“Don’t give me that look! It wasn’t my fault!”
such angst | accepting!!
❝ No, you’re right. It wasn’t. ❞
It was the Order’s, it was God’s, it was the fault of the universe itself and fate’s strings that wound tight, choking around fragile limbs and hearts that faintly beat to fight, to cling to a life whose stage was littered with glass shards and burning coals ( whose actors danced on the strings of a wicked puppeteer ). Alma couldn’t help but think that it was his fault, as well.
The thought is just another instance that carves pain in hot lines on some already wounded thing deep in his chest and he found his throat warring to produce a sandpaper laugh. He’s breaking now ( so broken; you glass child ) and the engine, the furnace beneath his soul will soon grow quiet no matter what ire tinder and hatred, desperation fuel is shoved its way. Because that’s all he was, right? An empty thing, a silent house, a wind-up toy who dragged himself up on two feet and forced the crank, grinding and clattering, to move because Yu can’t find out can’t give up until the mud drags him down and swallows him whole. Because who cares about the body; it’s the soul.
Another fissure crackle, another shuddering sigh. The little akuma is on his knees now and, yes, he finds that he is okay with the thought of dying. The house will stay quiet and still. ❝ Yeah, it really wasn’t your fault, Yu. So don’t be sad. ❞
❝ Instead, I’d like if you could smile. ❞
