7 | Your promises
Aftermath of this.
--
He didn't believe them at first. You've been here before. Have you forgotten me? Aw, that's so unfortunate.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
But they're true. True lies. True, and he can't remember any-fucking-thing.
Two months. For two months, he's been wandering, wondering, wondering if there's any familiarity in the eyes of those he passes. There was. There is. And yet, at the same time--
--there isn't.
Because, perhaps, they remember a different one. They recognize someone else, who just happens to look like him. Perhaps? Perhaps. It had to be. Had to be.
But it wasn't, and he knows it now. Now, as he leans back against the wall of the shower stall in his disheveled room. Nothing more than a fallen snowglobe and a shattered alarm clock that never worked to begin with. That's all the evidence there is that something has happened.
Of course, there is the stale stench of blood outside, faint stains on the floor, dents in the hallway walls. Broken pieces of concrete and cement, rubble, blood. And at the end of the hallway, there's a sizzling, crackling sound. On the floor is one dark red arm, twitching and sparking as the Innocence that makes it up continuosly attempts to destroy the fleshy stump of a shoulder that is still attached to it. The sleeve that once covered it lays in tatters nearby.
And then there is the bloodied, torn up, singed shirt discarded on the floor of his room. Burnt cloth and flesh is the predominant smell, and even that is just faint.
The Fourteenth slides down the wall, smearing it with dull red blood, and slumps to the floor. His head tips back to let the water dampen his hair, stick to his skin, soothe some of the agony pounding in his head.
Memory after memory after memory after memory after--
His head falls forward, and he runs his one remaining hand through his hair, leaving streaks of blood among the white tresses. His breathing hitches. And his shoulders tremble. Even the bloody stump that used to lead to the hideous Innocence arm. Smoothed down with regeneration, no longer bleeding, but raw. So raw.
So raw that it hurts.
A broken sob falls from his lips and echoes in the empty bathroom. The onslaught of memories continues.
He hasn't bothered closing any of the doors. He can't focus enough to do that. Can't even concentrate on anything past the icy cold water raining down over him.
He'll need to remember to clean up the bloodstains on the bathroom wall. Somehow. Someway.
--
He didn't believe them at first. You've been here before. Have you forgotten me? Aw, that's so unfortunate.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
But they're true. True lies. True, and he can't remember any-fucking-thing.
Two months. For two months, he's been wandering, wondering, wondering if there's any familiarity in the eyes of those he passes. There was. There is. And yet, at the same time--
--there isn't.
Because, perhaps, they remember a different one. They recognize someone else, who just happens to look like him. Perhaps? Perhaps. It had to be. Had to be.
But it wasn't, and he knows it now. Now, as he leans back against the wall of the shower stall in his disheveled room. Nothing more than a fallen snowglobe and a shattered alarm clock that never worked to begin with. That's all the evidence there is that something has happened.
Of course, there is the stale stench of blood outside, faint stains on the floor, dents in the hallway walls. Broken pieces of concrete and cement, rubble, blood. And at the end of the hallway, there's a sizzling, crackling sound. On the floor is one dark red arm, twitching and sparking as the Innocence that makes it up continuosly attempts to destroy the fleshy stump of a shoulder that is still attached to it. The sleeve that once covered it lays in tatters nearby.
And then there is the bloodied, torn up, singed shirt discarded on the floor of his room. Burnt cloth and flesh is the predominant smell, and even that is just faint.
The Fourteenth slides down the wall, smearing it with dull red blood, and slumps to the floor. His head tips back to let the water dampen his hair, stick to his skin, soothe some of the agony pounding in his head.
Memory after memory after memory after memory after--
His head falls forward, and he runs his one remaining hand through his hair, leaving streaks of blood among the white tresses. His breathing hitches. And his shoulders tremble. Even the bloody stump that used to lead to the hideous Innocence arm. Smoothed down with regeneration, no longer bleeding, but raw. So raw.
So raw that it hurts.
A broken sob falls from his lips and echoes in the empty bathroom. The onslaught of memories continues.
He hasn't bothered closing any of the doors. He can't focus enough to do that. Can't even concentrate on anything past the icy cold water raining down over him.
He'll need to remember to clean up the bloodstains on the bathroom wall. Somehow. Someway.