This fic contains dark themes, specifically suicide, alcoholism and self-mutilation, and is probably not suitable for younger board-members. If you feel that the following will offend you, please use the back button and forget this existed. You have been warned.


I remember, albeit faintly, one thing in particular. The rest is lost in black seas, the edges eating around my mind anymore, but there is still that one memory.

I was a little girl back then, still so innocent, untouched by the callous hands of the world. My grandma...she was always so strong. She would hold me, late into the night, my head resting against her shoulder. Her shoulders were always strong, yet her face...her face was never unkind, eyes just touched with wrinkles. They were always a mark of great wisdom and great compassion. And I remember the smell of her old blue cotton sweater. There was always a scent of sweet mochi around her, or sometimes okonyomaki. There was never...

But that memory is faded now. It's been growing fainter, like a photograph that's been stained by water, the picture running into grey-white. I don't care if I lose everything else, if my mind is encroached upon by a dark black. But, for some reason, I want to hold that one pale thought, from back so long ago.

The computer hums at me placidly from across the wall, casting a flickering blue upon the otherwise lightless room. The sun's still out, but I prefer this much more. I enjoy the darkness. I can't stand the sun anyways, it hurts my eyes. I feel like I could almost melt straight into the black I surround myself in, could melt away as I lie here on my bed, my violet tresses fanning out like a mock sun as I remain motionless.

A mockery of a mockery. How quaint.

But still even now, I grip that one paling-white memory in this blackness for some, "grip" isn't the correct word. I caress it, hold it dearly like a crystal prism casting the last bit of color into me. It's like nestling up to the azure sky once more. How long has it been since I've looked at the sky without hurting with its mock purity.

Grandma was holding me, gently against that old sweater of hers as I lay against her, back before I found dark makeup, when my eyes were still untroubled by shadow-paints and insomnia-circles. And I remember her running her fingers gently through my hair, a soft caress, like I now caress the memory. And she was singing me to sleep. I can't remember the words to the ancient, evanescent melody, but I can still hear her voice like crystal chimes ringing out as she comforted me. My eyes grew heavy back then, as I slowly drifted off in her warm arms, into a sleep without tears. Grandma never wanted me to cry.

She cried enough for both of us in those days.

But that was back when the sky was still clean, when the sun was a joyous giver, not an all-too-shining lie to me. Now I have my own sky, here in this room. A sky with two horizons, the hue just below that of chalk, that I now hold above me. A sky that is mine alone, paled further by the ghostly glow of the monitor that illuminates one side. And a third line now crosses the sky, bisecting it perpendicular as rainclouds now form, heavy and maroon, looming softly as it spiderwebs out from the new flaw. I wait for the drops to fall down and stain my face, my mouth curved slightly towards my brow. And I can still feel it in my other hand. I know it must be shining like a dead eye with the blue glow that flickers through the room (although don't actually see's in my right hand which is draped over the side of the bed, and I dare not avert my gaze. I don't want to miss the rainclouds, after all, or the drops that will taint my cheeks red). It feels cold.

I've been seeking comfort in the cold for a long time. Cold wires draping across my room like a macabre cape, cold monitors which overshadow my face with their blue, cold puppets which I danced around, hoping that they'd never see the truth...cold steel which bit into two cheeks that never existed. And here I am, fading slower into the kurakuro-kage I've wrapped myself in, fading into the wires, to where there's no laughter and no fathers.

But still there's that one shining night before the sky turned harsh and a new, scar-torn white-and-blue-and black took its place. Nestled up to Grandma's strong shoulder, the shoulder oft stained by my tears for many of my younger days, wrapped in her loving arms, the only real love I'd known as her voice alighted in my drowsy ears, against a blue sweater that smelled of sweet mochi or sometimes okonyomaki, but never of alcohol. A sweater that would be dyed red-black within two years' time, a sweater that would be lowered into the earth on the first day I wore black and the gray sky mocked me with rain.

But a drop just landed on my upper lip, and I know my own rain has come to meet me. The not-quite-chalk sky is now covered in scarlet runnels, and a few delicate drops fall from the place they've fallen so many times. This time, however, I won't need to make it rain again. I feel like I'm floating, almost, but not up. I'm floating down, into the darkness, into the wires that I wanted to be part of for so long, and there's a coppery taste for some reason.

Grandma, won't you please sing me to sleep one more time? I'm tired of fathers, so tired of alcohol...I just want to nestle up to your sweater one more time and fall asleep...I'm not gonna cry Grandma, I promised you that. I'm just so tired...and I want to fall asleep against your shoulder, just one more time...

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