So sorry, afraid I can't explain myself
Who: Kazuki Hihara ilpresto and Naoto Shirogane princedetective
Where: Industrial district
When: Wednesday evening
Rating: PG-13, maybe R if you're squeamish
Summary: Kazuki, one of the least likely, is undergoing some serious chip!rage. Naoto is the first to find him.
At first he felt uneasy. It wasn't much, as he felt uneasy often here. So he grabbed his trumpet and headed for the high school, hoping to vent out his jitters.
He had discarded it somewhere. He didn't know why, but he cast it aside and started to run. Far away from where anyone would be to see him. Far away from where he'd be able to see anyone.
Things kept getting hotter. His arm itched, so he scratched at it. At every little shadow, every little gust of wind, he'd jump. He started to think about unhappy things. Everyone that had left. Everything that he'd lost. All of the terrible things that happened. The thoughts got obsessive. He couldn't stop them.
The itching got worse. It felt like there was a spreading fire under his skin that he couldn't get rid of. He kept scratching, but it didn't feel better at all. He kept thinking, but the thoughts didn't resolve themselves.
That's when it started to get blurry. He'd picked something up, but he wasn't sure what it was. It just felt so good to hit things with. Why was he hitting things? He couldn't remember. He didn't care. The clanging sounded nice. It made the voices in his head shut up. Even better, the snapping crack of something's bones. The heavy thud against flesh.
It was so hot. His jacket was gone. Scratching, scratching, scratching. Blood dripped down his arms and neck. Flesh gathered under his fingernails.
It hurt. No matter what he did, it hurt.
It hurt so bad.
Where: Industrial district
When: Wednesday evening
Rating: PG-13, maybe R if you're squeamish
Summary: Kazuki, one of the least likely, is undergoing some serious chip!rage. Naoto is the first to find him.
At first he felt uneasy. It wasn't much, as he felt uneasy often here. So he grabbed his trumpet and headed for the high school, hoping to vent out his jitters.
He had discarded it somewhere. He didn't know why, but he cast it aside and started to run. Far away from where anyone would be to see him. Far away from where he'd be able to see anyone.
Things kept getting hotter. His arm itched, so he scratched at it. At every little shadow, every little gust of wind, he'd jump. He started to think about unhappy things. Everyone that had left. Everything that he'd lost. All of the terrible things that happened. The thoughts got obsessive. He couldn't stop them.
The itching got worse. It felt like there was a spreading fire under his skin that he couldn't get rid of. He kept scratching, but it didn't feel better at all. He kept thinking, but the thoughts didn't resolve themselves.
That's when it started to get blurry. He'd picked something up, but he wasn't sure what it was. It just felt so good to hit things with. Why was he hitting things? He couldn't remember. He didn't care. The clanging sounded nice. It made the voices in his head shut up. Even better, the snapping crack of something's bones. The heavy thud against flesh.
It was so hot. His jacket was gone. Scratching, scratching, scratching. Blood dripped down his arms and neck. Flesh gathered under his fingernails.
It hurt. No matter what he did, it hurt.
It hurt so bad.