Caught red-handed. It wasn’t like she’d gone there with the intention to do anything stupid or illegal, but what could she say? After nearly a decade of repeating the same days over and over again in the same city, things got boring. She’d run out of places to explore, and so checking out the nightlife hadn’t seem like a bad idea. In the first place, her mental age was probably more than old enough for this kind of venue.
Still, there was a guilty look on Hiyori’s face as she edged away from the older woman, but it vanished in an instant, replaced by a look of confusion — complete with wide, deer-like eyes. As long as she tried to play it off as an accident, this could possibly work out.
"I’m sorry," she apologized with a small bow, the picture of politeness. "I actually got separated from my friend around here earlier, so I was hoping that he’d come back or that someone might have seen him around… ?"
█ ▌▦▧▨▩ —-{ if there was one thing in the world kagome couldn't resist, it was a child's pleading face. the way she seemed so guilty and apologetic brought the smallest pang in her chest, though she'd never let it show through a cold poker face of disdain and judgement; paralyzing her for a moment before she stretched her arms and crossed them beneath her chest, gazing down at the girl with a studious look.
❝ just don't make it a habit of gettin' lost. ❞ she let out a sigh at this, understanding that the responsibility of this child's safety now fell upon her shoulders, and it was up to her to make sure she found her "friend" safely. of course, this also meant kagome would be pulled away from her night of relaxation--something she hardly ever got to enjoy. ❝ why don't ya start with your name and what your friend looks like. ❞
Death came to those who were impaled by approximately seventy eight different blades in the timespan of thirteen seconds. Such a fact was not one that could be very easily challenged. Perhaps even having faced an execution, holding her most beloved in her arms wasn’t cruel enough punishment for a remnant of despair. She was supposed to be dead. And then her eyelids peeled back to meet the harsh florescent light that buzzed droningly above her head. A machine noisily announced her awakening and suddenly she was surrounded by strangers, suffocated with their attention— hallucinatory, vivd pain of impalement resurfacing, an agonizing pain thundered through her and she writhed— finding that she could not move her arms or legs. Her breath patterned irregularly and her throat felt as though it was closing up; an episode of anxiety overthrowing all calamity that was within her previously sleeping, corpse-like form. A nurse had to come and sedate her to keep her from going entirely over the edge.
Akin to a doll with loose limbs that couldn’t be played with until it was repaired, she was monitored constantly and doped on immense quantities of pain medication until her body registered, that in fact, the program was not real. She did not truly suffer an execution. And once the thought stuck, her pain slowly began to subside. The brain damage made it difficult to move her fingers, to speak, even to chew her own food. Oh how the mighty could fall. If anything, being supplied constant care and medication to maintain her health— just as capable of falling and shattering as a plate teetering on the end of a table. A zombie chained to a bed, attached to an iv and left to stare blankly at the whitewashed wall ahead with nothing but the ticking of the clock and the hum of the overhead lights to keep her company. So weak and delicate— perhaps this was the punishment she deserved. To be so helpless, so incapable of doing anything at all that she was reduced to such a sorry, depressing state. To have worked herself so hard through the years so that she couldn’t be replaced, to adapt in a yakuza household— to have become so physically strong and then to be reduced to a shell. To be brutally executed, torn out, and then told that she and the others had been the cause of it all along.
How beautiful despair was.
A deceptive beauty for which she could no longer place. Whether it was the enforcement of the medication tainting her memories or not, she was unsure. But the faces of her countless victims were blurred. She had not seemed to care, in those days, who she killed and why she killed them. Victims that met their ends at her blade were countless and many, corpses torn to shreds and piling atop each other. Then the aftermath was spent relishing the blood that stained her blade, the sadness that stung her seemingly unfeeling soul and told her that she was beyond repair, that she had fallen so deep into the depths of Enoshima’s promised, divine despair that there was no turning back. She was feeling something. Whether or not she particularly liked the feeling, it was still there. And she was no longer alone, no. Enoshima owned an entire toolbox, an army of classmates who were fighting for the same purpose. But a tool, she could only be used in Enoshima’s capable hands. The memories placed in this time were but a haze, as though she had a manic episode or an out of body experience.
It was challenging to fathom just what her past self had been thinking. What exactly had pulled her so far— to the point where it seemed absolutely hopeless for her to change. To have suffered such abuse since the very day she was born, Peko had never known a time of hope or peace. It was even fathomable to say that she had been in some tamer form of despair until Enoshima wired her to fit her particular definition of despair. Adaptation— being the tool she was expected to be. Protecting bocchan with her own life and serving as his weapon with constant threats of being kicked to the streets, sold overseas or killed over her head— should she make a single mistake or fail to do what she was told. His parents believed that one had to be capable of killing those that they loved most to be strong— blood lusting people who knew no limits. Showed no mercy. A tool given form of a female’s body— she was given tasks and orders, faced objectification, physical abuse in several nightmarish forms, mental abuse. The list could go on to the point where her stomach could only twist in response to recalling them. She had hardened to death since she was only a child. Abuse had shaped her to objectify her very self to the point where she genuinely believed that she was incapable of feeling anything at all.
Among the land of the living now, she wished that she had just simply lost her life when she did in the rehabilitation program. Believing herself to have simply fulfilled her life’s cause, retaining the small amount of sanity that she had before her inevitable decent into despair. While she hadn’t died with her innocence, she still retained a small amount of care for the lives of those around her. It was as though she’d swallowed something incredibly sour— and instead of removing the taste, her tongue was laced in the acrid aftertaste that couldn’t be washed away directly with water or fluid. She wished death upon herself. If she could move her wrists she’d have ripped the ivs from her arms. Upon trying to spit her pills and medications out— her jaw would be yanked and they would be pushed down forcibly. Why there was such a persistence in maintaining her livelieness, she was unsure. Perhaps they wanted her to be entirely conscious so that they could see her react to whatever torture or pain they intended to inflict upon her for her wrongdoings. Maybe they desired to see her at her lowest— on her knees, sobbing, begging for a life that she no longer wanted. Or maybe they truly, for some ridiculous reason, believed that their sparkling, golden road of hope could potentially lead her in the correct direction towards rebuilding a new society.
Bocchan himself had changed. He had told her that she was going to recover— and then they could live a new life. They could rebuild everything. She wouldn’t have to be a tool and they could live side by side as comrades. Perhaps that was the only thing that allowed her to keep from rebelling too much against the doctor and nurses’ advances. He knew well that she had betrayed him in order to serve Enoshima. But that no longer mattered to him. They both knew that their own misty misconceptions had been what lead them astray. And nothing could change the immense, undying love they felt for one another. By barging into her execution he had proved, at the very least, that he did reciprocate and wasn’t lying when he said he cared. When he said that he never saw her as a heartless tool to begin with. If she had not faced execution, perhaps she’d have never known that. So while the circumstances surrounding her could hardly be smiled upon— she still at least had him to grip onto for support. His visits were infrequent now for the very fact that the doctors recommended that she rest without much stimulation that could potentially get her roused up.
A new life. Was it even possible? It was a long road that stretched far into the distance, disappearing in a haze with an uncertain destination. She tried to visualize the future, rather than fixating the past as she sat in her lonely room. It served difficult, however, as her mind fixated on the memories that were difficult for her mind to decipher. She wanted to know more of what she had done, what she had to atone for. A human interest of wanting to view the scene of a car accident— not quite being able to make out the figures within the smoke and grime coated windows. A morbid curiosity to see the extent of the damage. And when such efforts proved worthless, she fixated upon memories of her childhood. Things that she could just almost smile back on— and things that were better left untouched. A hand to the side of her face, a stabbing sensation to the gut as she was told of each and every mistake that she made in the dojo. The abuse and nights without supper she went as she tried to improve her technique. She felt as though she had returned to that point in her life— under constant supervision, a bug squirming uncertainly beneath a magnifying glass. Those who peered above her were looking for mistakes, for reasons to exterminate her.
Her room was staffed with less and less people. She could hold onto her consciousness for up to six consecutive hours without blacking out and her “progress” was going well. She was certain, however, if anyone saw the state she was in, they would not look at her and automatically think that she was a prime example of ‘progress’. Darkened shadows beneath her listless eyes, wired up to the machinery that breathed heavily like monsters in the dark. Bedridden in a sterile room that reeked of the combined scent of prescriptions and antiseptics.
And then a stranger entered. There was nothing Peko can do to stop her. Thus, she simply gave the effort to narrow her eyes in their direction— willing the figure to simply disappear. The air about her seems mildly off— but the former kendoka could not place it. Begrudged with so many crimes, it was simple to say that any feelings of distaste could be expected. Those who entered this room were afraid of her. Until they knew of just how hopeless she was, reduced to this bed. They were inferior and they knew that— and some even had the gull to smirk as they went along with their procedures.
She was deserving of such treatment, she knew. So she simply allowed it without offense or comment. Even if she had been able to move her arms or summon the strength to wrench them away— she wouldn’t. There was a form of guilt that existed within her for her past actions. She felt undeserving of their help. She did not want it and tried to resist, yes. However, she would not raise her hostility to the point of madness. She was still respectable enough to utter a thanks to those who seemed to at least give a small portion of their worry towards her wellbeing.
Caretaker, partners. Perhaps now they were designing the system so that each remnant had their own doctor or nurse. The girl standing across from her gave no vibes of kindness or much intent towards her wellbeing. Whether or not this girl cared, however, the kendoka decided that it didn’t concern her. And then an inquiry. Peko’s face contorted. She attempted to summon strength to exemplify her stubbornness— to somehow show that she was strong enough without needing someone at her bedside constantly. Resulting in nothing but a small squirm, spurring a pang that surged through her entire body like a knife.
Breathing came irregularly when she was asked to speak. Even articulation proved to be a difficulty for her, as of late. Her throat felt as though its’ walls were being attacked with nails as she opened her mouth.
It took a long pause before composed her thoughts and spoke, an irritated yet raspy sound to her tone. “The file… displays my name, does it not?” And a pause to give her already exhausted throat a rest, “Pekoyama, Peko.”
█ ▌▦▧▨▩ —-{ the slightest feeling of sinking doubt plagued her thoughts and swallowed her into an abyss--endless in depth and pain, constricting her movements and breathing. this hallow hole breeds nothing but misery and yet, she remains where she stands, eyes locked onto the gaze from her enemy, drowning in its hostility. feverish anger overwhelms her, clawing its way to the surface, breaking through in just the slightest twitch before it's controlled once more { not for very long; kagome muses the idea of coiling like a venomous viper into a stance poised to strike, tongue and fangs dripping with a yearning for blood--her blood, itching to reach forward and suck the light right out of her pretty little face with her bare hands }. she's permanently caught in a trap of pointed spikes puncturing the epidermis of her skin, should she move, they would pierce her, hold her, and let her bleed right onto the floor. the patient--pekoyama's--gaze was sharper than she had envisioned, piercing skin and bone and, for a moment, she was scared she could see right through her, read her like a book. kagome discarded all preliminary bias as best she could and let skepticism befall her features: a curtain draped over the truth--that kagome despised pekoyama with every fiber of her being; toes curled inside her boots, soles tapped against the pavement of the floor impatiently while she studied the subject intensely.
silver curls of hair captured the paleness of her race--white as a ghost, thin and frail like sheets, lacking the life someone her age ought to have. hands bony and arms nothing more than flaky strings, cracked and peeling despite not having any sunburns. she smelled as though she had not taken a bath in years { which was probably true }; odor rising like heat from her body--every scar, mark, grime dirt--visible to the naked eye. disgusting, she scoffs. absolutely putrid. how can anyone stand to live like this? mangly, despairing, alone...
{ that isn't to say kagome is none of the above; she's let herself drop off the edge of a cliff since hitomi's death. rarely does she brush or wash her hair--her excuse: that running water is too expensive for her struggling parents. distancing herself from them is selfish and childish above all else, but it's all she can do to cope with herself, her past, and her future. countless times has she hidden behind a plain, thick glass wall that separates her from the outside world, watching everyone move along just fine without her. she wishes sometimes that someone will come along and see the pain she's in and feel pity for her, but it's too late before she realizes that her glass box is really a one-way mirror and that they are impervious to her existence, so she sinks into an even greater despair while curled into a ball, wishing death upon herself so that the pain will disappear. but she can't raise a knife to herself, so instead, she endures the pain because she believes she deserves it, and she never realizes how truly lonely she is. }
though kagome would rather die before admitting it, she is alike to pekoyama in more ways than she'd care to admit. her pride is swelled far too large, she finds herself superior to pekoyama in every way conceivable that she becomes more like her the harder she tries to be different--
--of course, this she doesn't realize herself.
her only companion is the file she currently carries--it will not lie to her; it will not deceive her; it will not abandon her. it cannot die, and it cannot live. kagome has never truly had a friend before and probably never will with her shattered soul, but she would describe it as a mutual trust she longs for--the privilege of having someone to spill your secrets to and trust that they won't use it against you. but all she can feel is broken and deception and unworthiness, so she shuts everyone out from even coming close to her heart.
{ secretly, mr. muffin the teddy bear was her closest friend at ten years old besides her sister. though many laughed at her ridiculous presentation at show-and-tell, kagome found the stuffed toy close to her heart and nestled tightly against her chest at night, but such happy memories have been buried beneath years of agony and unpleasantness that digging up memories from before the incident is almost impossible. }
almost.
what she does remember vividly is her backyard, strewn with sakura petals that blew in from their neighbor's yard, dancing in the chilled wind to a song unsung, but she could imagine it perfectly and clearly in her mind and sometimes even danced with those petals until her sister came outside to grab her for dinner.
how she missed her mother's cooking. what would she eat here? instant ramen noodles for the rest of her life? the thought made her queasy, but at least she wouldn't be forced to eat the hospital's nasty meals { she'd seen a plate of food on a cart in the hallway, and though fresh, it smelled stale }.
pale fingers carefully opened the file, all the while her eyes narrowed at pekoyama as though to say move and you're dead. crinkling, the file reveals its contents to her, and she gives them a cursory glance between the lines, skipping to the more important bolded words--age, height, living relatives { n/a says the file; peculiar }, physical features, an entire page dedicated as a document to her past, and finally, her name. if she could recall her name, let alone understand her, then the prerequisite stages of recovery must have gone well for her and her previous therapists. the file also had a rather long list of tests that were scheduled for later dates--mri, scts, cat scans, x-rays, the whole package for this princess. there was no need to perform these just yet, though, so she pockets the information in the back of her mind. underneath is a list of medication she needed to take: names, dosages, manufacturers, ingestion directions; some were liquids, iv-transferable, and there was a list of pills for her to take once her stomach could hold them in. she sets the file aside for now by tucking it under her arm.
❝ so you're not hopeless enough to be put down. how... delightful. ❞ her words are less-than friendly, poisonous vines ensnaring her with a thorny grip. ❝ here it says you've made decent progress, but you're not ready to start walkin' or anything. if anythin' at all, you're behind the other patients status-wise. ❞
quietly, she snakes to her bedside and obnoxiously pulls up a chair. kagome brandishes an invisible shield against any kind of resistance she may make--verbal, physical, or otherwise. then, she places her elbows on her knees, balancing her chin in the palm of her hand.
❝ which means we've gotta lotta work to do, don't we? ❞
if they were both lucky, pekoyama would never recover. if she was even luckier, then she'd be put down for being "too dangerous"; a threat to society. there's no point in keeping a rabid dog, after all.
A small sigh before a flicker of fire to lit a cigarette. A small steam of smoke let itself into the air as a puff escaped the lips of the raven. Golden hues glinted with boredom as the leader walked through the alley to the hideout.
"…Man, this is my last cigarette… I need to buy more later."
█ ▌▦▧▨▩ —-{ ❝ i've got some extras, if you need 'em. ❞
it was difficult not to overhear the man speaking to himself. had she not done so, she wouldn't have quenched her thirst of curiosity; the distinct smog of cigarette smoke drew her to the area like home, though she rarely smoked herself. still, once upon a time, she had been a smoker and, recently, decided to slim down on the number of cigarettes per day. kagome decided this was the perfect time to discard the rest of her pack without the option of digging it out of the trashcan.
❝ if ya want them, i mean. they're regular, pack 'a twenty with a few missing, if you don't mind bein' a few short. ❞
she never really liked to hang around clubs that often, but she could make an exception every now and then. just a drink, she told herself, and could barely finish half of one. the smell of tobacco and pot filled the air, so she had stepped out to give herself a little breathing room. as she hung around the building, with the eyes of a bouncer keeping track of her, she noticed something--or rather, someone--where they didn't belong.
❝ this place isn't for kids. you might see somethin' you regret. ❞
█ ▌▦▧▨▩ —-{ fervent eyes narrowed and gazed blindly at the coolant machine in front of kagome, hands delved into her pockets for spare change, but returned with a quarter, two dimes, and a nickel--fifty whole cents short of an addiction to cherry red coke brimming with condensation and glistening in the sunlight. already, a line of people had formed behind her, each waiting (im)patiently for the girl to move out of the way.
❝ ah shit... ❞ she cursed to herself, mumbled words barely audible to naked ears. ❝ 'm a little short. sorry, i'll get outta your way now. ❞
she sidesteps to grant the others access, though mentally punishes herself for not grabbing her wallet when she head out the front door.
█ ▌▦▧▨▩ —-{ doubting, penalizing agony, swirled and contracted to a single spot in her chest that weighed her down for nearly five years in a slow, torturing process. a seed of depression—of despair—planted in her gut and spreading like wildfire, expanding like brimming hot water, to the rest of her body in branches; each of its leaves absorbed her will and fed the weed her own nutrients, nothing like a symbiotic relationship in the least. a parasite more like, ticking away and peeling back her skin and exposing the broken mess inside unwarranted, correlating to a once beautiful case shattered by careless handling and a series of unfortunate events. cracked lips had not uttered a positive word in years, and when spoke, often lasted no more than a few mumbled sentences. tongue dry and lifeless, drained of the ability to speak and left mute. she was trapped in a spiral of her own faults, regrets, despair, floating in a pool darkened with years of shame, and she let it all soak her to the bone while she stared blankly at the disgustingly white tiled ceiling. hands graced the surface of the water of which curled around her skin like it belonged there, and if she were to move, it would disturb the dark ocean. she breathed deeply—in and out—to soften the impact of the news, of the thought circulating in her mind.
super high school level despair.
joining the rehabilitation program and helping them? as if. but her family was in dire need of the money; their funds were dwindling away as the end of society came about. emerging from a dormant state was a war between hope and despair, and the aforementioned clashed on the streets, in homes, stores, the war front. everywhere you looked, it was spreading, overtaking cities little by little until kagome was sure nothing would be left in the wreckage. people were dying everyday from despair and starvation, and she refused to allow that to happen to her parents like it had to hitomi. they were all she had left: a fragment of their broken family, but still miraculously together despite all that had happened in the last five years. she had distanced herself from them, but although her tendencies for loneliness were well-known, aiko and jirou still made frequent attempts to bring physical, emotional, loving contact to her. nothing seemed to make her rigid body warm again. a statue; a perplexed piece of art so broken people might've thought it was made like that, made to be that way. and perhaps she truly was born to be broken, not whole. when she lost hitomi, it was as though her other half had been ripped from her body, leaving a wound which time nor medication nor anti-depressants could heal.
five. five birthdays had passed without her, and five birthdays had she spent alone, crying in a room, with no one to hold her or weep with her. kagome's parents had long since given up on tears, but their daughter still felt them come every year on the same date, the same hour, the same way: slowly, and then, a cascade all at once, and she hid in seclusion for several days before resurfacing with bloodshot eyes, tears and snot staining her clothes, and a tub of ice cream with a giant metal spoon sticking out of it like a sore thumb. a little added weight, her father comments jokingly, but her eyes blankly stare at the table in front of her, unwilling to respond in light. she retreated to her room several times during the day, shaking her head at the prospect of human contact. no friends, no family. she didn't even have any friends to call over even if she wanted their presence. a lone wolf at its finest.
{ her body, lying in a pit, a pile of burned and scorched and tortured bodies—it was all she could see in her mind; all she could smell was death, fire, and salted tears staining the streets among rivers of blood. footsteps are light, cautious as she traverses the streets in search of survivors, but she returns with none. a miracle, they said, that she was still alive but it felt more like a curse. she wished she had died in that hellhole, if only to free herself of having to experience life in a crumbling world. the aftermath was stale in her mind but fresh in her nightmares, keeping her awake and tossing and turning so that she awakes with her hair scattered across the bed and her blankets and pillows discarded on the floor. she shakes in terror in the night, hearing her voice begging to her, calling out "why? why did you leave me to die?" and all she can say in response is "i don't know." when she wakes up, she's covered in sweat, drenched in fear, and her parents are at her bedside holding her hand, telling her that she's in the hospital because she sustained grave injuries that needed to be tended to. all she could do was cry at night, mumbling her sister's name. }
it’s no doubt that this is something that goes against ever fiber in her being, but she has no choice. either she performs her duty, or her family pays the consequences for her insufferable actions. though it greatly pains her to think about what she must do, she realizes it is the only option. there is no turning back, no. she is past the point of no return and has been for a few miles. she rises from the rancid bath water and packs a quick suitcase with two outfits and the bare essentials.
subtleness is not her specialty. even amongst a crowd of clones, she would find some way to make herself stand out. the horde of refugees is nauseating, all of them gathered outside the placid glass building, it’s disturbing. some are begging, crying for help, missing arms, legs, eyes, skin covered in scars and burns and bruises that won’t heal. kagome shudders as she snakes through them as they refuse to disperse to grant her access. with a swipe of a card, the doors open much friendlier than the survivors, and close before any can sneak in. the smell is so different, so much cleaner than outside that it chokes her upon entering, and she never wants to leave this sanitary heaven. it nearly chokes her, wraps her in an embrace so tight she can hardly breathe, but nonetheless, appreciates the change. against a gray background she stands, in the center of the empty lobby, with a directory hanging on the wall nearby to guide her in the right direction. she follows reluctantly.
there’s a cart in the hallway where she drops her bag off before continuing, black hair chasing behind in long, graceful strides. darting eyes keep a lookout for her destination: room 101, a patients dormitory. her first patient, no less, as well as her first victim. nobody—not a single other presence—walks down these corridors, perhaps because there isn’t anyone to do so, or her ferocity keeps then from being near her. even over the phone, her employer’s voice wavered at the sound of her own deep-throated ensemble. she did not care, however, what other people thought of her, merely that they stayed clear out of her way. her deathly glare could freeze someone in their tracks, turn them to stone. medusa would be the nickname they later dub her—they being her future coworkers and superior officials.
she nearly passes the room while lost in her thoughts. without a second thought, her hand latches onto the door and pushes it open, revealing a gray-haired woman laying in a hospital bed, and the strong smell if antiseptics greets her. protruding from her thin arms are iv wires and tubes that pump whatever fluids she needs into her body. the walking corpse sinks into the bed with what little mass she must have, eyes hollowed, blank, and colored purple from lack of sleep. a sight that sores the eyes; kagome had to keep herself from turning away at the grotesque sight. she says nothing, but it’s apparent her presence is not welcomed. tough luck. kagome was here to stay, whether this… abomination liked it or not—and kagome wasn’t pleased about being here either. circular optics narrowed on the patient, body advancing into the room as she closed the door behind her. the room was small, with a single chair beside the bed of the patient, a lamp sitting on the nightstand to make reading easier, and a desk in the corner containing some of what kagome presumed to be her files. she starts her movement towards there, eyes remaining focused on the girl the entire time, as though she expected the deranged criminal to jump her and stab her and make off to cause more chaos, but she did not move. steadily, kagome opened the cabinet and pulled out a file, but did not open it up until she had moved closer to the bed. and once she had, she stopped, head tilted in cockiness and superiority; she refused to allow this girl to deem her as inferior. she was in charge here, and she didn't like the look this patient was giving her. not. one. bit.
oh how easy it would be to wrap her bulky fingers around her delicate throat that could barely swallow water. she would squeeze and wrong the life from her malnourished body, suffocating the despair from her and only then would she be pure, like shsl despair had done to her when her twin died at their hands, relinquishing her of the privilege of torturing the patient. a quick and easy death—nothing at all like the painful death hitomi must have gone through. she was lucky kagome has a duty to help her, or she wouldn’t see the light of day, wouldn’t be able to breathe or touch or smell or see. her charred body would hang on a stake for all to see, to know that kagome would eliminate despair—no, not just despair, but super high school despair along with it. and not just this one patient, but every goddamn "victim" in this hospital; the "victims" of despair weren't really victims at all. they were the murderers of hundreds of thousands of people. they were the ones who overthrew the government and spiraled japan into anarchy and corruption. it was their fault this had all happened, so why in the world were these people helping them? it enraged her to think about these monsters as people. they were not "people," not in the slightest. they were animals. primal instincts always won out over human reasoning in the end, and these criminals were no different.
it took amazing willpower { funnily enough, kagome felt like a rabid wolf } and gritted teeth not to lunge at her. even kagome herself was amazed by her self-control, able to keep her hands and fists in line, her mouth from twitching, and her eyes from giving the patient in bed a death glare--even though she was already facing certain death with her threatening health condition. she breathes in her scent: the smell of decay and dirt and mud, and the faintest feeling of what could be considered pity grows in her gut, but she does not voice it if anything. she has no mercy for someone who contributed to the merciless killing of her twin sister, of the people of her neighborhood, of the country of japan. kagome believed she should be punished for her crimes, and was both amazed and angered that the government { or rather, what's left of it }, doesn't attempt to hang her, for a trial is unnecessary.
❝ i am your new ‘caretaker,’ ❞ she says the word as lightly as possible, ❝ so it seems we’re gonna be ‘partners’ for awhile. ❞
she does not even bother to give the girl her name. she doesn’t deserve it.
❝ let’s start with your name. hope you’re not too much of a lost cause to even remember that. ❞
she was lying through her teeth, with a snarl hidden behind ivory curtains of enamel.
╰OOC; y'know what i forget to do on every single blog of mine? open my inbox. terribly sorry if you were trying to contact me. if you have any questions about my muse, feel free to ask. in fact, i'd love questions because they help me develop her more than i initially had.
╰OOC; aaaanyway it's nice to meet you all! now that i have prerequisite threads out of the way, please like this or message me if you want a specifically tailored starter. i'll make a full promo banner later, and then i'll work on some verses i might enjoy. i also still have to find other kagepro ocs to interact with, so please direct me to some if you know any! i might do a greeter starter later too.
█ ▌▦▧▨▩ —-{ silence. it's everything she wants, and yet, she manages to find little peace of mind. the overgrowth of the city keeps buzzing and hustling, and even in the middle of the night, { the only time in which she can relieve silence }, cars and trucks and arguing pedestrians keep her wide awake, tossing and turning and groaning against the fluff of her pillow drenched in her drool. sprawled across the bed is how she usually spends her nights, and begins her mornings with hollowed eyes and dark purple stains--most likely permanent--beneath her optics glossed with sleep. the city never sleeps as they say, and the same is true for kagome. bland eyes blink sleep when she rises like a corpse from its grave, molded limbs stretching and popping and cracking as she tries to shake her bones awake and brush the dust { a gift from the sandman } off of her body. few nights passed without some midnight kitchen raid, rummaging through bottles and tea bags; anything that will put her to sleep. pills, tea, milk: nothing seemed to work for kagome. curled fists dug into her cheekbone, mouth curved in a frown and teeth gritting with irritation. quiet serenity was impossible for her to achieve; she was addicted to a life of sleepless nights and working days with little time to relax. such was the life of kagome hisoka.
though her stomach rumbled, she refused to offer it nutrition. eating this late would surely keep her up, and she simply hoped that these new sleeping pills would work better than the last ones. in the kitchen she sat, rubbing her eyes, temples, cheeks, neck. it was a habit of hers she tended to do when bored, exhausted, or otherwise irritated, and nearly five or six years of this was more than just "irritation." almost expertly, she had adapted to blocking out the sounds of the city, and even with her newfound ability, she couldn't sleep. plagued by memories of the past, she'd rather knock herself out than sit awake any longer.
just as she reached for a rolling pin, she heard a distinct yelling coming from the street outside. normally she would ignore such an argument, but one of the pair of voices was distinctly female--and young at that. her curiosity forced her to run downstairs and onto the street after peeking outside, between the curtains of her small, dirty window, and saw an older man advancing upon a young girl who looked to be about eight years old, leaning over and yelling loud enough he could wake the entire neighborhood if anyone cared enough to call the police.
a growl deepened from her throat, words bubbling in the pit of her gut and surfacing to life in the form of a series of shouts: ❝ oi! you! jackass! ❞ not exactly the best way to grab a dangerous man's attention, but fear had long since dissipated from her. ❝ why don't you step away from the girl 'fore you get yourself hurt. ❞
he seemed vaguely unimpressed with her threats, as expected, of course. the fine line between bravery and stupidity, however, was blurred, and kagome may have overstepped it by quite a few yards. she drew a pocket knife from her boot--not as though she'd actually kill him, but the threat was needed to scare him off. seeing as he was unarmed and she held something with which she could possibly kill him, he quickly took off into the darkness of the city. after checking the surrounding area to make sure he didn't have company with him, kagome knelt down beside the girl and gave her a cursory glance to check for injuries.
❝ he didn't hurt ya, did he? ❞ her concern for the girl was made well-known by the tone of her voice: cracking and sincerity ringing true.
█ ▌▦▧▨▩ ---{ slender fingers gripped tightly upon the cool wooden railing of the bridge, finding her balance despite the wind threatening to knock her off her feet. easy enough was it to keep steady with her toned muscles covered beneath a black jacket and tight pants; boots were worn in case snow would fall, but miraculously, it had not. the warning signs vanished within an hours notice, and she decided it was a perfect fall day to step outside, leaves crunching beneath her tipped boots, set out on an obscure path that few people traveled aside from herself and an old man sitting on the bench nearby feeding pigeons. long, thick strands of obsidian hair swirled and curved around her bony cheeks, pointed chin, and sharpened, curved ears. eyes blinked against the sleepiness of the afternoon, holding a coke can in hand and sipping the carbonated drink every now and then, not bothered by the fact that the weather was nearing zero and dropping quickly. her shoulders rolled as her spine straightened, torso twisted, and she began to lean on the railing of the bridge with apathy for the rest of the world; her eyes glimpsed at the sky, watching the clouds move for several moments before she returned down to earth.
recently, it was impossible to find time like this anymore. time where she could enjoy herself, watch nature roll around her in its contemporary cycle. instead, she was usually chained to a desk doing work--any work she could find that paid well enough to pay the rent, and on top of all of that, she still had school to attend. more miraculous than snow falling was she still afloat above the rising water level. soon, she wasn't sure she'd have an apartment to come home to, or a job to work at, or money to buy groceries with. stealing and shoplifting was always an option, but whenever the thought occurred to her, she pushed it immediately from her mind. thievery was something hitomi did; a thief was something kagome was not.
{ deception was lies and trickery; kagome hated the failures that had happened because of deception, and thus, she dedicated herself to removing herself from a life of such atrocities. never again would she hold a knife to someone's throat--such horrid memories were painful to scuffle up }
confidence came upon her in the form of a coy grin. her effortless movements and strides had her walking until she'd reached a small trashcan in a more secluded area of the road, gulping away at her soda until she was completely finished, crushed the can between the palms of her hands, and discarded it with a flick of her wrist. however, she stopped upon a blockade of pigeons, most of which had flown off at the sight of her terrifying, looming presence, but one remained. its beady red eyes stared at her with ferocity--something she despised, and she noted oddly enough how its eyes resembled a cats.
❝ y' think you're a funny 'lil pigeon don't you. ❞ her sharp tone could cut through thoughts like a knife. she leaned over, palms on her knees, in quite possibly the most degrading way possible to a pigeon. pursued lips curved downwards in a frown before she raised her boot to kick the damn thing away.
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