Chapter Text
Today was one of those nights.
Mineta sat on the floor, uncaring of the shiver sparked from its cold wood. He reacted similarly to the bright screen before him; the television flashing colors and characters of shows he had no care for. Not when there was a lack in audio, unless he risk waking his dad. Instead he’s left with the muffled snoring from the master bedroom, alongside echoes of voices he’s never heard of. Feelings and memories he’s never once thought capable of imagining.
In the mind of the four year old, one who’s idolized heroic endeavors shown in TV screens, these instances of life were far from what he’d see as ‘good’. They were scary, she was scary.
It’s always paired with adrenaline, the rush of blood as she spilled countless of others. He’d never seen that much gush out of someone; not even the movies or news station effectively captured the gore.
Frowning, Mineta’s eyes focused onto the glaring screen. Willing it to wash away the vivid intruders, willing himself to burn the tamer imagery onto his thoughts, his eyes.
It never worked, no matter how many times he’s familiarized himself of this weekly routine. He fantasized of heroic deeds, justice, fame, attention. And this? This was a warped view of all he held strongly to.
Villain.
Wet, warm tears dropped to his knees, arms rest atop as he brought them closer to himself, shielding his wobbling lips, letting his eyes burn, burn, burn.
He wanted it to go away.
He wants his happier dreams back.
They were all stupid nightmares anyway.
No way would he want to do the same as the hands that freely hurt, so he’s not like a villain.
Yet he can’t deny how synchronized he was. Unlike previous dreams, control was strongly rooted to him. Emotions he’s yet to discover flared deeply from his heart and he’d move with grace and ease at times, a blind desperation at others. He shared the eyes and feelings of someone that seemed to care little of hurting others.
Mineta would focus on the hands that held lives, far more longer and slender than his own--
--Strands of pink that occasionally fluttered against wind and flowed through action.
--and he was far, far taller than his current self, a girl.
All he needed was a face to separate himself from the impostor’s invasion of his life.
The snore reached a sharper note, ending abruptly to which Mineta froze. He expected the thumps of footsteps closing to the living room, his dad zeroing onto the television then to Mineta’s smaller form leaning against the couch. Then start the yelling. For Mineta’s disturbance, him awake beyond curfew, and wasting electricity on a show that was probaby for the grownups.
He’d have to apologize as he struggle to hold back stupid tears, always being a crybaby at any anger directed at him. He wouldn’t, couldn’t explain the scary thoughts, his dad would be more angry, he might think of him as evil.
...Instead all his preparation lead to naught. He could hear the snore resuming, Mineta’s hammering heart allowed to rest to a slower beat. In it, there also comes a relief in knowing how his dad gets his own bed, his own room and freedom.
Unlike the mom and dad of the imposter, kept away in a cage, their yells and pleads muffled in his ears but their emotions so clear.
Mineta wouldn’t lock his dad up, and that comforted him enough to move.
Carefully, he shifted his seating position, wiping any snot or tears remaining as he used his free hand to quietly shut the bright source of colors. His hair, partially sticking to the couch’s edge, weakly stopped him from moving any further. The young boy huffed. It wasn’t enough he was stuck with a quirk he sees as lame as sticky balls, it had to inconvenience him whenever possible. With one forceful pull, the ball easily ripped its clutches from the couch’s fabric. He had to be thankful that the adhesive aspect correlates with his mood. Just this once.
Stepping into his room, climbing onto the comforting cage of his own. Without bars, with a mattress, and pillows. Yet all the more dreadful to the boy who wonders if he’ll see those visions again in his slumber.
---
Mineta could feel his teacher’s gaze directed from his left. He evades it, finding it far nicer to look to the other side only to be met with glaring eyes, the whites slightly reddened.
He chose to stare at his hands at the end, even then he’d see a flicker of those slender, paler fingers. Much larger and more prettier than his. In that moment, closing his eyes would have been a better option until the fear of the scary images pop up. Through an impressive amount of self control did he not burst into tears and instead redirected his frustration to the ground. It held no feelings, he could frown at it all he wants.
‘What happened,’ is what he wants to ask. But another thought appears.
‘Did I hurt you?’
His usual dance would be getting insulted, yell denials in retaliation, and if his bully was particularly intimidating, he might start crying. Though he’d swear to anyone who cared to ask he remained brave in the face of insults, not wanting to be seen as lesser.
This time, the dance would be in the courtyard, merrily joined with his less than pleasant thoughts.
Details remained muddy, as he’d been lacking the necessary rest usual for his age. All he knew was the loud mockery did nothing to reduce the irritation inching closer to anger, his hands itch for something, anything to shut him up. The boy kicked sand to his tiny corner in the playbox, ruining the traces of art Mineta drew with his fingers. He laughed, calling his work ugly, taunting him to react. Mineta faced his tormentor, where he’d see a grin paired alongside mirthful eyes, it entirely overlapped with a flash of a memory; a strange man, dressed in all black except for the comically large eye he wore to cover his head. Red smears the air, following after the trail of an axe held by his---her?---hands
Already did he supply a label to the eccentric figure. A number of all things. Twelfth.
Panic erupted, he flailed as terror overshadowed all his instincts. Wild and without thought, he shielded himself away from the boy, willing him to just walk away--
“Minoru,” a gentle voice coaxed him out of the recollection, slowly he raised his head to his meet his teacher’s troubled smile. Somehow, he never quite notices her exhaustion until today, and he felt all the more guilty for causing so much trouble.
“Did you throw sand at Taka’s eyes? That is a mean thing to do, you know.”
Did he? That question would sit in Mineta’s mind as he readily begins his apologies, albeit hesitant---
“No!”
That put a pause to his words.
“It was a ghost.”
The stares now are directed to his fellow classmate, incredulous.
“The sand started flying---Minoru saw it too!”
“I did?”
Taka merely sputtered, rambling onward about the bizarre anomaly as Mineta tried digging his mind for that blank slot in between the current events.
Nothing.
The two got off without much punishment, forced to shake hands and apologize, with a half-hearted promise on playing nice. Taka seemed stumped, Mineta shared the sentiment.
---
The night goes forth; uncaring of those struggling to fall asleep.
Mineta sat on the floor once more, the screen before him blaring the usual bright colors, though his eyes lacked the usual strain.All due to a silhouette.
The girl.
Stood in between him and the light, so very still Mineta wondered if his visions had been enhanced to a much more ‘realistic' level.
But there came no echo of sounds or clammor, no emotion or phantom sensations as he stared at this stranger.
She wears a black coat, its ends tattered with rips and holes, allowing the glare of light to seep through. Trailing his eyes upwards, a sinking sensation encompasses as he took note of her appearance. Briefly it lands on the darker patch of her clothing, barely visible in the dark room. But what catches most of his attention are the strands of pink that is her hair. He zeroes in on her face; someone he'd consider pretty in other circumstances. Here, her expression remains eerily blank, especially with eyes the color of pink, glowing faintly. She didn't appear phased. Not a glance at Mineta, distantly staring elsewhere.
Like a ghost.
The very same that’s rudely projected her actions onto his life.
Briefly, he wondered if he should apologize to Taka again for his lack of support, if she had been there and terrified his bully.
When should he scream, run to his dad and possibly welcome the risk of getting yelled at?.
Her eyes flicked to meet his own stare. He couldn’t breathe, those glowing irises pining him dead on the spot.
She glided closer, no brush of feet against floor, no rustling of her clothing or hair. Nor was there any sign she was breathing. Her figure appeared rigid, Mineta feared one singular blink would somehow bring her closer, or much worse, out of his sight. As their distance close to an arm’s length, she slowly crouched, then rotated her head downwards to face his frozen state.
He couldn’t see the television screen anymore, and the grim reaper appeared to take form in this girl.
Yet there was no plead for mercy, for help. Partially because he hopes for her to hurt him less if he just sit still.
Her hands approached out, slow, uncertain as her fingers spread out
It reached for him-- his eyes, face, head??-- only to phase through his skull.
Mineta blinked, a couple times to fully process the numbing sensation left from her attempt at contact.
“What is this?” She asks, her voice much softer than he assumed, whispered to the room than to himself.
Overwhelmed with emotions and possibly this being his last day of living, his body's next course of action is to pass out.