Work Text:
At night it was hot and the door was open. His eyes were shut but heard footsteps coming near so he kept quiet. When he glanced towards Muichiro he took the hit for him losing his arm but instead of the demon laughing with pride after. Instead of hearing Muichiro's shivers and whimpers then without a second of fear all that could be heard was a splatter than silence. When he looked up at him his face was torn into three's. Looking at what was his face was now a pile of blood and tissue. Then the last thing he could remember was a sound of a window cracking then broken. When he blinked he was looking at the demon hung by a rope in a high tree with some limbs missing. He defeated the demon by daybreak without a word and when he got home he looked at Muichiro but no longer remembers him. He's just a body that he needed to throw away. Something deep down told him to give the 'stranger' a proper burial. As he prepared to dig a burial he hugged the corpse that was being slowly eaten by maggots. "That poor guy I wonder how he got here. May he rest in peace," He whispered, his voice barely audible against the wind. He found a spot beside two other burials to plant him. Feeling a pang of sympathy for the lonely souls, he gathered a handful of bedraggled wildflowers and scattered them over the fresh mound and the two older ones. While strolling back to the once familiar now cold hut he spots some wood that were scattered all over along with a hatchet engraved into the grassy dirt path. "What a mess..." The boy murmured. Although wanting to clean up his exhaustion took a toll on him and was gonna do it later. The walk to the bloody and ruined house was stifling. His legs were dead weight, his arms were swaying as if he were carrying lead. The missing arm from the elbow down was ripped clean off so he couldn't feel anything but drowsiness and sorrow. When he made it back the house was filled with blood almost on every surface. His once tidy futon now stained with blood. To him it looked disgusting. The futon near it was also disgusting but unfamiliar for some reason. On one hand he couldn't stand seeing a place so filthy but also refuses to touch something so disgusting looking. It smelt like copper and the smell wouldn’t leave. It clung to his throat, thick and metallic, sinking into every breath he took. He stood there longer than he realized, staring at the bloodstained room as if waiting for it to make sense. His gaze drifted again to the second futon. Unfamiliar. Wrong. He stepped closer, slow and uneven, his bare feet sticking slightly against the dried patches on the floor. Something in his chest tightened not pain, not quite but enough to make him pause. There was an indentation in the bedding. As if someone had been sleeping there. Recently. He reached out. Then stopped. His hand hovered above the fabric, trembling faintly before pulling back. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickered like a thought trying to surface, only to be forced back down. “…No.” The word came out flat. There was nothing here. Nothing that mattered. He turned away. The air felt heavier inside the hut, harder to breathe. Without thinking, he stepped back outside, the coolness of the early morning brushing against his skin. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the trees. He stood, unmoving, caught between revulsion and exhaustion surrounded by a life he no longer remembered. "What now?" he asked himself. He then went inside and crouched beside the cramped space between the dark hardwood dresser and the cold stone wall. And just sat there on the cold hard wooden floor. At night he laid there pratically in the fetal position always near the cooking area, middle of the room or the dresser. Time went by and his hair was matted with dried blood. Everytime a demon came by he would always chop off their limbs or on rare occasions skin them so they won't escape and He'd hang them on any tree he could find and leave them there till dawn. Some nights he felt as if he was laying on shattered glass or needles scraping against him. His arm laid still in that corner near the kitchen area. Too tired to move, too tired to call for help. Not that he expected someone to come. Whenever someone or something came by he'd move to a different of the room. Maggots were feasting on his torn arm while the nub was healing itself. Covering the bone, muscle and tissue was new pale skin.
Facts about him: After the backstory
☆* ☆* ☆* ☆* ☆** ☆☆☆
He actually got his arm by a helpful kakushi while he was asleep but he doesn't know that
☆* ☆* ☆* ☆* ☆*. ☆*.
Some slayers confuse him for a doctor but he works with toxins (he's a toxicologist)
☆* ☆* ☆** ☆* ☆** ☆*
Can eat up to 10 cups of purin
☆* ☆* ☆* ☆* ☆*. **.
Has less than 200 patients per month but more than 159
☆* ☆* ☆* ☆* ☆*. ☆*.
Much stronger after he remembers everything.