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The bars of the cell swim before Kid’s eyes, wiggling like snakes; like they’re the only threat keeping him trapped here. If only all foes were as simple as iron.
He hangs by his wrists on the wall; chained up for his uncontrollable violent behavior for what must’ve been the umpteenth time, skin rubbed raw by the seastone cuffs he was now very well acquainted with. Moments feel impossibly long in prison, the only measure of time being the increments of dulling pain as bruises fade and scabs fall off. He estimates, no longer in hours or days, but in weeks.
More than anything, the stifling loneliness was killing him, the lack of a calm (and blonde) presence there to cancel his crazy out noticeably grating on his mind. What was he to do with this loneliness he hadn’t felt since forever? Kid’s focus starts to waver, disgustingly weak after going forever without eating, on top of the seastone that turned every limb of his into jelly. Exhausted, he lets his head slump down onto his chest, glaring down at his captor of gray stone. He does his best to blink away the blurriness. The stone under his knees suddenly feels so much warmer, and he snaps awake to face the doorstep he stands at.
Kid, from his adult vantage point, shadows the girl who used to lord her older-sister powers over him; the girl who introduced him to “grown-up” emotions like love and envy and obsession— and oh, how he felt them. Her back remains turned to him, donning a stained and faded red sundress, a familiar sight.
“Victoria,” he forces out in a heavy, sighing breath. “We can’t be here.”
Her hand stops on the door handle, head of dirty blonde whipping around to shoot him a look of confusion. “What? Are ya stupid? Y’know I gotta be home by eight; or Pops’ll get real mad.” Something in his face must’ve gotten her to rethink; she changes tactics and smiles wide, a flash of teeth eerily similar to his with crooked teeth on proud display, in what would’ve scared any other boy but Kid. With Victoria, nothing is ever half-assed. Smiles at a hundred and ten percent. “Cmon, party’s over. I’ll meet the two of ya tomorrow afternoon after I finish doin’ chores. I swearrr.”
Kid can’t help it— he grabs her wrist before she can take his silence as a yes. “You can’t be here. We have to go,” he urges, and drags her away before she can argue; taking off down the street, hand in hand.
“What— Kid! Let go, ya piece’a shit! Yer gonna get the smackdown of yer life if ya don’ let me go,” Victoria screams and thrashes. She plants her feet on the concrete, leaning as far back as she can, struggling to wrest her arm from Kid’s iron grip. “What the fuck d’ya think yer doin’?”
“Damn it! Let’s just leave, now!”
“Why are ya actin’ like such a spaz? Didya get hit in the head, huh? Ya little psycho?”
“Let’s go, Victoria!” Kid’s sweaty hands fight to keep his end of this tug-of-war. “Please…Jus’ a little longer with ya!” Tears fall in great fat drops, sliding down his neck as he cranes his chin up to meet her gaze; now barely tall enough to meet her ear. Something deep inside him worryingly tells him he’ll never escape his runtiness.
Her lips, scrunched in anger, fold over themselves. She steps forward, keeping Kid’s tiny hand engulfed in hers (the calloused fingers she used to be so self conscious of, loudly complaining about how they looked like “ugly man gloves”). “I’m gonna be in so. Much. Trouble.”
“Let’s go to the junkyard; I changed my mind, I want the wrench!”
“Hah— called it!”
“Nuh-uh. Not ‘cus of ya. ‘Cus I can build a boat with a wrench. Betcha didn’ know that, ya stupid girl.”
“Uh, I so did. Everyone knows this.”
Kid scratches at her fingernails, turning her hand over and over in his palms. “It came to me in a really good dream. I’ll build a boat for me n’ Killer, an’ yer not gonna be allowed inside.”
“Why?”
“‘Cus yer mean.”
Victoria stops with a stomp of her sandaled foot, hands on her hips. “Yer gonna regret sayin’ that. Every time ya say somethin’ mean to a pretty girl is another nightmare that yer gonna have.”
“What? Unfair!”
“Yeah,” she says, as solemnly as she can. “This is probably a nightmare, too, ‘cus of that thing ya said about my hair yesterday.”
He looks up at her, fearful.
“When ya wake up, Kid, yer gonna regret it.”
“Bein’ mean to ya?”
Victoria continues to stare off into the distance, at empty streets and ugly brick houses; her grasp never loosening as he struggles to keep up with her long strides. “Mhm. Bein’ mean to me.”
He looks up from the cobblestone path and faces the silent walls of the prison once again. The warmth of Victoria’s clammy hands disappears like it was nothing but a memory to begin with. Pain blossoms at the nape of Kid’s neck as he knocks his head on unforgiving stone walls, frustrated with himself, the world; Kaido. For the sake of it, he tries to rip his hands out of the shackles, as he has been every day for however long he’s been trapped here. He’ll try, over and over; stubborn as an bull charging at waving red flags, running desperately into the blade to die. He tries to escape like the bull runs circles in its endless little pen to kill its wrangler. He'll try, no matter how much blood is spilled.