What Hands Are Made For

Hands were meant for hitting.

Hands were meant for hurting.

That is what Ouma believed. That is what he was shown. That is was he was taught, and so what else was he supposed to believe? The dusted over fingerprints that marked along his skin showed proof of the statement. The fingerprints and hands of those who touched him, were all he could remember, and what they had done to him, too. As much as he tried, the faces of those whom the hands belonged to remained a mystery. The faces of the strangers blacked out and blurred in his tinted and drained memory. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, he just didn't want to remember it.

After all, who would want to remember such a thing?

He looked down to grab a short glimpse at his own hands, for what was most likely the last time he would. The wet glaze of tears that covered his eyes prevented him from seeing clearly, but he managed to look at them nonetheless.

He had small hands.

He wore the hands of a liar. Hands of a sinner. Hands filled with calluses and small rips. Hands that had been hurt, and never held. Such... Lonely, shameful hands.

And knowing what was going to happen next, those sad hands would never get to be loved. They would never get the opportunity to be held, nor caressed softly. Never touched in a way that would make his feel special. Never feel like they mattered to someone.

Maybe that was how it was supposed to end? Nobody knowing about the secrets that his porcelain skin kept. Nobody knowing about the hate for itself that hid from the light under all his pores. Nobody wondering about it, even. Nobody caring.

Maybe they would have cared if he wasn't such a liar?

If he told the truth as to why he acted this way. If he had unleashed all the secrets. Spoken about his fear of what hands had done to him.. But that was easier said then done. For, the horrors and pains that the fingers and knuckles of others had done were not merely a punch in the face by a fellow angry classmate. No, no. Worse. So much worse that even the slightest thoughts and mentioning of such topic could bring the boy an immense amount of nausea and fear. Enough to bring a Supreme Leader down to his knees, trembling and whimpering as the memories flooded his mind and drained his consciousness.

Nobody would ever know who Kokichi Ouma, the Ultimate Supreme Leader, really was. People assumed that Kokichi only wanted to have fun, and that watching others suffer was the only way he gained that fun. That's what brought them to hate him. Though.. He just wanted to make people laugh! Or entertain them! After that hadn't worked out, he just gave up on making others happy, and instead tried to do his own thing. Though, in the back of his mind he knew he just never wanted to become boring. If he became boring, he'd be ignored and feel lonely. As much as he distanced himself, he still hated feeling alone. And so, that was the twisted logic that played threw his head. But no matter what he did, he just ended up confusing people, or making them angry.

But he wouldn't have to worry about any of that anymore.

Things would end soon, which would leave his story untold to everyone else. Nobody would ever get the chance to hear Ouma's tale. Maybe he should have told someone.

But who could he have told?

Everybody hated him. They all wanted to hurt him and hate him more and more.. He believed this claim of his, though nobody had said such, and quite franticly encouraged them to despise him. Even though he never wanted to others to hate him. He simply needed them to hate him so that his devilish plan could truly spur into action. And for that; Ouma needed to make everyone he began caring for, hate him.

But of course, Ouma was not a god.

He could feel things, too. Some of his classmates seemed to have forgotten this. And so naturally, he felt pain when the others shunned and stayed away from him. When they ignored him. Calling him a liar, a degenerate, and so on, affected him. But the little liar always pushed those thoughts away. When he put into comparison the things he'd went threw before, he felt as though the words were nothing. He became what others called him. He became the villain. The 'bad guy'...

He thought back to the times when he felt like the filth and dirtiness that dusted and wrapped around his skin was too much. He'd take a bath, and scrub his delicate skin till it turned a rosy-pink or red color to really get the disgusting feeling out of his pores. At time like those, he wished he could run away to a safe place to ignore the lingering feeling of fingers wrapped around him, suffocating him. The fingers squeezing at his feeling of importance until it was nothing at all. He wished to drown the arms and hands that had touched him, but alas, hands are for swimming as well. One cannot drown demons that can swim, after all.

He thought back to the moment present, as he lied on his back. He couldn't help but let tears rolled down his cheeks. The Leader tried with all his might to ignore the questions that another classmate asked to try and distract Ouma from what was going to happen as if he felt empathy or pity for Ouma. Since Ouma had ignored him so much, the words soon vanished, since Kaito had grown annoyed that no answer was given and so he shut up. Ouma felt the cold on his back, only the fiber of a cardigan under his body that stopped the cold, smooth feeling of metal to freeze his back. He tried to fall back into his thoughts, not wanting to have to go back to thinking about the fact that he was going to die soon, though the attempt was in vain.

With the top of the press coming down, he showed a weak smile, as he trembled for what was about to come.

He could fell the metal inches from his face now, as he prepared himself. He took a deep breath in at the least moment, and yelled something, that was supposed to sound confident but with the hiccupping and sobs it seemed more pitiful, to the last person he'd ever talk to.


"A-At least I wasn't.. boring, right?!"