When he was little and scrawny, before everything was dull and before Junes and all his problems, his neighbor Mr. Takashi tried to build a small fort for his nine-year-old to play in. They didn't have any trees in their yard or around the block for a tree house, like his son wanted, but Mr. Takashi told his kid he could still have a small cottage on the ground. Yosuke would watch his neighbor as he walked down their street to school every day and ask to help him work on the tiny building. Although Mr. Takashi said he couldn't mess with any of the equipment because he was still too young, Yosuke still liked to examine his neighbor's work and continued watching him slowly build the wooden fort.
One day while taking a walk, when Mr. Takashi was drunk and stupid and not thinking straight, he let Yosuke come with him to saw some of the wood on the cutting table. Yosuke remembered admiring the steel of the round blade, shining in the light of the slowly setting sun, a red hue reflecting over it's surface. He watched in awe as his companion worked, easing the marked wooden plank through the machinery, examining the wood as the teeth tore through the planks. After the fourth piece of wood, however, being in a wet and shady haze, Yosuke's neighbor accidentally pushed his own right hand through the metalic spinning contraption.
Ear-piercing screaming echoed through the late evening air as his neighbor thrashed about wildly, unsure of anything but the pain that was his hand in his stupor. Yosuke remembered the blood, the dark crimson almost sinking into the wooden pannels as the surface absorbed the warm liquid. The substance seemed to blend and become one with the light of the sun, the reds melding together to create one long streak toward the fading light of day. Through it all he rembers the rotating saw, no longer gleaming in the sunlight but coated and thickened in red, twisting and throwing color everywhere, on his shoes, on his clothes, on his face, in his hair until it turned red completely. The wind carried it to him.
And now he was smiling, the headphones forming the throbbing bass of the machine, the flashes of crimson in his persona's hair, the slashing and tearing of Susano-O's saw through the shadows' flesh, the twisting as the turning vortex carried within it the red he recognized so well.
And when Susano-O came, it only got better.
When he was little and scrawny, before everything was dull and before Junes and all his problems, his neighbor Mr. Takashi tried to build a small fort for his nine-year-old to play in. They didn't have any trees in their yard or around the block for a tree house, like his son wanted, but Mr. Takashi told his kid he could still have a small cottage on the ground. Yosuke would watch his neighbor as he walked down their street to school every day and ask to help him work on the tiny building. Although Mr. Takashi said he couldn't mess with any of the equipment because he was still too young, Yosuke still liked to examine his neighbor's work and continued watching him slowly build the wooden fort.
One day while taking a walk, when Mr. Takashi was drunk and stupid and not thinking straight, he let Yosuke come with him to saw some of the wood on the cutting table. Yosuke remembered admiring the steel of the round blade, shining in the light of the slowly setting sun, a red hue reflecting over it's surface. He watched in awe as his companion worked, easing the marked wooden plank through the machinery, examining the wood as the teeth tore through the planks. After the fourth piece of wood, however, being in a wet and shady haze, Yosuke's neighbor accidentally pushed his own right hand through the metalic spinning contraption.
Ear-piercing screaming echoed through the late evening air as his neighbor thrashed about wildly, unsure of anything but the pain that was his hand in his stupor. Yosuke remembered the blood, the dark crimson almost sinking into the wooden pannels as the surface absorbed the warm liquid. The substance seemed to blend and become one with the light of the sun, the reds melding together to create one long streak toward the fading light of day. Through it all he rembers the rotating saw, no longer gleaming in the sunlight but coated and thickened in red, twisting and throwing color everywhere, on his shoes, on his clothes, on his face, in his hair until it turned red completely. The wind carried it to him.
And now he was smiling, the headphones forming the throbbing bass of the machine, the flashes of crimson in his persona's hair, the slashing and tearing of Susano-O's saw through the shadows' flesh, the twisting as the turning vortex carried within it the red he recognized so well.
Yes. This wasn't boring at all.
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