Whistle - Komahina. (discontinued) !BEING REMADE!

- Prologue -

No, he didn't hate the blinding bright mornings that greeted him with every start of the day. He didn't hate the eerie nights that ended them either. Beginning or end, it was still a day longer to live, and a potential to die.

More so, he was parted—split between sides. Light and dark, deep and shallow, yin and yang.

Hope and despair.

It was probably the reason, he concluded to himself, that others viewed him as some sort of parasite. A virus, potent enough to infect anyone by just breathing the same oxygen as it. Sure, it could be so, but what would such low-life trash be able to do? They were giving him more than enough credit for what he was—positive or not.

He was aware. Oh, he knew it better than anyone as a matter of fact. He had a habit of this thought process, and nobody had a different opinion to break that habit.

He already accepted this, and just added it to his own life. He didn't care, and he treated it like just a thought.

Just a thought.

Despair clouded his mind—his life. It was ironic, in a way. He supposedly had luck, and yet everything that came out was the opposite. Sure, he could role a 6 on a die no problem, in fact, he could role it 10 times in a row. But an object wasn't a lifestyle.

If it was, he would've been having it way easier than it already wasn't.

He believed—as insane as the thought was—that maybe it was luck that was making these sequence of events occur. Or rather hope. Hope, of which will overcome despair, overcome his own existence. Hope, of which only he fueled.

He didn't despise the people that were the embodiment of his despair. Rather, out of any day, he'd more so agree with them. They were right in every way, and he wanted to be used as simply a support. A stepping stone.

It could be anything, really. A stepping stone that makes your confidence go up just by seeing how pitiful it was. A stepping stone that could be used as an example of how life just came to the wrong being.

A stepping stone to kick.

Hope gave him that purpose, and so did he decide that himself. The little hope he had in life, he cherished it.

He knew that something would come eventually.

As the wind raced through his hair, he knew. As his glasses nearly got tugged off in the breeze, he knew. He knew that he should wait, but sometimes he wanted to end it all.

One simple jump, and he was done.

But every time he stopped himself, pitying the people that would have to scrape him off the ground when he was finished.

He laughed at the thought multiple times, a maniac like sound.

The top of the building in which he stood—was in a dream.

Always was a structure on which he would jump off of a pigment in his mind when he went to bed. But he always woke up before he could reach the ground. How disappointing, like a cliffhanger in a book, or a movie. He didn't want to be cut off from it any longer.

As he looked at the very bottom a few meters down, he smiled.

Taking off his sweatshirt, he let it flap and dance in the wind between his arm.

Hope was coming like a shooting star in the sky.

He closed his eyes.

And let his sweatshirt go.

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Oh.

Nagito opened his eyes once more.

This wasn't a dream after all.