The Ninth || Chrollo x Reader

??. The Past

TW: The following chapter includes a suicide attempt. Please read at your own indiscretion!
I. Her Mother
The lights glitter from towering skyscrapers, twinkling as though they were stars in the night sky. Though no matter how brightly they shine, they are nothing but false lights. My eyes glaze over the view from the thirteenth floor of my apartment. A ragged rug scratches my crossed legs, and the broken air ventilator beside me sputters weakly before shutting off.

I sigh, pushing myself from the dust caked floor, my fingers grasping the hard edge of my coffee table for support. Mother comes home quite late, never making her appearance until the lights of Yorknew have slept. I glance over my shoulder, looking at the shadows that spill from the corners of our home. The kitchen lights have been shut off, nothing but the candle beside me and the lights before me illuminates our apartment.

One by one, I watch as the lights of civilization turn off, signalizing the end of working hours. I imagine men in their suits return to their wives and happy children who have been tucked soundly to bed. Wrinkling my nose in that thought, I mindlessly begin to dig the dirt from beneath my nails, pushing roughly against my skin.

The lack of air in the apartment creates a humid atmosphere, though a gust of wind flows in from the door. I hear the creak of hinges open beside me and my mother's sigh as she shuts the door. She leans against the wood, her eyes closed and covered by her fingers before looking at me.

"How are you, (y/n)?" She asks, a weak smile on her face. Mother is not one to worry for my well-being, unlike those who frantically ask their children why they are awake at such late hours. Rather, she lets me live as I wish due to the lack of time that she is able to spend with me.

Her occupation as a mafia member consistently places her in states of risk, similar to Father- a mafia member as well- who was shot in the alleyways during his one of his shifts. Mother had dragged his limp corpse into our living room, not a single tear was shed that night. Nothing but the streak of blood that stained our dull carpet was produced. Seven years old, I was, when she explained her job and the dangers she faced when she was on the streets. The silence that come from my father's body was enough proof.

"I'm good," I reply smoothly, leaning my head back onto a stained couch. The misshaped cushion strains my neck, yet I manage to keep my eyes closed in rest. Behind me, I hear the refrigerator slam shut. Turning around, I see my mother walk towards me, two cans of beer in her grasp.

Though I still have a year until drinking age, Mother tosses the can towards me, which I catch singlehanded. Sitting on the arm of the couch beside me, she props the can open and takes gulping swigs. Exhaling, she wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her tuxedo, black fabric stained with a hint of liquid.

The frigid can condensates liquid that sticks to my fingers. Seeing that I had not yet opened the can, Mother motions towards me, and takes the can from my grasp before promptly finishing it as well. A smile stretches onto her face, her pupils a bit dilated as she outstretches her arm around my shoulder. Her eyes gaze quietly towards the cityscapes of Yorknew.

Serenity lasts only a few minutes, and the shrill of our telephone begins to ring loudly. Shrugging herself from the couch, Mother takes the phone from it's placeholder on our peeling wallpaper. Pressing it to her ear, she asks exasperatedly, "Who is it?"

A muffled voice replies in response, and she nods as they speak. I am unable to pick up on their conversation, as the speaker's words crackle through the broken speakers. However, a sharp inhale from my mother signals the urgency of the message. My eyes are quickly drawn from the windows to her, whose eyes are wide with a range of emotions. Fear, anger, and worry.