Etsurou Ikeda [D4] Millionaire
(ooc: i'd just like to point out that lj has ended up messing up some of this post. o_o so i'll be editing it at some point, but i just wanted to get this up! enjoy~ )
"How long can you hold your breath, Etsurou?" Yori asked ditzily. "One time, when I was seven, I held it for two whole minutes and I passed out and everything! And then, I banged my head, and i had to have eleven stitches and the doctor told me tha--"
“I can’t believe this shit hole doesn’t even have cigarettes, man!” Etsurou bellowed, ignoring the talkative girl and kicking a wooden stool in frustration and sending it cartwheeling down the dance floor.
Yori was perched by the bar, rapping her knuckles against the wooden surface. She grimaced at him and spun round nonchalantly, her eyes counting the spotlights in the ceiling.
They had been laying low for a good two hours now; thankfully Yori’s mood had progressively lightened since he bumped into her earlier. She also hadn’t cottoned on to the fact that he had come seconds away from executing Ichirou. Yori’s stupidity could always be counted on.
“Don’t you want to meet up with anybody else?” she wondered vaguely, breaking the silence. “I mean, like, Makoto for instance?”
“Why?” Etsurou questioned, totally unconcerned and stretching across one of the leather sofas. “Hopefully I won’t have to see him at all.”
“But, why?” she asked, her face quizzical. “What about all of our friends?”
Is she being serious?
“What about them?”
Didn’t she understand that they didn’t have friends anymore?
“I’ll never be able to tell Makoto, though,” she groaned.
“Tell him what?”
She momentarily blushed, her lips quivering.
“That I like him.”
“You like Makoto?” he chortled, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re not going to tell him, are you?” she cried.
“Yori, how the fuck am I supposed to tell him now?” Etsurou rolled his eyes at her naiveté.
“Oh,” she croaked softly. “Right, I forgot..”
An awkward, strained silence followed the exchange where the two of them allowed the unfortunate truth to wash over them. To remember the magnitude of their situation. They may never see Makoto nor any of the people the cared about again.
Etsurou felt a shivering reservation creep over him before shaking his head. No. Stop being a pussy.
"Does he like me?" she asked softly, avoiding his eye, "I mean, does he notice me?"
Etsurou bit his lip. The honest answer was no. To start feeding her bullshit that he adored her would be stretching the truth to breaking point; as far as Etsurou was aware, Makoto thought was hot and that was pretty much about it.
"Course he does," Etsurou grinned, going against his judgement. "He actually said on the coach that you had been looking hot."
"Really?" she beamed.
No.
"Yep," he nodded, taking a sharp, burning gulp of the colourless vodka.
"So," she continued, her mood significantly heightened, "who do you have a crush on?"
What? He didn't have crushes.
"Me?" he responded, screwing his face up.
"Yes, you!" she demanded playfully. "Everybody knows you like Mizuki, it's so obvious!"
His body froze for a split second as though it were moulded out of wax; solid and immoveable. Who the fuck does she think she is?
"Err, well you're wrong," Etsurou concluded. "I fuck Mizuki, I don't like her, there's a difference."
"Aren't you worried that--"
"Can we just drop it, Yori?" he half-snapped, closing his eyes, the irritation he felt for the girl rising.
"But then," she bleated, ignoring his pleas, "but then, that means you never had a crush on me!"
She frowned, folding her arms.
Etsurou didn't know whether or not he wanted to scream in her face or cry with laughter. Was she actually serious? She must've been even more brain dead than he thought she was.
However, the lie seemed to be more apppropriate given Yori's fluctulating moods.
"Sure I did," he smirked at her. "And we had fun, didn't we?"
Before she could form a response, the crackle of what sounded like a firework could be heard. Instinctively, Etsurou rolled to the groun and raised his gun, immediately scanning the bar area for any sign of disturbance. Time to play.
"It's the first report!" Yori winced. She scrambled for her issued map, looking unbelievable worried as she fumbled for the pencil and ended up holding it upside down.
"Good morning, Class!"
Etsurou, on the other hand, was interested. Nobody he cared about would be on the first report; only the pussies.
“I can tell you that only one of you has taken any initiative and gotten down to work, so Makoto Kokubo…”
His jaw dropped. Shit. Really, Makoto?
Yori gasped dramatically and flung her hands across her mouth.
He didn’t hear the rest of the report; it didn’t matter.
Just one of their number was dead. The fact that Makoto had been the one to do it was irrelevant; Etsurou knew fine well that Satoshi had been killed by self-defence and not cold blood.
But, one person down. One.
What the hell had Ichirou been doing for the past five hours then, sleeping? Etsurou had been relying on him to at least build some momentum and knock out a couple of pussies.
Fuck!
He felt like vomiting. This is it. Unless I actually start treating this like a game I’m gonna’ die because of this - his finger traced the explosive collar - thing round my neck.
Yori was sobbing into her sleeve.
He licked his lips and spotted the Bolo sword, Yori’s assigned weapon, sticking loosely out of her duffle bag. Too possessed by the disbelief that her crush could ever kill somebody that she didn’t realise his hand slowly raking the sword towards him.
“Listen, Yori,” he muttered, sticking the Bolo between his belt and patting her on the shoulder. “I need the toilet, I’ll be back in a minute, alright?”
She hastily nodded, hugging her duffle bag tightly as though it were a soft toy.
The bar toilets were just as grotty and unhygienic as he had imagined them to be. The faint scent of urine and other unappealing smells filled the tiled room. He walked towards the sink and peaked at himself in the mirror.
The reflection wasn’t him anymore.
His creamy tan had been replaced with a ghost like whiteness that could make even the purest of snow look grey.
Slowly, he pressed his damp, sweaty forehead against the cracked mirror and closed his eyes.
“Homework, Mr. Ikeda?”
Etsurou peered up from his Game Boy at the ancient face of Mrs. Itsuma. Her raised eyebrows and pursed lips only served to give her even more wrinkles as she glared at him with reproach. He was by far her most hated student and proud.
“Huh?” he shrugged, placing his feet on the adjacent chair in order to stretch out. He was always so tired on Monday mornings.
“Homework,” she asked mutinously, “the one I set a week ago.”
“Oh yeah, that,” he muttered, returning to his Game Boy. He had to beat his last score or there was like, no point in even getting up this morning!
“Forgot, sorry!”
“That makes it the third time in this month alone,” she hissed. “What excuse have you concocted this time?”
“My Grandmother died,” he lied morosely, flashing her the best puppy dog eyes he could manage.
“Foolish boy!” she spat, “do you think I was born yesterday?”
Etsurou snorted.
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
She snatched the console out of his hands in revenge for his attitude
Woah! What the hell?
“Math is not a time for debauchery like this,” she commanded, holding up the Game Boy in disgust.
“Now, homework,” she pressed on, apparently determined, “why haven’t you done it?”
“God,” Etsurou rolled his eyes, “I had soccer training all weekend. I have a life besides algebra, you know.”
Nanami Itsuma looked as though she could murder him.
But Etsurou was defiant.
“Can I have my Game Boy back?”
“No,”
Her tone had changed. Instead of her hateful stare and acidic tongue, she smiled at Etsurou - a dangerously patronising smile.
“You know what?” she decided, “I think I’ll be placing you at the back of the classroom from now on. That way we can all stop paying attention to little Etsurou Ikeda.”
He furrowed his brow. Bitch was trying to embarrass him.
“I like sitting here, actually.”
Etsurou caught Yuki’s eye, his lip curling. Getting Mrs. Itsuma pissed off always made for brilliant morning entertainment.
“Well nobody else in this room does, I‘m afraid,” she continued, her voice high and callous. “Nobody cares for your childish little tantrums, do they class?”
Everybody other than Katsue avoided Mrs. Itsuma’s eyes. The bespectacled girl nodded in vigorous approval of her mother’s tone and threw Etsurou some of the more disgusted looks she could muster.
“Because,” she went on, every word pissing Etsurou off even more. “When everybody else graduates High School, there you’ll be, Mr. Ikeda, still struggling to maintain a respectable grade. All of your friends will get jobs like good citizens, but not you.”
Their eyes met; his were slowly beginning to lose their defiance; now they were anxious and distressed.
“I do believe you will go the same way as that father of yours,” she mocked.
He tried to insult her, to swear, but barley a whisper left his soft lips.
“What happened to him again?” she asked, smiling sweetly at him.
Beat.
“I think that ought to be quite enough from you and your silly little ramblings today. If you could take a seat at the back of the class,” she indicated towards the lone desk by the window,
He had never felt so insignificant in life. He wasn’t nothing. He wasn’t like his junkie runaway dad.
And then, he felt himself stand up and walk, quite normally from the room. He was shaking, yes, and there were tears in his eyes.
It wasn’t until he reached the corridor that the white hot rage consumed him. Like an animal he punched, screamed and kicked at the lockers manically, tearing at anything around him that was pure and undamaged.
It took two grown teachers to eventually calm him down.
From that day forwards, Etsurou sat at the back of the class in Math.
Etsurou’s eyes lingered on Yori for a moment or two; she didn’t deserve what was coming to her but neither did he. He wasn’t nothing. He deserved the air that he breathed.
Her eyes flickered feebly like a pair of blinking fairy lights, sparkling in an untamed darkness.
She’s too easy. Too fucking easy.
They both moved in unison; he charged at her like a wild bull, the blade shimmering as the weak morning sunlight crept into the bar; Yori jumped to her feet like a trained gymnast and, as though she were on auto-pilot, ran solely with the aim to escape.
A smirk managed to cross Etsurou’s face as he watched her pitiful attempts intently.
“Sorry, Yori,” he called, bolting in her direction and cutting her off. “Really, I am, I mean, it’s a shame you have to go like this. You got a mouth like a freakin’ hoover!”
She screamed and turned, tripping clumsily over her own feet as she did so. Like a mannequin she slipped and skidded across the bar floor, her arms slashing themselves against the tiny, jewelled fragments of broken glass.
He chuckled wildly before pouncing like an animal. She thrashed beneath him, clawing at his face, his hair, doing anything humanly possible to survive, her tears free-falling from her eyes and splashing against her milk white skin.
“We’ve been here before, Yori,” he taunted, placing the sword beneath his teeth as he squeezed her wrists, subduing her.
“P -- please --” she stammered, choking on her own fear.
“Nope,” he replied, shaking his head. “People aren’t dying, are they? Oh, I’ll tell Makoto about your crush by the way. He‘ll be so pleased.”
Judging from her incoherent spluttering he had touched a nerve; she squirmed and cried but he wouldn’t let her go. She’s gonna die and it’s gonna be down to me. I’m gonna fucking win this thing and every other fucker can go fuck--
The burning pain in his hand took him completely off guard; glaring down he saw Yori’s teeth clenched against the palm of his hand. The little animal was biting him!
He ripped his hand free; the blade dropped to the floor with a cold clunk.
Fuck!
Yori broke free from his straddle hold and kneed him the groin.
“Shit!” he groaned, shielding his manhood from any further damage. The bitch went for his best fucking feature. That was his life down there!
She aimlessly pounded towards the back of the bar - it didn’t matter where she ran too, it seemed, as long as it was away from Etsurou.
He had gone mad.
Lunging for the frightened girl, Etsurou’s arm slashed through the air. Yori wheezed pathetically; the pair tumbled into a table and landed haphazardly across the floor. He seized her hair and yanked it hard; the blade swished like a metal bird of prey.
It ripped across her neck and provoked her into a frenzy of hoarse, gurgling moans. Several things happened at once; Etsurou watched in a combination of revolted horror and fascination as blood exploded from the deep wound in Yori’s throat, spilling syrup-like against everything within its vicinity. He felt the warm substance soak his hand and splashed like a river over the wooden floor boards. Her body made jittery, sharp convulsions in bizarre movements.
He tore the blade backwards, cringing as it violently crunched against bone and flesh.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed, sickened by the blood which coated his body. Still, Yori fumbled uselessly, submerged in her insides and growing whiter and whiter at an absurdly quickening rate. She reminded him of some kind of concentration camp victim.
Admittedly, he really didn’t like watching Yori in so much pain. But he couldn’t look away; his eyes were transfixed on her final seconds of life. A moment later her head slammed against the ground.
She was dead as a doornail.
“Etsurou!”
“Oh, hey Yori,” he nodded at the waving girl, “I forgot you worked here.”
He admired the candy store, trying to avoid her eye. He hadn’t spoken to Yori since he deflowered her almost a week ago. She had tried to get his attention during class but he really had no interest in speaking to her for the time being so managed to evade her.
“Yep, every Saturday,” she grimaced, pointing to her name badge. “You interested in any discount jawbreakers?”
Etsurou shook his head and smiled at her, leaning against the counter. “Nope, just a soda, thanks, I’m on my way to practice.”
“Oh,” she mused, taking a can from the freezer behind her and tossing it to him.
“Here,” she giggled, “it’s on the house. Because of…”
She trailed off, going red.
“Sweet,” he grinned. Huh, maybe she’d come in handy. “Well, I’ll drop by later, if you want? To say thanks?”
He turned and walked back into the blazing heat of the island, pleased with himself. Manipulating girls like Yori was fun.
The bottled water had successfully cleaned up Yori’s blood and now his hands were just ever so slightly tinged with the gore he had left behind.
It was about time he started making people realise that he was something.
I’m not a waste of time, space or oxygen. I deserve the air that I breath.
I love and I am loved.
The sun had risen. Ever so faintly, he could hear the laziness of the birds as their singing filled the air.
I am alive.
Except for when I choose to play dead.
"How long can you hold your breath, Etsurou?" Yori asked ditzily. "One time, when I was seven, I held it for two whole minutes and I passed out and everything! And then, I banged my head, and i had to have eleven stitches and the doctor told me tha--"
“I can’t believe this shit hole doesn’t even have cigarettes, man!” Etsurou bellowed, ignoring the talkative girl and kicking a wooden stool in frustration and sending it cartwheeling down the dance floor.
Yori was perched by the bar, rapping her knuckles against the wooden surface. She grimaced at him and spun round nonchalantly, her eyes counting the spotlights in the ceiling.
They had been laying low for a good two hours now; thankfully Yori’s mood had progressively lightened since he bumped into her earlier. She also hadn’t cottoned on to the fact that he had come seconds away from executing Ichirou. Yori’s stupidity could always be counted on.
“Don’t you want to meet up with anybody else?” she wondered vaguely, breaking the silence. “I mean, like, Makoto for instance?”
“Why?” Etsurou questioned, totally unconcerned and stretching across one of the leather sofas. “Hopefully I won’t have to see him at all.”
“But, why?” she asked, her face quizzical. “What about all of our friends?”
Is she being serious?
“What about them?”
Didn’t she understand that they didn’t have friends anymore?
“I’ll never be able to tell Makoto, though,” she groaned.
“Tell him what?”
She momentarily blushed, her lips quivering.
“That I like him.”
“You like Makoto?” he chortled, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re not going to tell him, are you?” she cried.
“Yori, how the fuck am I supposed to tell him now?” Etsurou rolled his eyes at her naiveté.
“Oh,” she croaked softly. “Right, I forgot..”
An awkward, strained silence followed the exchange where the two of them allowed the unfortunate truth to wash over them. To remember the magnitude of their situation. They may never see Makoto nor any of the people the cared about again.
Etsurou felt a shivering reservation creep over him before shaking his head. No. Stop being a pussy.
"Does he like me?" she asked softly, avoiding his eye, "I mean, does he notice me?"
Etsurou bit his lip. The honest answer was no. To start feeding her bullshit that he adored her would be stretching the truth to breaking point; as far as Etsurou was aware, Makoto thought was hot and that was pretty much about it.
"Course he does," Etsurou grinned, going against his judgement. "He actually said on the coach that you had been looking hot."
"Really?" she beamed.
No.
"Yep," he nodded, taking a sharp, burning gulp of the colourless vodka.
"So," she continued, her mood significantly heightened, "who do you have a crush on?"
What? He didn't have crushes.
"Me?" he responded, screwing his face up.
"Yes, you!" she demanded playfully. "Everybody knows you like Mizuki, it's so obvious!"
His body froze for a split second as though it were moulded out of wax; solid and immoveable. Who the fuck does she think she is?
"Err, well you're wrong," Etsurou concluded. "I fuck Mizuki, I don't like her, there's a difference."
"Aren't you worried that--"
"Can we just drop it, Yori?" he half-snapped, closing his eyes, the irritation he felt for the girl rising.
"But then," she bleated, ignoring his pleas, "but then, that means you never had a crush on me!"
She frowned, folding her arms.
Etsurou didn't know whether or not he wanted to scream in her face or cry with laughter. Was she actually serious? She must've been even more brain dead than he thought she was.
However, the lie seemed to be more apppropriate given Yori's fluctulating moods.
"Sure I did," he smirked at her. "And we had fun, didn't we?"
Before she could form a response, the crackle of what sounded like a firework could be heard. Instinctively, Etsurou rolled to the groun and raised his gun, immediately scanning the bar area for any sign of disturbance. Time to play.
"It's the first report!" Yori winced. She scrambled for her issued map, looking unbelievable worried as she fumbled for the pencil and ended up holding it upside down.
"Good morning, Class!"
Etsurou, on the other hand, was interested. Nobody he cared about would be on the first report; only the pussies.
“I can tell you that only one of you has taken any initiative and gotten down to work, so Makoto Kokubo…”
His jaw dropped. Shit. Really, Makoto?
Yori gasped dramatically and flung her hands across her mouth.
He didn’t hear the rest of the report; it didn’t matter.
Just one of their number was dead. The fact that Makoto had been the one to do it was irrelevant; Etsurou knew fine well that Satoshi had been killed by self-defence and not cold blood.
But, one person down. One.
What the hell had Ichirou been doing for the past five hours then, sleeping? Etsurou had been relying on him to at least build some momentum and knock out a couple of pussies.
Fuck!
He felt like vomiting. This is it. Unless I actually start treating this like a game I’m gonna’ die because of this - his finger traced the explosive collar - thing round my neck.
Yori was sobbing into her sleeve.
He licked his lips and spotted the Bolo sword, Yori’s assigned weapon, sticking loosely out of her duffle bag. Too possessed by the disbelief that her crush could ever kill somebody that she didn’t realise his hand slowly raking the sword towards him.
“Listen, Yori,” he muttered, sticking the Bolo between his belt and patting her on the shoulder. “I need the toilet, I’ll be back in a minute, alright?”
She hastily nodded, hugging her duffle bag tightly as though it were a soft toy.
The bar toilets were just as grotty and unhygienic as he had imagined them to be. The faint scent of urine and other unappealing smells filled the tiled room. He walked towards the sink and peaked at himself in the mirror.
The reflection wasn’t him anymore.
His creamy tan had been replaced with a ghost like whiteness that could make even the purest of snow look grey.
Slowly, he pressed his damp, sweaty forehead against the cracked mirror and closed his eyes.
“Homework, Mr. Ikeda?”
Etsurou peered up from his Game Boy at the ancient face of Mrs. Itsuma. Her raised eyebrows and pursed lips only served to give her even more wrinkles as she glared at him with reproach. He was by far her most hated student and proud.
“Huh?” he shrugged, placing his feet on the adjacent chair in order to stretch out. He was always so tired on Monday mornings.
“Homework,” she asked mutinously, “the one I set a week ago.”
“Oh yeah, that,” he muttered, returning to his Game Boy. He had to beat his last score or there was like, no point in even getting up this morning!
“Forgot, sorry!”
“That makes it the third time in this month alone,” she hissed. “What excuse have you concocted this time?”
“My Grandmother died,” he lied morosely, flashing her the best puppy dog eyes he could manage.
“Foolish boy!” she spat, “do you think I was born yesterday?”
Etsurou snorted.
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
She snatched the console out of his hands in revenge for his attitude
Woah! What the hell?
“Math is not a time for debauchery like this,” she commanded, holding up the Game Boy in disgust.
“Now, homework,” she pressed on, apparently determined, “why haven’t you done it?”
“God,” Etsurou rolled his eyes, “I had soccer training all weekend. I have a life besides algebra, you know.”
Nanami Itsuma looked as though she could murder him.
But Etsurou was defiant.
“Can I have my Game Boy back?”
“No,”
Her tone had changed. Instead of her hateful stare and acidic tongue, she smiled at Etsurou - a dangerously patronising smile.
“You know what?” she decided, “I think I’ll be placing you at the back of the classroom from now on. That way we can all stop paying attention to little Etsurou Ikeda.”
He furrowed his brow. Bitch was trying to embarrass him.
“I like sitting here, actually.”
Etsurou caught Yuki’s eye, his lip curling. Getting Mrs. Itsuma pissed off always made for brilliant morning entertainment.
“Well nobody else in this room does, I‘m afraid,” she continued, her voice high and callous. “Nobody cares for your childish little tantrums, do they class?”
Everybody other than Katsue avoided Mrs. Itsuma’s eyes. The bespectacled girl nodded in vigorous approval of her mother’s tone and threw Etsurou some of the more disgusted looks she could muster.
“Because,” she went on, every word pissing Etsurou off even more. “When everybody else graduates High School, there you’ll be, Mr. Ikeda, still struggling to maintain a respectable grade. All of your friends will get jobs like good citizens, but not you.”
Their eyes met; his were slowly beginning to lose their defiance; now they were anxious and distressed.
“I do believe you will go the same way as that father of yours,” she mocked.
He tried to insult her, to swear, but barley a whisper left his soft lips.
“What happened to him again?” she asked, smiling sweetly at him.
Beat.
“I think that ought to be quite enough from you and your silly little ramblings today. If you could take a seat at the back of the class,” she indicated towards the lone desk by the window,
He had never felt so insignificant in life. He wasn’t nothing. He wasn’t like his junkie runaway dad.
And then, he felt himself stand up and walk, quite normally from the room. He was shaking, yes, and there were tears in his eyes.
It wasn’t until he reached the corridor that the white hot rage consumed him. Like an animal he punched, screamed and kicked at the lockers manically, tearing at anything around him that was pure and undamaged.
It took two grown teachers to eventually calm him down.
From that day forwards, Etsurou sat at the back of the class in Math.
Etsurou’s eyes lingered on Yori for a moment or two; she didn’t deserve what was coming to her but neither did he. He wasn’t nothing. He deserved the air that he breathed.
Her eyes flickered feebly like a pair of blinking fairy lights, sparkling in an untamed darkness.
She’s too easy. Too fucking easy.
They both moved in unison; he charged at her like a wild bull, the blade shimmering as the weak morning sunlight crept into the bar; Yori jumped to her feet like a trained gymnast and, as though she were on auto-pilot, ran solely with the aim to escape.
A smirk managed to cross Etsurou’s face as he watched her pitiful attempts intently.
“Sorry, Yori,” he called, bolting in her direction and cutting her off. “Really, I am, I mean, it’s a shame you have to go like this. You got a mouth like a freakin’ hoover!”
She screamed and turned, tripping clumsily over her own feet as she did so. Like a mannequin she slipped and skidded across the bar floor, her arms slashing themselves against the tiny, jewelled fragments of broken glass.
He chuckled wildly before pouncing like an animal. She thrashed beneath him, clawing at his face, his hair, doing anything humanly possible to survive, her tears free-falling from her eyes and splashing against her milk white skin.
“We’ve been here before, Yori,” he taunted, placing the sword beneath his teeth as he squeezed her wrists, subduing her.
“P -- please --” she stammered, choking on her own fear.
“Nope,” he replied, shaking his head. “People aren’t dying, are they? Oh, I’ll tell Makoto about your crush by the way. He‘ll be so pleased.”
Judging from her incoherent spluttering he had touched a nerve; she squirmed and cried but he wouldn’t let her go. She’s gonna die and it’s gonna be down to me. I’m gonna fucking win this thing and every other fucker can go fuck--
The burning pain in his hand took him completely off guard; glaring down he saw Yori’s teeth clenched against the palm of his hand. The little animal was biting him!
He ripped his hand free; the blade dropped to the floor with a cold clunk.
Fuck!
Yori broke free from his straddle hold and kneed him the groin.
“Shit!” he groaned, shielding his manhood from any further damage. The bitch went for his best fucking feature. That was his life down there!
She aimlessly pounded towards the back of the bar - it didn’t matter where she ran too, it seemed, as long as it was away from Etsurou.
He had gone mad.
Lunging for the frightened girl, Etsurou’s arm slashed through the air. Yori wheezed pathetically; the pair tumbled into a table and landed haphazardly across the floor. He seized her hair and yanked it hard; the blade swished like a metal bird of prey.
It ripped across her neck and provoked her into a frenzy of hoarse, gurgling moans. Several things happened at once; Etsurou watched in a combination of revolted horror and fascination as blood exploded from the deep wound in Yori’s throat, spilling syrup-like against everything within its vicinity. He felt the warm substance soak his hand and splashed like a river over the wooden floor boards. Her body made jittery, sharp convulsions in bizarre movements.
He tore the blade backwards, cringing as it violently crunched against bone and flesh.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed, sickened by the blood which coated his body. Still, Yori fumbled uselessly, submerged in her insides and growing whiter and whiter at an absurdly quickening rate. She reminded him of some kind of concentration camp victim.
Admittedly, he really didn’t like watching Yori in so much pain. But he couldn’t look away; his eyes were transfixed on her final seconds of life. A moment later her head slammed against the ground.
She was dead as a doornail.
“Etsurou!”
“Oh, hey Yori,” he nodded at the waving girl, “I forgot you worked here.”
He admired the candy store, trying to avoid her eye. He hadn’t spoken to Yori since he deflowered her almost a week ago. She had tried to get his attention during class but he really had no interest in speaking to her for the time being so managed to evade her.
“Yep, every Saturday,” she grimaced, pointing to her name badge. “You interested in any discount jawbreakers?”
Etsurou shook his head and smiled at her, leaning against the counter. “Nope, just a soda, thanks, I’m on my way to practice.”
“Oh,” she mused, taking a can from the freezer behind her and tossing it to him.
“Here,” she giggled, “it’s on the house. Because of…”
She trailed off, going red.
“Sweet,” he grinned. Huh, maybe she’d come in handy. “Well, I’ll drop by later, if you want? To say thanks?”
He turned and walked back into the blazing heat of the island, pleased with himself. Manipulating girls like Yori was fun.
The bottled water had successfully cleaned up Yori’s blood and now his hands were just ever so slightly tinged with the gore he had left behind.
It was about time he started making people realise that he was something.
I’m not a waste of time, space or oxygen. I deserve the air that I breath.
I love and I am loved.
The sun had risen. Ever so faintly, he could hear the laziness of the birds as their singing filled the air.
I am alive.
Except for when I choose to play dead.