Before, before all of it, if youâd asked him if he had bad days, he would have laughed. Well, he still would, laughter is fun. But itâs a different sort. Before, with so much to do, so many people to be, there were no bad days. He worked through everything, always. It was easier that way. Heâd just shove everything away, deeper and deeper, seal it off with endless distractions and endless masks. It didnât have to be too watertight. It didnât have to last forever. There was always the finish line. There had always been, at least.
Now, now there is none of that. And there are bad days. Days he just wants to rip himself to pieces. Days he canât move, days where memories and nightmares bleed into reality and not even manzai shows can shut them out. Itâs not one of those days, not quite, but today had been close. This morning, when the idea of staying in Romaâs room, or his own which looked so similar pricked at his skin and pressed in against his head. When the television sounded like static, louder and louder no matter what was playing. So heâd left, left because even the disgusting sensation of being surrounded by people (were these things even people? No less than anyone else had been, he supposed) was more grounding than those walls.
Heâd come to Cotes ward just because that was where the first train out was heading. It was not time, yet, for him to make the next move in his little game with Sasaki, but he told himself he was here looking for new sets and settings. Heâd certainly stopped by several coffee shops. Not because he hadnât slept, no. Nothing like that. And he was only staying around so long because there was an entire new city to explore. Not because he knows that once he goes back, itâll just be more of him staring at those same walls.
The sun sets, store lights flick off one my one, and for all he told himself he was hear exploring, he hardly notices. Funny, how heâd destroyed Tokyo and come here - been brought here - to see it look much the same. And now here is Tokyo again, not quite, not really, a simulacrum in every sense of the word, and here he is, just as real as all this, walking through it.Â
All day heâs been wearing bargain bin masks, empty ones, fills empty roles, the customer, the citizen, the pedestrian. No one noticed, not the natives or those like him, brought here on some whim for some unknown purpose. Like Uta wearing that silly tintin mask down to the 24th ward. No one looks too close, they just see what they think theyâre supposed to be seeing. And now, there are fewer and fewer people looking at all. He keeps his discount masks on, anyway.
Heâs not going anywhere in particular, even the pretenses heâs been coming up with throughout the day have fallen away. Heâs just walking, because its something to do. This, it turns out, is a mistake. Because he hasnât been paying attention to where heâs going. Because the entire ward is ringed in cherry blossoms, even though its late summer. Itâs easy to miss, coming in and out of the ward by train. Itâs easy to ignore when heâs ready for them, or when heâs got a mask on tight enough. But it slipped his mind. So when the warm summer wind whips them up and over him, he shivers. The smell of the city is replaced by the smell of the park. By the smell of a garden. Shit. One stray petal on his face is enough to crack these terribly made masks heâs been getting by on. Enough to open the door heâs piled high with diversions and distractions to keep from spilling things he doesnât want to remember all over everything.
Maybe he could get away with telling himself heâd never had bad days before, but even he isnât a talented enough liar to pretend this isnât one. Under his gloves, his hands have gone cold. Under one of the lights, thereâs a shade of purple he doesnât want to be seeing. Canât be seeing, not really. Just a coincidence, he tells himself. There are no children laughing just at the edges of his hearing, this park is covered in grass, not flowers. And that figure under the light is someone heâs never met, or else isnât there at all. He should turn, backtrack out of this place, back to the comforting anonymity of concrete and steal of a fake city. He should, but he doesnât move, just keeps staring, waiting for his memories to either blow away or solidify in front of him.
     no matter who you are, thereâs always something youâre willing to hide. a desire, a thought, a memory, or even the entirety of being. it can never be simple. you canât bare yourself, only a fool would do so in a world like theirs. and so, you hide. you pick the facade that better suits you and move on, or try to the best of your ability. it isnât so hard after a while, after youâve repressed everything youâve been through.
     in fact, itâs easier than you would think it is. because for some, whatâs on the surface is enough. enough for them to think youâre a good, decent and innocent person. perhaps she could bring herself to feel something akin to remorse if they were smarter. but thereâs no kindness here. sheâs hollow, and rize is aware of that. what the world did to them-- the treatment they were given for simply existing, she couldnât forgive them. as far as sheâs concerned, they deserve this.
     ah, if only she had the guts to make the world burn, if only she didnât live in fear of being caught and trapped once more... kamishiro rize, you are lacking a backbone, arenât you? coward, hiding behind a mask so commonly shared among ghouls. is this what you want for yourself? a miserable, pathetic and meaningless life? you arenât free, child. you never were.
     you are bound to imaginary shackles, the problem is that you grew used to its weight. however, small things will never fail in reminding you of that place. of who-- of what you were supposed to be. her nose scrunches up in disgust when the scent of flowers fills them, nostrils flaring for a brief moment. had she known this place was in a state of blooming, she wouldnât have come here. but how else was she supposed to go home?
     and then, another fragrance. this time sweet, but certainly leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. it canât be. she risks a glance over the shoulder. and, like a ghost from the past, there he stands. a friend, an enemy, a long forgotten family member. hands bawls into fists, knuckles going white in a matter of seconds. her blood is boiling, yet she doesnât move from her spot. her mind is overflowing with colorful words, insults and questions. thereâs so much to be said, yet all she manages is a low and guttural:Â
