There was blood everywhere.
The very air around him seemed tainted with the taste of iron, heavy and flooding his vision with a bright pink. Pink, and yet he knew- he knew it was blood. The walls and floor were caked in the sickly colour, the stains dry and old and yet somehow dripping.
Makoto stood frozen as the battered, almost zombie-like forms of his classmates took shape before him. Some reaching and begging, begging for their lives, for a second chance - some staring and silent, eyes accusatory. As if asking him why... why them, and not him?
A question he’d asked himself so many times, and yet never dared to voice to anyone but the ghosts around him-
“I-I...I’m sorry, I...” He took a step back, feeling smaller all of a sudden. Looking down confirmed his fears, as the sharp suit he’d once been wearing were replaced with his old hoodie and blazer combo.
Another nightmare. And yet, somehow, the knowledge that it was a nightmare didn’t make the experience any better.
Why, man? Why’d you have to do it?
Wide olive eyes flicked over to Leon, barely able to look the other boy in the face. The redhead’s voice was mismatched with the movement of his lips, lending an eerie quality to his movements. The sound didn’t even come from the other boy - it echoed in Makoto’s mind like a thousand screaming voices.
Makoto’s heart began to hammer in his chest, hyperventilation making him feel dizzy even in the dream itself. It was a dream. Just a dream-
“I’m sorry, I didn’t...everyone’s lives were...!”
Everyone’s lives... The ghostly form of Chihiro warbled, teary, blood running down their face from a horrible head wound, And yet, you left us...You all left us...
His world spun and turned white, the walls around him creaking and shrinking inward. The calm, lovely, smiling face of Sayaka filled his vision as she held out a hand to him, so serene and inviting -
You can still join us, Makoto. It’s not too late.
The shorter boy stumbled backward, breaking out in a cold sweat. And yet he had no time to contemplate her suggestion as his back hit a solid wall of muscle. A large hand took his arm in a painful grip, spinning him around to face a very, very angry Mondo Owada.
You know you shoulda been the one to croak. Ain’t no one here deserved it more than you, nobody!
It was guilt. He knew this - he knew, in the back of his mind behind all the terror and hatred they were spewing, that this nightmare was just his guilt. His despair at being unable to save everyone, at knowing he was the one who sent half of them to their deaths. He’d been through this with psychologists, with Kyoko and Byakuya. Survivor’s guilt.
Despair, that knife so close to his throat, one second more and he would have been with them again-
His heart began to sink, tears forming in his eyes. A nightmare. Just a dream, and yet it tore at his insides like a wild, trapped animal. He deserved it, he knew this, he should have done something-
The painful grip on his wrist loosened. Before he could register what was happening, the suffocating atmosphere dissipated. The howls and moans of pain and despair cut out, and through water-blurred eyes he saw them all again. His classmates, whole and unbloodied.
Mondo glared down at him, the expression holding a weight Makoto hadn’t seen before. Where their voices had once been clawing at the inside of his head, this time he heard it loud and clear-
“Then do something about it, nerd.”
Makoto woke with a loud, high pitched yelp. He’d felt himself get shoved, then felt the sensation of falling forever and ever until he slammed back into consciousness.
He took a deep breath and sat up straight, eyes pinched closed as he tried to regulate his breathing. He knew that nightmare well...it’s one that stole his sleep away often, the specters of his classmates and his own survivors guilt torturing him even long after the killing game ended. Sometimes, even Kyoko was still dead in them.
He shuddered, cracking his neck and stretching out his arms. He didn’t feel too bad, considering he’d apparently fallen asleep at his desk again. With any luck, Hina wouldn’t give him too much of a hard-
A cold horror hit him, stealing his breath away once more as soon as he opened his eyes. The desks, the walls, the bolted windows - the classroom he’d woken up in back when the killing game started. The room was engraved into his mind, scarred over and unforgettable in the worst way.
Makoto patted himself down, eyes darting rapidly over his own body. Smaller, and the clothes - oh god, it was just like then. His hair was fluffier, even.
He began to hyperventilate once more, shooting up out of his chair so quickly it fell over, making an ugly scraping sound echo through the room. His eyes darted about like a trapped animal, a tremor taking over his body. It felt so, so real-
But it couldn’t be real. It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare!
