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The soft fabric was the first thing Kyouka reached for as her hand trembled. It had been there for as long as she could remember—this scrap of delicate cloth, its edges fraying slightly from years of use. Carefully folded and stitched, it had once adorned her hair, a simple ribbon held in place by an iron clasp that her mother had chosen herself. It was a symbol of everything Kyouka had lost—of warmth, of security, of a love that, for so long, had been her only refuge.
The fabric was pale, a soft shade of lavender that always seemed to catch the light just right. It had been her mother's choice, the colour chosen for its gentleness, its grace. Kyouka could still hear her mother's voice in the memory, soft and reassuring. “It’ll keep you safe,” her mother had whispered, smoothing the ribbon through Kyouka’s hair for the very first time, tying it in place with hands that never shook, that never faltered. “I’ll always be with you.”
But now, that same fabric lay in her hand, not the ribbon she had once known, but torn and frayed, mangled beyond recognition. Its edges were shredded, stained with blood—blood that was no longer hers.
Kyouka looked down at the ruin of what had been once so perfect. Her eyes, hollow with grief and a quiet rage, took in the blood that marred the soft lavender cloth. It was blood—her own, yes, but more than that. It was the blood of innocence lost, of the child she had been long ago. The child who believed in the soft embrace of her mother’s arms, who clung to her when the world outside was too big, too loud, too terrifying. The child who had once felt safe.
But that child was gone. The innocence she had so carefully held onto was slipping away, piece by piece, leaving nothing but the cold, jagged edges of what had become her reality. Her hand tightened around the fabric, her fingers curling into a fist, the soft cloth biting into her skin. But the pain didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore.
The memories rushed in like a tidal wave, as they always did when the blood spilled. Her mother, her voice a soft murmur as she whispered to Kyouka in those quiet moments, those fleeting, tender moments when they were alone. Her arms wrapped around her, warm and secure, a fortress against the world. Her mother had always been there, had always protected her.
Now... her mother was gone. And Kyouka was left with nothing but the bitter taste of loss.
The blood was not only on the fabric—it was on her hands, too.
The world outside had shifted so violently that Kyouka hadn’t known where to turn. The events had unfolded so quickly, too quickly for her to understand, too fast for her to feel prepared. One moment, she was a child, safe in her mother’s arms. The next, she was alone, standing over the body of the woman who had raised her, the life draining from her mother’s eyes as the blood pooled around her, staining the cold floor.
Kyouka couldn’t breathe.
She remembered her mother’s last words, whispered through ragged breaths as she held Kyouka’s hand in the final moments. “Don’t cry, Kyouka. Don’t let them see... You are strong... my child...”
She hadn’t understood. She didn’t understand then, not when the world had collapsed in on itself, when the hands that had once held her with such love had been ripped from her life so mercilessly. The promise to be strong had seemed impossible, like an iron chain wrapped around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs.
The blood, the blood, the blood.
Kyouka’s fingers shook as she pressed the fabric to her chest. The once-soft lavender ribbon was nothing now but a cruel reminder. A reminder of what she had done. A reminder of the blood that soaked into her hands, that had soaked into her soul. A reminder of the destruction she had brought upon the world in her grief, in her anger, in her desperation to be free.
She had lost everything.
Her mother’s warmth, her love, her arms around her—gone, replaced with the cold weight of death and the bitter taste of regret.
The fabric crumbled in her hands as she pressed it to her lips, as though the act could somehow bring her back to those moments of peace. She remembered her mother’s warmth. She remembered her voice, soft and gentle, whispering reassurance into Kyouka’s ear as she wept silently in her arms.
But that warmth was a lie now.
The innocence that had once been hers, a gift from her mother’s love, had been shattered. Blood was not something that could be wiped away. The stains were deep in her skin, in her very soul. She had become a thing of violence, a tool of destruction, and there was no going back.
A tear slipped down her cheek, but it wasn’t for the mother she had lost. It was for the child she had been, the child who had believed in love and safety, the child who had worn the lavender ribbon in her hair without knowing what it truly meant.
And now, it was gone. She was gone.
Her fingers clenched around the ruined fabric, and for a moment, the world stood still.
Kyouka’s breath caught in her throat, and the soft fabric, so tied to the memories of her mother, fell from her grasp, landing in a heap at her feet. It had no meaning anymore. It couldn’t bring her back. It couldn’t heal the wounds inside her.
The blood, the loss, the truth.
Kyouka stepped forward, her gaze empty, the remnants of innocence slipping from her hands as she walked away, leaving the broken fabric behind.