Chapter Text
Satoru staggered into his room, his foot heavy on the floorboards. He kicked his shoes off, carelessly throwing them into the corner.
Tch.
He dragged his hand to his hair, fisting it into one huge lump. With his other arm, he leaned his weight onto the doorframe, his head drooping to the ground.
One year. It had only been just one year since her death, since the assassination of the Star Plasma Vessel but these damn curses were already dropping dead like flies. At least– that’s what it must be because those higher ups were working him to the bone. Every waking second there was some new mission, some new rescue, something new to find and exorcise. Some new reason why he couldn’t sleep.
He let go of his hair, moving his fingers to rub into his eyes.
It had to be the work of those stupid old farts. Always picking at his skin now like some vultures. “Oh go do this! You can’t just do that! Bla bla bla I can't do anything for myself so I need you to go do it!”
God– couldn’t they go beat their dicks somewhere else?
And to add that cherry on top. They all loved to play around with him too, didn’t they. Waving a little stick in circles as if it was worth something. Right, because of course he’d only have to exorcise this curse, but oh! There’s just that other curse right here and then that curse over there and then that one just a little farther and then just another a few miles more and then just a small transportation to get there and then and then and then—!
…
And then somehow, they held all the power. These sorry, sorry excuses for people held so much influence. They would make sure their tongues were bladed sharp so they could twist anything at their words. They could go and change anything however they like and write it just enough so when they felt at “needs” to, they could warp the system into making him go on and off to do their dirty work. Go ahead and waste 5 days on their stupid mission. Five days of running on asphalt and blood.
One sick reminder that they still had a leash on him. Like he was just some fucking dog.
He looked up, his vision blurring as the dark room swam around him. A cold laugh crept his throat, but died into a shudder before reaching the lips.They had so much control that they could suck the life out of him. The sleep out of him.
His shoulders slumped in, his body aching against the pillar. A hollow throb echoed in his bones, reaching all the way down to his feet. His cursed energy thinned into a tight line, slipping away just a bit in front of him. Like trying to capture sand with open hands.
Maybe this all started after May 25th where—
The empty silence raised its voice, yelling dead screams into his ears. A piercing pain struck at his head, a wince escaping through his teeth. It drove deep into his forehead like a rusted nail, slowly infecting him and his thoughts. He lifted a finger to his temple, connecting it to his brain.
This constant run of "renewing” himself was one heck of a new shock to him. Could be that his awakening triggered it or he was just “all that and everything bla bla” but it had become some indescribable feeling you’d have to explain through a stupid interpretative dance to convey it in its “abstract terms.”
At least that’s what Shoko and Suguru would ever know from him. However, these days it had been turning into a refrigerator’s hum getting louder and louder.
But obviously, it was nothing to worry about. Small stuff like this would pass by.
Always passes by.
…
But for now, everything really had taken a turn for the worse. These past few months a loud noise would find its way into his brain or an invisible bug would crawl up and poke at his skin. A new void would clasp onto his arms, the essence of cursed energy becoming another haunting distortion.
Satoru bit his finger, chewing at his skin. He squinted his eyelids, staring intently into the patterns of the ceiling. An ominous dread fell over him, wrapping itself around his body.
This heavy weight on his shoulder… would it never leave? Would it become one big snowball of “ just another part of his routine”, attaching itself and sitting nice and tight until he’d rot into dirt? Would it always find a way to cling onto him, biting into his bones like handles?
Never disappearing?
It hadn’t found its way out yet at least. Not on any missions. Not near his friends. Not near Suguru. Not near the high school. Not even in his own blasted dorm. These ideas would figure out a way to pull him down, threatening to make him fall from where he stands.
The barrier around him buzzed with color, the blue aura surrounding him. It curved into a mundane shape, filtering anything and everything out. The once slight, comforting drift from the hallway couldn’t reach him anymore. Infinity would warp it away, leaving him completely alone.
In the deafening silence of his own making.
Satoru moved his attention to the far wall across, staring off into the abyss.
Man, they’d never leave him alone would they?
…
But— it didn’t make sense. What if a handful of curses didn’t die at his hand? What if he wasn’t the killer of them? Would humanity fall apart right then and there, all species and beings running, sprinting to kiss his feet just for a sliver of hope that they could obtain his help?
Even then this conveyor belt of filth would keep running and running and running. He’d be forced to run on the treadmill until his own feet cracked underneath the pressure, so why…why keep doing this? Why did he have to be the one to sacrifice his precious time over a never-ending cycle? To keep spinning the hourglass until the sand inside broke through its pane?
There would always be another something else. Another person, another disaster, another mess up that needed saving.
So if another always came around, needing protection and begging for help, was he the one held accountable for playing hero for all of these weaklings? All by himself; isolated from everyone else? Being the one and only to stay in this hell of a system just because some geezers couldn’t do shit by themselves. The bitter taste coated the back of his throat.
…
Did he really have the right to complain though? Even if it was a grueling process it was an excuse. It was an exhausting, pathetic excuse of a “justification”, sure, but it was a torturous escape from everything. With all of these pesky curses clawing at his legs, there was no room to think of anything else but Jujutsu.
Satoru’s hand moved to his eyes, taking off his sunglasses, folding them shut, and shoving them into his pocket.
But as much as he’d try to forgive and forget, the pitch dark hours of the night would always give him the unneeded space. Give him all the time in the world to be left to his own mind. His own thoughts that would betray him.
His damn RCT. Maybe it’d keep his brain refreshed on the clock, but in a hell of an effort it’d also sharpen his mind into flawless shape. Making sure all of his memories were in such accurate detail that he’d see its images in any nook and cranny. Made sure that everything stayed intact— in perfect definition. Made sure that he would always remember what took place that day. That from here on out he’d forever know it was his fault. All of it. He had let his guard down and look what happened?
How— how could he have let that happen? Amanai in his hands, the look on Suguru’s face. How could he…
Satoru thinned his lips, shoving his glasses into his pockets. He’d work hard. Work so harder than ever to change. Work so hard that the sour taste of failure would never burn into his tongue again. He’d never be prone to weakness. ever. again.
He pried his eyes from the wall, standing empty minded. His thoughts were cloudy even when the world pushed such dense, useless information into his head. Everything was so full yet so empty this way.
Out of the corner of his eyes, a silent figure popped into frame, not daring to waver. His head snapped, eyes darting around the room. His technique flared to color all at the same time.
It—
It was just a shadow. His shadow. His stupid figure outlining him.
He put a hand to his forehead, eyes automatically falling to his hands. They were stained with a patchy red that reeked of iron. Probably from the last mission; maybe the one before that. The real question was why. How?
How did it get past his Infinity?
…
It didn’t matter enough right now. Satoru mechanically rubbed his hands over his uniform, trying to scrape off the blood through pure friction. When he realized the “smearing away” method wasn’t working, he spat a low insult. He dragged himself into the bathroom, slapping his palm against the switch.
The bulb flickered to light, an overwhelming glare shooting directly into his eyes. Satoru forced his eyelids shut, adding his hands along as extra cover. His Six Eyes still broke through, shooting boundless jumbles of lines at him— the mass and velocity moving like waves. They focused on the mess of the place. Crooked tiles, crooked toilet, crooked sink…
Satoru tried swallowing the invisible knot caught up in his throat.
Infinity tightened in, the invisible barrier still squeezing at his chest. His breath tripped in his windpipe, a sudden, sharp inhale scraping by. He brought his hand to his neck, wrapping his fingers around his Adam's apple. The apparent smell of metal etched into his skin, the unforgettable scent imprinting into his mind.
So… Infinity could stop the air from moving, but it drew the line at the scent of rot beneath? Just under his toes, would the sense always be trapped, haunting his senses? How stupid.
His vision spiked, eyes narrowing and focusing in on little crevices. Pieces of dirt clung onto the edges. Grey. Ugly.
Satoru huffed underneath his breath. This room, his room was made from a budget of nothing but pure disgusting bullshit. This– this had to be a sign.
Hah. Jujutsu headquarters was finally going broke!
What. A. Shocker really. The higher ups spending their money over anything? Maybe for some useless shit that’s sole purpose was to keep them in their position, but anything for the students? That is one heck of a joke.
His finger grabbed for the handle, yanking it back, the flow rushing out.
As the water pooled in the sink, a trance fell over himself, his body turning numb. Bones went still and even the muscles attached to his bones loosened to an underwhelming feel. His arms fell to his side. The gravity in the room grew heavy, his shoulders being forced to a droop. It was… sickening. So, so, so so so sickening. His limbs felt nothing to the touch. The water erupted, Satoru’s drifting eyes dotting straight back to the stream. It continued to gurgle, giggling like a joke in his ears. It was just so horribly loud and—
Satoru wrapped his hands around the edge of the sink, gripping on while leaning his weight over. He slumped heavily over his arms, his shoulders caving in, white strands of hair hanging in the air. Why… why did everything around him have to be so damn complicated? Those annoying insects, clawing at his feet, daring to even try to bring him down along with them. Dropping his chin to his chest he let out a sigh, closing his eyes.
This isn’t right. It’s not right at all.
He was Satoru Gojo. Satoru Gojo who was the exception of all. Who could carry negative apples in his hand like it was groceries. Could bring the concept of the impossible and make sure that everyone knew, he could do it. He could make the impossible possible. And with something so grand for it to be his trait, was there ever going to be room for him to be caught up in these sad emotions? Wake up.
He cracked his eyes open, being met with what was the sink just on the edge of overfilling. The ripples of water flowed in random, giving him back with what could be described as a distorted image. Distorted…his reflection into something. Something alright. What looked at him was an unrecognizable person.
His eyes shone dull, a new awful blue reflecting that looked sucked out of any form of life. But not in a metaphoric or theatric or figurative or sarcastic way. They were just– dead.
And his hair…
What was just seen as white through his eyes was just off. The shape didn’t curve like his original style, it had fallen into a muffled point and even his signature color was a hue different. Somehow. He raised a hand to his face, lightly tracing his fingers on his cheek. His skin was deafeningly pale, any signs of color or a comforting pink were nowhere to be found. And even his damn cursed energy wasn’t off the hook. It squirmed in ugly, ragged waves comparable to radio static.
Satoru froze, his movements coming to a stop. He pried himself away from the sink, only for his body to fight his mind, drifting straight back. His head fell in closer than before, his face a bat of an eyelash too near to his “mirror”.
Was that really him?
Nausea grabbed a hold of his gut, twisting it into a knob. What could this mean?
Satoru’s jaw clenched, his knuckles turning white as his grasp underneath tightened.
Those people…it was because of them. They think they can just toy around with him don’t they. Playing at his strings, setting him up like some puppet, stepping all over him just because.
Causing him to end up like this.
And all of those non-shaman kids. Kids dressed up as adults, standing tall maybe but their bratty, spoiled core always shined bright to him. Making it very obvious these adults would never hold the same morals as any innocent child would. These same people, flipping their morals into making him do all of the heavy work. All in the name of “protecting the people” but why? So they can continue on with their miserable lives. Their lives… could they even be deserving of living? Let alone in the same world as him?
Satoru’s nails dug deeper into the marble, breathing in a gritted air. Well, he had a life too, you know.
And just because he’s the one to hold the title of “the honored one” doesn’t make him any less human.
…
Right?
Satoru bit on his lips, chewing off at the first layer instinctively. Proof. He needed to prove something. His eyes scanned the room, turning at each spot for the sharpest object. He needed to find something. Now.
His fist grew tighter until the edge of the porcelain groaned. A rapid spike of cursed energy fractured through the air, shattering the toothbrush cup on the edge. It bounced off before clattering onto the floor. Shards smashed into pieces, a loud crack noise piercing into his brain. The glass scattered all over, dragging and coming to halts in random sequences. One piece specifically had fallen at just the right angle, laying onto the wall just so right that the harsh light reflected, mirroring his image to his eyes.
This one little tiny tiny piece. It could easily amount to being a safety hazard for anyone else, anyone weak. Anyone else but him. The gods would always protect him, their hands and arms would surround him like some armor. But just maybe if it wasn’t for his cursed technique, then maybe he would be just as prone to a cut, that maybe he would bleed like any other person. That maybe his “blessing” would be taken away just from a so so simple nick as that.
All of this could happen if he were just to fall victim to it. All if he grazed it.
His eyes sharpened, focusing onto it. A spark flickered, the shard slowly dragging across the tiles, picking up pace after each clink at each curve. It slapped flatly into his palm, the cold edge biting into his skin before he even applied pressure. A drop of blood bubbled at the tip of the glass that was touching his skin.
This— this was nothing out of the ordinary for him, a simple task of transporting objects at will was child's play if anything. But for a feeble non sorcerer? The heavens and earth would have to evolve before they could dream of doing the same. He rolled one of his sleeves up. And maybe that’s why he was supposed to fulfill this role. That was why he was chosen for this role.
But he’s still somebody for god sake.
Satoru stabbed the shard straight into his forearm, tearing through his muscles. He grunted at the sudden shock, but dug in deeper, biting on his tongue. Without withdrawing, he tilted the glass inward, dragging a cold flame to his wrist. A huge gash burned on his arm, pain spreading like fire. Tendons were turned into shredded cheese, some completely severed into a broken rubberband. He swallowed the air in his mouth, trying not to react to it. He attempted a small movement in his fingers, but the joints were immobilized, forcing them to move clanky or nothing at all. Nerves running through his body started pushing out a tingling run, the feeling heightening near areas that were far more damaged. Just by a single cut to himself, his skin and tissue were ripped apart like paper.
Just like that.
Because without his infinity and RCT, he could be prone to anything. Prone to something as little as this. Like any other normal person.
Moving his other arm, he clutched his hand around his still raised, injured forearm, centimeters away from the real slit. The shard created a gap in between. A tiny smile cracked on his face, his head immediately dropping down.
This… it hurts. It bleeds. Crimson flooded his arm, seeping into his clothes and dripping onto the sink and nearby walls. His hands that were once covered with just a mere dry brown were now painted with a glossy red, the warm temperature thrumming on top. The metallic smell hit stronger this time, breaking through his thoughts with an overwhelming fog.
He raised his head slightly up, just enough for his eyes to meet his cut once again. His blood, it wasn’t blue like some alien. It was warm, RED like any other. Sharp, icy air bit into his raw wound, striking right to the nerve.
Satoru drew in a cold breath through his teeth, letting his system flare. His hands shook violently, his grip on the glass growing tight as it punctured through his palm. He clenched his fists into a ball, trying to still his hands. Blood vessels were more visibly torn apart, some areas barely touched while others were a fountain of work. Deep inside his muscles, the jagged shard had caught into his tissues, fragments still attached in his body.
Satoru bit back on his lip, a cold sweat breaking out and trickling down his temple all at the same time. It…was perfect. That washed out face might be in his name, but what could looks mean in an event so grand as this? The realization of his own humanity being laid in front of him like some show he just picked up on, it was fascinating to say the least.
Satoru threw the glass onto the floor, raising his now free but pierced hand to his head, wiping away at the earlier sweat. Doing so, he spread his blood over, creating even more of a mess than before. He pulled his sleeve around his hands, going back to rub out the atrocities splattered on his face.
Instead, his eyes were caught back onto the water filled in the sink again, the same water that was now poisoned with hints of red. The faucet was still running with no means to stop, everything overflowing onto the floor as it dampened Satoru’s shoes. He took a step closer, his feet still falling back to the same damn sink even now. His hand reached forward, pushing down on the lever as the flow was cut still.
Fuck. He turned his head back and forth, calculating how much had spilled on the floor. Each twist of the neck brought an even heavier, rhythmic throb to his forearm. This was… should be one hell of a clean up. Blood still leaked out, dropping into the puddle and turning it into its own personal tye-dye. An aggravated breath escaped his teeth. Subconsciously, he released the pressure, his head naturally moving forward.
Underneath his nose, the water still created its random patterns. A tiny twitch in his tendon spiked beneath his skin, rushing a cold bolt up his shoulder. His smile that was born from this new moment had vanished, his face dropping. Even in this hue of red the same pitiful face still had found its way to rip through the water.
…
Why?
Satoru thinned his lips. A thin dribble traced his arm, sticking to him until the very point of where it had been so in the middle of “upside down” gravity had to force it off. Staining his skin by following its path that it was almost haunting.
His irises widened, eyelids not showing a trace of a thought to close any time soon.
What the hell.
A brief laugh escaped him, but his face and voice died out the moment it hit the silent walls.
Why did he— do that? Why did he think he had to prove to someone, anyone, that he wasn’t some asset in another person’s pocket? That he wasn’t just another fish clasped onto a cutting board, flailing out of order until some lousy old guy comes by and chops its head off clean.
Satoru started chewing the inside of his cheek. Why did he have to resort to something so so monstrous as willing blood out of him to even find something that could justify him in his thoughts?
Oh my– holy shit he’s losing it. He’s really losing it. Why did he think he had to prove to some imaginary people that he wasn’t—?
He pushed his scratched hand at his heart, gripping at his uniform. His chest raced up and down, his muscles tugging at his rib cage. Slow down Satoru, just– just take a deep breath.
He forced a gulp, shutting out what little air he had to inhale. No, he wasn’t losing it, he didn’t lose anything. He clasped his lips tight, making himself focus on breathing with just his nose. His lungs screamed for big breaths, greedy swallows of oxygen.
This– IT was just a rough day. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d be fine, good as new.
This mess of a situation would be gone. Any signs of an injury would disappear and he would heal! He would heal and…
His train of thought came to a stop. His eyes trailed back down to his arm once more, the grimy red splashed all over like a crime scene.
It was still there. His brain wasn’t…healing it. Shit. It must be the lack of sleep–
His mouth opened, air immediately rushing back in. His attempt to keep control fell through his fingers. His arms fell forward, pain running through one, but it still pressed hard into the cold, wet rim of the basin. Doing everything in its power to keep his stand and his knees from buckling. His lungs deflated fast before inflating just as quick at every handful of breath it could get its hungry hands on. The once fading speed of his chest had escalated even more, choking on its own pace.
The wound wasn’t automatically gone. It was still there. That’s not normal. That’s not normal at all oh my god–
He quickly clenched his hands into fists, trying to steady his shaking body. His fingers itched from control, trying to tremble its way into freedom. He can’t now. He needed to heal, he needed RCT now, but how? His brain felt like a broken vase full of water while some hidden figure behind carried a watering can. A never ending spill of shit flowing into his brain. He clamped his eyes shut, trying to twist and turn his cursed energy, willing it to heal the torn flesh.
The “light” flickered. Weakly. Satoru scrunched his eyes, squeezing into his hands tighter. It’s not that hard it’s really not that hard just–
…
Nothing. Nothing changed. The stupid slit created from the cause of his own punishment was taunting him and nothing worked. Why wasn’t it working?
He dug into his palms, his knuckles losing color. Just calm down, it’s not like he had forgotten. He just had to focus. Multiply the damn negative energy with itself. Create positive energy. Come on it’s so easy the fucking equation is right in front of your face. All he had to do was reach out it’s really not so challenging as he’s making it. Just grab onto it just– just DO IT!
The clumsy energy sputtered, his metaphorical “hands” finally catching hold. The deep gash and nicks in his hands began knitting itself back up, his skin smoothing out.
He let go of a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. So he could do it.
So he was just being a little baby.
He brushed his fingers through his hair using one hand, pushing his weight onto the opposite arm. He rumbled his strands around, blinking a few times. It was gone. Just like that. He was back again to his original role as the perfect boy. The perfect boy who really wasn’t some failure and was just a little fatigued. A little messed up, a little tired but what does tired mean when he’s him?
…
But, the cut didn’t change anything. The face stuck to him was still off. The smell of earthy metal remained, clinging onto walls, metal, anything and everything in proximity. His wounds may be healed but heck the splatters of red around his uniform and room latched on. Maybe some forever reminder of this incident from everyone themselves. A forever reminder of what he had done to himself and that no matter what he threw, chased, pried off, go after, or harm that–
That everything else would still be there.
This is all so pathetic. So, so pathetic. And what? All over some stupid idea.
His arm, although stitched, swung at nerves, a strike of miniscule clicks pinching at his skin and bones. He was still going to be connected to those non-shamans wouldn’t he? To those weak people. And he couldn’t do anything about it. He, the strongest one, couldn’t fix it, change it, control it whether it upset him or if it killed him. Nothing coming from would ever matter to them or the universe.
Wow. Wow. How dirty… filthy. So awfully disgusting—
The feeling of sudden acid rose in his throat, burning into his mouth. His free hand gripped his throat, trying to find comfort in the hold. His tongue was quickly washed with a wave of a bitter, sour taste that scorched deep into his buds. He gagged at the smell of bile, finally letting go of his hold on the basin. His knees slumped to the ground, his fingers tracing tiles to slow his descent. Underneath the puddle soaked into his pants, the feeling of uneasiness sticking to his skin through the uniform. He curled his legs into a ball, leaning his back against the hard surface the wall provided. He crossed his arms over his knees, his chin dropped slightly, eyes meeting nothing but himself.
You know, a few nights of no sleep shouldn’t be affecting him like this…
Should it?
But was it really just a few nights? The amount of days that blurred by, being smeared away and combined into one giant erasable whiteboard marker ink that was just seconds before being wiped away by some dirty cloth stained with the rest of its comrades. When really was the last time he’d seen a sunrise just to see a sunrise? Just to watch the sun climb up the horizon, peaking out so little but so much it was more than soothing.
When had it been? It couldn't have been since his failure. Since Riko’s death. He’d flutter his eyes open to the sun just near of grasping onto the mountains or by the time he’d wake up it was well too late, but even then, it wasn’t for sightseeing.
Maybe– no, most times he’d get two, three hours of sleep on a good day, but then be forced up to his heart pounding in his ears. His sheets would be damped in sweat from who knows what? Possibly the nightmares of that day or just him being him. He’d hold onto his heart until he would be just a hitch away from “calm enough” to go to the next mission.
And then the next…and then the next and then the next and then the fucking next one.
He was running on nothing but pure hope and luck and maybe this or maybe that! A little bit of here and there with no certainty, no guarantee, no real solid clue of how anything ever worked, but sure! Leaving everything at just maybe would solve every problem he’d ever had or ever have.
Satoru shut his eyes, making a wish as his hands slightly trembled.
A wish. A wish that all of this was some sick dream his mind made up. A wish to open his eyes to just the perfect time where the break of dawn had aligned so perfectly he was finally able to meet eye to eye with it. Able to sit and watch in peace with nothing holding down on him. A wish to be satisfied with that, and still be blessed with a bright day containing no plans but to relax, rest. A wish that maybe he’d walk around on this special day and see Suguru being granted the same wish, still taking the time out of his day to whip up his favorite waffles. He’d add extra syrup and a handful of blueberries topped up with a swirl of whipped cream “just because”, but it’d make it all the much better. A wish that when he munched down on his sweets, he’d move his eyes away for just a second to happen to see Yaga-sensei knocking at the wall, telling him he'd been granted a break of not just a day, but a week, maybe more.
With each increasingly desperate plea he squeezed his eyes tighter, the tension straining at his eyeballs with the growing pressure.
For a beat or two, everything around him lightened. The shouts clawing into his ears had simplified into an annoying, but tiny ring. The shadows that were hunched over his body, absorbing every bit and bone in his name had backed away, giving him the time and space that was always meant to be his.
Satoru crept open his eyes, still desperately holding onto the little glint of hope that his wish was heard and born true by who knows. He’d see his perfect world in front of him, left from him to roam and for him to live. Instead, there was no one to greet him. Nothing to be there. He was still trapped in that bland bathroom that somehow even scooted in closer than before, creating a suffocating atmosphere.
All for him to enjoy in the quiet of night. Where no one or nothing would help him.
He shoved both of his hands in his face, his palms digging into his eyelids. This must be some sick, sick joke or at least some symbolism painted to be poetic for others. His technique used as another exhibit people would pass by during an art gallery, that they would pretend to care and admire but deep down everyone in that room would worry about the wasted money spent looking at useless shit. This same technique could block out anything and everything, but the silent void the night gives you. It could block out anyone from getting close… and it was just on display.
…
No one would understand him, would they?
Because after all of this, the forever running conveyer belt still had its end. He was Satoru Gojo. The guy– kid who could break all laws of physics just because he was born with it, cursed with it. He could twist reality in front of the eyes of everyone and it may come as a shocker to new ones, but to anyone else? They’d have grown numb to it, to his birth. So why? Why would anyone care for someone so powerful?
Maybe he’d live up to his name and grow up into the fine title of the true strongest, but even then, being the strongest would never be enough. He couldn’t change shit. He couldn’t stop himself from being stripped down to dirt and pieces by the higher ups, non-shamans, or anyone.
He sank his head deeper, his forehead touching his knees with his hands still wrapped around his vision.
The pesky people back at home all told him. The elders, the family, the clan, the everyone— They had always told him to go and ‘get your education, don't forget from whence you came.’ They all had promised him everything that the world was gonna know his name, but in a world so filled with filth and grit what meaning did his name bring to it?
There had to be a purpose to this. This raw pain he had to trade for this title, the life he had to let go for it. “The honored one”... what did that ever amount to? What had been strong ever led him to become? He could blitz anything he saw and mangle all of its body parts into one giant unrecognizable form, but what did that lead him to? A prized possession? A war monster? A trick up someone’s sleeve? A… weapon?
Unease flooded his gut, filling up to the brim and the unforgettable battle to fight back vomit pulled at his stomach.
Why would it ever be okay? To label someone, a person—someone’s baby boy— as something so objectifying as “the strongest”?
When could that ever be okay?
Satoru violently shook his head, dropping his hands to his side, his fingers skimming the water left on the floor. No, he couldn’t be doing this. He had to go to sleep. Try to go to sleep. It was almost 5 am, the sun had started peeking out from the thin gaps of the curtain. The once comforting shine is coming back, but this time to mock him for his absence.
He turned his body sideways, slowly gathering himself back up as a deep sigh left him. Even so, who was he to think like this? It was just a stupid cycle wringing him dry. He’d have to be put to work otherwise, what else could he do? Go find some other people who would need him? Find interest in him? Time was like a currency here and if it wasn't used for good, then it was like throwing it into the trash. Like some garbage.
Wasting his time on thoughts that were eating him alive was one of those rubbish.
Satoru had found the leverage on the ground, flattening his palm. He pushed himself up, his body struggling just a little before his fingers caught grip onto the sink. He lifted his hand as he took steps forward, almost using them as a balance against the invisible air. He stumbled out of the bathroom, navigating his way into the dark room. As his feet tripped underneath itself, his guard slipped, accidentally catching his shin on a cabinet. He grumbled a curse underneath his breath, blindly kicking back. He staggered away, finally crashing into his blankets and closed his eyes, all while covering his ears.
—