Chapter Text
"GAH!"
He's startled awake in another cold sweat, breathing heavily, bangs latched to his forehead. The cold dark and emptiness of his bedroom feels like a black hole swallowing him up entirely. He whimpers, holding his head, gripping at his hair, muttering to himself until his heartrate slowed to what could be considered normal.
Three weeks.
Constant nightmares every night for three weeks. And it's always the same. Some...game he was forced to play. Death. So much death. Friends and loved ones perishing left and right. Being forced to damn others to their death. He could never remember their names but he knew their faces.
Only because they haunted him incessantly.
That was all he could remember.
That, and the fact that he had nearly died.
Three weeks ago, he had awoken in a hospital. The doctors had told him that he had been in a terrible car accident. That he had nearly died and had been in a coma for about a month. That he was lucky to be alive.
Ever since then, he has been haunted by these same nightmares. He couldn't remember being in an accident and his car seemed fine. He couldn't remember going to the hospital. He couldn't remember being in a jacked up game.
But he could remember those faces. Even the faces of his own family aren't burned into his mind as clearly as they were.
He slips from his bed and staggers to the bathroom that was connected to the bedroom. He turns the shower water on and, while he waits for it to warm up, he stands in front of the mirror and stares at himself intently. He looked terrible. Dark rings around his eyes to signify a lack of sleep. His eyes were nearly bloodshot. His hair stuck up at odd angles. His skin was cold and clammy. He didn't look like this before the coma, he didn't think. He couldn't really remember.
He couldn't really remember much of anything.
So, he repeated what he knew for sure to ground himself.
"My name...is Shuichi Saihara. I'm twenty years old. My birthday is...is...ah..." He glares at himself harder, as if it would help him remember. "...S...September...September 7th. I live alone in my own apartment. My parents live two towns away. I...I work...at my uncle's...detective agency-" He blinks rapidly and shakes his head. "I work at...at..." He slams his fist on the sink in frustration. After a long silence, he snaps his fingers. "I work from home for a security company." He breathes a sigh of relief. That accident must have really messed up his head if that's all he could remember about himself. He thought time would bring everything back, but his memories have stagnated. It was impossible to regain anything else.
The impossible is possible.
The nerves in his body spike, his eyes snapping wide open as he hears a familiar voice in his head. Where has he heard that before..?
Before he can dwell on it, he's pulled from his thoughts when the mirror begins to cloud with steam, obstructing his view of himself. He drags himself away from the sink, trying to clear his mind as he undresses and steps into the shower to finally rid himself of that grimy feeling he always seemed to wake up with due to his constant, panic-induced cold sweats. The hot water granted him instant reprieve from the stress as it relaxes his muscles and drains his mind of those intrusive thoughts and images that always seemed to plague him.
By the time he was done and dressed for the day, he had entirely forgotten about his dream and the stress, and he starts his day early, like usual. He walks to his kitchen and opens the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs. He then gets to work preparing himself a simple, quick breakfast.
He was never a good cook, he thinks. Not that he could particularly remember. But the complete lack of diversity in his kitchen, the absence of spices except the basics like salt and pepper, and even the fact he didn't have many cooking utensils keyed him into the idea that he, perhaps, didn't cook often, and therefore wasn't very good at it. So, all he could make were simple things. The most complex thing he had made since coming out of his coma had been pancakes. And they hadn't even come out great.
Impressive, I know.
But he was only providing for himself, so he didn't need to go all out.
Once breakfast was finished and eaten, he checks the time to see that it was 7:48am.
With time to kill before work, he tidies up his apartment a little, because keeping his mind and body busy was one way to keep the intrusive thoughts away. He makes his bed, brushes his teeth, picks up the living room, and makes sure everything is nice and orderly.
When he checks the time again, it's minutes before 9:00am, so he sits at his work computer, puts his headset on, and clocks in to work.
He enjoyed work, because his mind never wandered where he didn't want it to while he was. When set with a task, there was no panic, strange thoughts, or unwanted visions. It was when it came time to clock out that he felt the dread rise up in his chest.
Without distraction, his thoughts were open to assault from the unwelcome and unfavorable. All he could do was hope it didn't happen. He had good and bad days. On good days, nothing happened, or maybe one or two intrusive thoughts or visions. On bad days, he was in a state of constant panic attacks and mumbling to himself like a madman.
When it got bad, he took pills to make them go away. They'd been prescribed to him by one of the kind doctors that had been there when he'd woken up from the coma.
He didn't exactly know what they were, but all he did know was that they worked. That's really all he cared about.
However, today seemed like it was one of the good ones. He didn't need them for now.
Once work was done with, he takes off his headset, stands, and heads to the living room to relax for the rest of the day.
Plopping down on the couch, he grabs the remote and turns the television on to something random that he can mindlessly watch while he scrolls on his phone.
'Just keep your mind busy...keep your mind busy...keep your mind busy...'
This was how he lived every day.
Wake up in a panic, take a relaxing shower, eat breakfast, clean up, work, entertain himself, eat dinner, and go back to sleep all while trying not to let the intrusive thoughts and images in.
Rinse and repeat.
Sometimes, he did shake things up by going for walks, reading, or doing creative writing for his eyes only, but that was as exciting as it got.
It wasn't the most thrilling or glamorous existence, but it worked for him.
It worked for him.
A girl smiles at him from across a circle of podiums.
She's pretty. A face he'd seen a hundred times but can't put a name to. But he knew she was kind. He knew she was supposed to be his friend. He knew she cared about him, and he cared deeply for her, too.
And he knew she was about to die.
The same thing happened every time he saw this scene.
She would give him that same kind smile, give him some words of encouragement, then get whisked away to a grisly death. He didn't want her to go. Not this time. Not this time...
"I believe in you guys. So, please, believe in yourself. Okay? It's a promise."
No...no, please...
"I'm leaving everything up to you, Shuichi...Goodbye."
No, no, no, please, don't leave me again...Please!
He can't say nor do anything as the clamp descends and closes around her neck, and he cries out when he hears that familiar, horrible song as he knows the girl is being slowly strangled to death. He drops to his knees, covering his ears and gripping at his hair, wracked in grief and unable to watch.
Please...please, God, just make it stop..!
He opens his eyes and snaps up in alarm, breathing in heavy, uneven breaths. He grips at his chest, clenching the fabric of his shirt as if it was his lifeline.
He grips at his hair, nearly hyperventilating, trying to make the images burned into his mind and that sickening melody that rang in his ears go away.
More phantom memories suddenly cloud his senses from previous dreams.
His ears fill with the sound of a knife blade repeatedly hitting a table.
He smells paint thinner.
He feels a hand holding his.
He sees blood. Everywhere. So much. So much. So much so much so much-
He nearly falls over himself as he flails for the pills he keeps on his living room shelf, not even remembering having gotten up from the couch in the first place to do so. Fumbling, he removes the cap...only to see that the bottle was empty. He tosses it to the ground as he feels panic mounting.
Fuck fuck fuck!
Trying to calm his breaths, he lunges for his phone that was lying on the ground beside the couch. It takes him a moment with his trembling fingers, but he searches up a particular song that always seemed to help when he got like this. As the melody starts to play, it takes several moments, but his breathing eventually starts to slow and his shaking begins to cease. He didn't know why this one song in particular seemed to help him, especially when another classical piano song created such a negative response within him, but if he could best describe it, it would be-
A soothing song that calms your heart, like the moon's reflection on water.
Yeah, that was...a perfect way to describe it.
Slowly, he slumps back onto the couch and closes his eyes, allowing the music to be the only thing to fill his senses. Releasing a long, deep sigh, he gradually starts to reach a relaxed state once more.
It was almost a good day. He should probably call the pharmacy to get his prescription refilled. He can't always rely on his phone to be within reach or charged to play this dumb song he didn't even know the origin of at will.
Rubbing his eyes, he blearily checks the time.
10:48pm.
He'd have to call them tomorrow. For now, he supposed he'd have to go to sleep and face the inescapable hellscape that was his dreams until it happened all over again the next day. He had no choice. This was just his reality now.
Rinse...and repeat.