Daniel
A dark alley. The walls are hardly separated, so close it feels as though they're just barely waiting to crush him. Sounds echo; he can't determine the sources. His features are overshadowed by the heavy cloak of nightfall; the off white of his eyes gleamed in contrast. People are naive; because the average person wouldn't take the life of another, they assume everyone else in the world will kindly reward them with the same treatment. Steps ahead of him, this man had yet to catch on. He trailed closely and quietly behind. People are liars too; this does get easier. It's become second nature now. 

A few minutes is all it takes to step outside of himself, lunge forward and grab this man by the hood of his coat, slam him to the ground.

A few minutes is all it takes to rob. Muffle the screams. No one will hear, no one will know. Silently wince as teeth clamp down on the fingers he'd used to choke out the responding cries. Liquid red rolls down from the pinprick punctures. 

A few minutes is all it takes to lose it all, pull the blade from his pocket. The man grasps, begs breathlessly and pitifully for mercy. Take him by the hair, smash the back of his skull to the concrete. Bloody mangled stands come loose between the fingers. Reach for the blade again. They're no longer begging. They know now that it's pointless.

A few minutes; a sense of humanity drifts. Take the blade, grip the handle. It's supposed to be quick. Cut the throat, bleed, and be done.

A fleeting second; the bastard's face doesn't belong to him any longer. The eyes of a killer, the eyes of his father, the eyes that had followed him all his life. He deserved to bleed. Painfully.

A few minutes; become a monster, become unfamiliar, become something, then nothing, then everything, then nothing again. All consuming cycle. Adrenaline makes him strong. The blade penetrates the skin and it's like cutting through air. It's easy. It's easy enough to do again, and again, and again. Wretched sounds; meat, liquids, the disrupting force of cold metal, and ragged huffs. A few retches from the man, instinctively reaching to clutch at his massacred abdomen. His muscles are nearly vibrating as they twitch and spasm. Hopelessly shush their struggles, grab them by the chin, tilt the head back, cut finally into the throat, hesitantly release the soul, leave it to sink into the depths of hell below. 

Keigo removes his weight from the crimson stained mound of flesh and muscle. He panted as he parted and was left to the cold, left to the shame, and the guilt, and the unbearable nausea. It would pass. It always did. His head spun, his lungs fought for their fill of air. Everything was red. Every sound pierced his eardrums. The weight of liquid red to soak his anatomy left his skin to tingle, pins and needles, tiny beasts nipping at his nerves. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, soon stained with fingerprints of red as he rang up one of his most recent contacts, an almost immediate answer.

"My location is on. Come to me. Have this cleaned."

All the years, all the trash he'd taken out. It sickened him, how untouchable he was. The most shallow sense of protection; a gamble he'd made, too young to know better.

*"What are you?*

*"Keigo Takam-"*

*"I'm not asking who you are... What are you?"*

*"I'm uh...-"*

*"Wrong. What you are is scum. Just like your father. Just like your whore mother. Now say it."*

*"I don't wanna..."*

*He wore a ring, the instructor. He must have been married. When he was angry, he'd hit. The metal of that ring would always tear into the skin.*

*"WHAT ARE YOU?!"*

*"I'm– I'm scum, sir..."*

*"LOUDER."*

*"I'm scum! Just like my ma' and dad!"*

*"That's right. You're nothing. You came from nothing, you'll stay nothing. Keigo..., what am I ever gonna do with you?"*

*Bleeding cheek. Fingers through the hair, a smile; pain, then the warmth of touch. The touch he craved.*

*"...You're gonna make me better... Fix me..."*

*"Good."*

He didn't feel fixed. Not at all. The drive back was quiet, long. He'd wasted away a good thirty minutes to track the man, now a corpse, across the city. He turned the volume dial, flooded the silence with idle noise, the radio. Sometimes the stories weren't half bad, most of the time though, it was nothing but substance for the empty silence. 


*"...Let's get real for a second here, we need to talk about Enji Todoroki..."

"Fucks sake, let it die..." Keigo groaned. The bastard thrived on the publicity, why feed into it? 

*"...Touya, you remember him from last episode, right? He dropped a bombshell on us all. He exposed what he and his siblings endured under Enji Todoroki's roof and..."*

Jerk the wheel, far side of the road, a hard slam to the brakes, the pained squeal of his tires. 

"Touya..."

*"...Confirmed that Enji Todoroki has been charged and arrested for his appalling crimes against..."*

A murmured gasp. "No..." His hands were still blood soaked as he frantically tapped away at his phone, called the dreaded subject of that man's ramblings. No response. Call again. Nothing. Second time, third, fourth, fifth. Eventually, he lost count; calls, texts, voicemails. If he had a penny for every attempt, he would probably be rich by now. Stumble from the car. The city lights glow all around him, illuminate his pores, illuminate the glisten of red caked onto his skin. His knees wobbled, trembled, gave out beneath him as he looked up, laid his eyes upon hell; crying children, a screaming man, a familiar scene he'd stood witness to many times before as a friend, as *Family*. All this; a secret. Toya didn't tell, but now the whole world knew; the stench of that family's dirty laundry left to air throughout this city, radio, news, the billboards. This was Touya's purpose; nothing more, just this. Enji was apprehended. What was left? Keigo wasn't naive, anything but. He knew well enough that the man wouldn't live for love, for friendship, for goals that weren't rooted in fiery spite. This was it; he did it. He did what he lived to do. 

*...Reflection...*

*...Everything...*

A vision of blood. A vision of a corpse. A vision of betrayal and loneliness. A vision of Toya. All these years, that last piece to the dreaded puzzle.

His eyes were set alight, he was swallowing daggers. His lungs were vacuumed empty of air, his blood ran in his veins like glacier ice. Back in the car. All he could see was tears. All he could hear was shrill ringing, endless. Blink for a minute, endure the moment of impact, the agony of collision. A crushing force. Frantically blinking lights, honking car horns, the searing pain of the broken glass that had ripped through his clothing, shredded up his arms, his face, his chest. 

Ringing, then mumbling, then sound. "...Sir-!! Sir, can you hear me?! I'm gonna call you an ambulance, hang in there, okay?!"

"Ngh..." He was close enough. Five minutes, maybe two if he ran. "Don't..."

"Sir...?"

"Put the phone down..." By the wrist, he grabbed her as she raised her cell phone to her ear. "...Please."

"You're bleeding- you're covered in blood...!! I have to call help, this isn't-"

"...I have to go."

His head spun. His vision flooded with pinprick darkness as he stumbled from the mild wreckage of his vehicle. He wasn't speeding, nor was the other vehicle in the collision. He'd be okay and so would they. The woman called out. He had nothing to say in turn, no energy to spare, nothing to give. His body burned, dripped of salty sweat that bitterly stung at his wounds; vinegar and barbed wire. Every step was strenuous and the physical was only the tip of the iceberg. The walk back was all too long; a battle to hold all these shattered pieces together, as he crumbled with every step.

Slam the door. The room is warm, but empty. Always empty. It was less empty when Touya was in it. The paint is always peeling. It always smells like mold. He still hadn't discarded those empty cans of liquor. The door is closed, it's okay to cry now.

As long as it's quiet.

As long as it's composed.

Don't let the fucking mask fall.

Boiling tears, tinted red, gathered and collapsed on the filthy carpet just as he did. His forehead knocked to the surface as his gut gnawed itself raw; dry wretches of saliva, blood, bile and mucous. Filthy breathless gasps to follow. Split lips soaked in bodily fluids. Muscles twitching, anatomy quivering.

*"Promise...?"*

*"Promise."*

A broken sob, a broken voice. 

His fingers dug into the rough fabric of the floor as his teeth grit, as his body betrayed itself, as he hated himself, hated everything, hated Touya.

*He promised.*

*He promised me.*

"You promised..."


Sobbed. Hardly spoken

Pitiful that the promise was all they had, all *He* Had. What was left? What was he without something, someone to call his home; his taste of freedom, his chance to fly. Like a bird. 

*The gut wrenching agony, blade scraped inward against his scapula, flesh and muscle scooped away; pitiful tissue, so fragile. The metal was cold. His body was wet. No more wings. He'd never fly like the little creatures outside his window, at least not alone.*

Again, the wings were scraped from his being, and he was nothing all over again. Just dirty. Dirty and disgusting. 

Strings of blood and saliva dangling from his bottom lip, from his jaw. He lifted his splitting head to a room of dancing shadows, dancing demons. 

The pills were in the bathroom.
Ryan
BCKSNSNSNFNDNFJDJF FGIGGLGIGNGNGNR NRRNRN BRO ITS SO GOOD FR EVERYONE READ THRIS.
Gwen
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