decaptych: ([060])
会川 ([personal profile] decaptych) wrote in [personal profile] guestservices 2022-06-23 09:55 am (UTC)

[

She’s gone, and he doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or heartbroken. Is that even the right word? For the immense guilt and the endless expanse of the emptiness he feels for his actions, directly contradicting with his heart’s truest wishes.

Somehow, he’s able to keep walking — the remnants of the little sparks of determination, some reason to keep living in his shithole existence, the experience of misery.

Some distant thought that tells him, at the least, this isn’t real — probably. That the real one is still out there, somewhere, held hostage in a ratty-ass yet extravagant hotel where everything is far more tangible than this place. Funny enough that the temptation of ‘reality’ is what convinces him to drag his feet, the sound of metal echoing over soft dirt, even as he softly wheezes with the strain in his lungs, even as black-red blood drops down his hands from under his sleeves.

His eyelids fall as he wheezes, having only the sounds of their own footsteps and soft song to accompany them.

Yeah. Why does it exist?
]

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