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Glass sprinkled over the floor, and Takuto could have sworn he felt his body splatter at its center.
Tattered clothes, torn and scarred. His matted hair stained with his blood. Blistered hands lay barely open on top of the shards, digging into open wounds and dirty skin. His dull eyes would have suddenly surged with life as pain coursed through him. Yet Takuto laid still. He soaked up the coldness of everything around him.
Pale, wounded, deeply and indescribably broken.
But when Takuto blinked, his eyes adjusted to the darkness of his bedroom.
There had been a certain joy in imagining how he would die. Because the denial of being alone was the only thing that reverberated in Takuto’s mind.
The Tokyo evening dimmed in his ears, covered by his labored breaths in an effort to calm himself.
To be surrounded by his blood didn’t bring him any sort of panic. To be motionless would bring him tranquility, relief from his racing corpse of a mind.
Takuto blinked again. The fluttering beat of his heart registered in his ears.
He wondered why he was denied happiness. Why couldn’t he be happy like the people around him? Would something even fill the hollowness in his chest anymore? Will some sense of anything fill him up at all, despite not knowing how to earn it. Or receive it, if he was being honest with himself.
With a man as complex yet so shallow as Takuto was, where would his own kind of happiness even come from?
Takuto merely desired to witness what he could have. What could have been if fate wasn’t cruel to him.
He rolled over to the other side of his bed and closed his eyes.
Attempting to fall asleep seemed simple enough compared to drowning in his trauma.