Little King Theatre [P | T]
May 23, 2021 22:04:27 GMT -7
Post by The Creator on May 23, 2021 22:04:27 GMT -7
Some time passed. Shouta looked upon a dark room and drew measured breath. Time, to him, was the best doctor, and with it he felt his vigor renewed again. The crack upon the wall and the burn marks on the ground - he dismissed. A patience grabbed him and, encouraged by it, he took the mask off his head. He turned it towards himself, attempting to reference the destruction he made towards it. He dismissed it - a simple and stupid perversion of his own decisions it would make. He donned his mask again, ready to realign himself with his other side. He drew his own breath in, a meditation, and willed his own destructiveness away. Shouta sat at the far end of his own room and willed himself to relax.
Shouta stared into darkness - the room was not lit. He looked downward unto his feet, unilluminated, barely visible. Upon his mind were those he had killed, ended by sand and stone. Their simply biology reduced to molecules by pressure. Shouta pushed up upon his legs, emboldened, and recited the names of his victims.
"Sugita Etsuko."
"Hayashida Yuki." Shouta hiked his knees up.
"Hokamia Oda."
Now Shouta's hate and anger was redirected. It was a symphony of drunken joy. He pranced around his hidden room, dancing, reliving the persons he had ended. He was something more than to just be reckoned with - no, he thought - something beyond.
And so our Shouta pranced about his hidden room. In his emotion he screamed at the walls, claiming victory upon dead men, and danced upon their dead names. Our masked shinobi jumped, singing his own praises, and claimed his own victory.
His light was a campfire, burning bright against the darkness. But without fuel, such a fire tends to die down. Yet it burns, regardless of its access to fuel, and as it burned, even unto darkness. Not that the fire wanted it. Not that any of us wanted it.
Shouta stared into darkness - the room was not lit. He looked downward unto his feet, unilluminated, barely visible. Upon his mind were those he had killed, ended by sand and stone. Their simply biology reduced to molecules by pressure. Shouta pushed up upon his legs, emboldened, and recited the names of his victims.
"Sugita Etsuko."
"Hayashida Yuki." Shouta hiked his knees up.
"Hokamia Oda."
Now Shouta's hate and anger was redirected. It was a symphony of drunken joy. He pranced around his hidden room, dancing, reliving the persons he had ended. He was something more than to just be reckoned with - no, he thought - something beyond.
And so our Shouta pranced about his hidden room. In his emotion he screamed at the walls, claiming victory upon dead men, and danced upon their dead names. Our masked shinobi jumped, singing his own praises, and claimed his own victory.
His light was a campfire, burning bright against the darkness. But without fuel, such a fire tends to die down. Yet it burns, regardless of its access to fuel, and as it burned, even unto darkness. Not that the fire wanted it. Not that any of us wanted it.