
He has eyes like the death of a million stars and his hair shines oh so beautifully in the dull autumn sun and ah, you feel something in your heart squeezing painfully.
Ouma Kokichi is everything you want and nothing you deserve.
He doesn't agree with this. Though that does not matter.
Not anymore.
Ouma is mesmerizing the way a beaten down corpse is. He peels off his bandages roughly and does not care about the blood dripping from his face. You cannot figure out if it is from his own hellhole of a house or one too many fights with bullies.
He looks so terribly pretty as always.
He's treating his own constellations of cuts in the school bathroom when you ask him what he thinks of dying.
He looks up and catches your gaze from the mirror. He says he will never die and there’s a manic darkness to his words. He says he failed too many attempts to be counted as something that can perish. You understand this. You are familiar with pills in your stomach and ropes around your neck with a pressure that should not feel all that relieving and the way your arms are home to raised skin.
You foolishly think to yourself that someone as inhumanely as him will never taste death on his tongue.
You are seventeen years old when your best friend dies in your arms from a stab wound you meant to inflict on yourself.
You have never been a stable child and you have grown to be a deeply unstable teenager.
Ouma always carries a boxcutter with him. He says it helps keep him safe.
(You never did ask who he meant, in the end, did you?)
And after all, it does not matter how it happened.
He is gone and he will be gone forever and deep down you know you will follow him.
You were always meant to be alone and a couple of years with him will not change anything, though you do know he has crashed into your life like a hurricane of withered flowers and you know you are nothing without him.
His box cutter is still stained a deep brown when you gently pull it out of his now unbeating heart.
He has been in your arms for hours. You have allowed yourself to be human, this once, grieving and hugging his freezing body. It's slick with crimson tears still.
(The weapon of your beloved is in your hands and so is his blood, staining your fingernails.)
You try not to puke while carving your chest open. It is the least you deserve and the most you can do.
Your filthy blood drips on his cheek, face angelic as if carved into marble. You know nobody will remember him and that is alright because no one will remember you either. You wonder if he is finally content, swallowed whole by the saving grace called death.
He had tried so hard and for so long and yet here you are, shamelessly stealing that sweet glory from him.
It does not matter. You place your still warm heart into his hands and you do not hope for forgiveness.
You close your eyes.