When I had nothing left to hold on to...
WHO: Miharu {wishworn}, Yoite {erasemeaway}
WHAT: A meeting of the Kira-user and the Shinrabanshou...
WHERE: The docks
WHEN: Day 239
Yoite now knew what it meant to give up. He was returned to the clinic after briefly escaping to the woods. He had wanted to die quietly, to be buried by nature and earth, forgotten; it was the closest he would come to being erased. But somehow, he found himself in the home of Lockon Stratos and Tieria Erde, where he was verbally stripped down by the purple-haired youth and reminded of his inconvenient brand on humanity, before he was deposited here, back at the clinic.
He had resigned to his fate; morphine ran into his arteries to grant him enough comfort to sleep. And that was how he spent most of his days; sleeping, feeling his body grow ever weaker, as his hearing was drowned out by the sound of babies' cries and other patients' coughs. He didn't fight the nurses as they shoveled food into him, but his ravenous appetite had simply petered away. His clothes were ones for heat and ease, to allow him to be as quiet as possible and fade off without bothering any more souls by his presence.
His journal had been lying overturned on his chest, one dark hand over the spine, when a familiar voice drifted though.
Miharu.
Miharu.
Miharu!
His body moved before he remembered his illness crushing it. He leapt into the little white shoes that the clinic gave to all of their patients, and scrambled down the way to the docks. His vision was impaired and his lungs soon punished him for his sprint, but he soldiered on, seizing passing railings as he practically bounded to the docks. Adrenaline pumped his weary muscles, and all he could think of was Miharu on the docks.
Thin, bare black fingers curled around a dock. He moved to shout, but couldn't even make a sound as his lungs heaved. His eye turned wildly about on the dock.
WHAT: A meeting of the Kira-user and the Shinrabanshou...
WHERE: The docks
WHEN: Day 239
Yoite now knew what it meant to give up. He was returned to the clinic after briefly escaping to the woods. He had wanted to die quietly, to be buried by nature and earth, forgotten; it was the closest he would come to being erased. But somehow, he found himself in the home of Lockon Stratos and Tieria Erde, where he was verbally stripped down by the purple-haired youth and reminded of his inconvenient brand on humanity, before he was deposited here, back at the clinic.
He had resigned to his fate; morphine ran into his arteries to grant him enough comfort to sleep. And that was how he spent most of his days; sleeping, feeling his body grow ever weaker, as his hearing was drowned out by the sound of babies' cries and other patients' coughs. He didn't fight the nurses as they shoveled food into him, but his ravenous appetite had simply petered away. His clothes were ones for heat and ease, to allow him to be as quiet as possible and fade off without bothering any more souls by his presence.
His journal had been lying overturned on his chest, one dark hand over the spine, when a familiar voice drifted though.
Miharu.
Miharu.
Miharu!
His body moved before he remembered his illness crushing it. He leapt into the little white shoes that the clinic gave to all of their patients, and scrambled down the way to the docks. His vision was impaired and his lungs soon punished him for his sprint, but he soldiered on, seizing passing railings as he practically bounded to the docks. Adrenaline pumped his weary muscles, and all he could think of was Miharu on the docks.
Thin, bare black fingers curled around a dock. He moved to shout, but couldn't even make a sound as his lungs heaved. His eye turned wildly about on the dock.