Danganronpa Oneshots

🌪️ Doing Death's Job. 🌪️

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⚠️ - Suicide chapter. This is a vent and hasn't been edited. ⚠️

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Tears poured from my eyes as I ran home, my feet thudding against the pavement as I pushed past random strangers on the street. I used to care what people thought of me, my mind used to care primarily about everyone else's opinions, but now I didn't even notice anyone was there. They had no faces, no solid bodies, all humans were to me now were blurs as I ran and ran.

People run away to save themselves, away from danger towards safety, but I refused to follow that rule. I was so sick of running. If I could take care of the problem beforehand, I'd finally have control, I'd never be a slave to my mind again. My throat burned as I wept, tripping momentarily as I ran as my stamina ran out, but this was the last burst of energy I'd ever have, I needed to make the most of it.

My long, strawberry blonde hair flowed in the air behind me, dishevelled and untidy as I'd never had the desire to brush it out in the past four months. Locks of hair separated from the grease caused by lack of showering, my teeth yellow and stained from the lack of brushing. I'd tried my fucking hardest every day to overcome this, to be a functioning member of society, but I used all my energy getting out of bed and going to classes or work.

I'm fucking sick of it.

Reaching my home, I slammed the front door shut behind me, not taking the time to lock it. As I slipped off my backpack, I threw it against the wall with all of the strength I could muster, screaming as loud as my lungs let me. I lived alone, so I didn't have to worry about anyone trying to stop me.

It was just another reminder that no one wanted me. My parents were fucking ecstatic when I moved out, now they never visit unless they need a babysitter for their new puppy. None of my so-called friends tried to contact me, they just did it when they needed something, like an invention. Iruma, make this, Iruma, make that. All I was to them was a factory. If I could take care of an animal, I'd have a pet, but I'd be the worst owner. I can't even feed myself, much less another thing.

I continued to scream, falling to my knees in despair as tears, drool and snot pooled on the floor. Leaning down, I slammed my fists on the floor as hard as I could, unable to feel the pain as I punched out all of my anger, but it didn't work. It wasn't like I had a right to feel this way, I just did, and I couldn't give a reason why.

Staring at my belongings strewn about from my torn backpack through blurry eyes, my throat ran dry. I liked to listen to music when I felt this way, as a coping mechanism, but it didn't work, I couldn't focus on the music when I played it. Wrapping my arms around my head, I lowered it until my forehead touched the cold tiles, rocking back and forth as I cried and gripped my hair in my fists. "Why..." Muttering to myself, my words barely came out in between the sobs and hiccups of despair.

Throwing myself to my feet, I screamed again, turning and kicking the wall. My ankle crunched, I couldn't stand on it as I attempted to regain my balance, but I didn't care. Limping throughout the disgusting house, I snatched whatever objects were littered about and chucked them at the walls as hard as I could. Plates smashed, glass shattered, pens impaled into walls as I went on a rampage.

I couldn't feel anything, I felt dead. All of my senses were dulled as my mind became mush, everything I did was controlled by my manic depression. Nothing had brought this behaviour on, I was perfectly fine one moment and the next I felt like ripping myself apart limb from limb. Throwing a rotting apple at the window, I watched as it shattered to pieces inside the frame.

Reaching the kitchen, I grabbed pots and pans and chucked them into the walls, dents forming left and right. Picking up a knife, my body trembled with adrenaline overdose as I acted on impulse. Falling to the ground, I grabbed the black hilt with both hands, knuckles white with my intense grip. I shoved the knife into my left thigh, ripping it out and thrusting it inside again. Repeating the motion, I grunted and shouted as I continued to rip apart both of my thighs. Blood splattered everywhere as the knife went up and down, pooling underneath my body as I scratched the bone.

The pain was there, but I blocked it out, my body numb to anything. I knew it was wrong, but it was too late, and this was better than living. My legs looked like a cat had mauled a salmon, blood spurted periodically from my severed arteries, oozing from veins. Feeling dizzy, I let go of the knife with my left hand, holding it in my right. Bringing the knife down to my wrist with force, I repeated the motions only a few times, the knife deep enough to appear out of the other side of my arm.

The world spun as I struggled to keep my eyes open, Death waiting for me to kick the bucket any moment. With what little strength I retained, I shoved the knife into my neck, severing my oesophagus. Slashing it to the right, blood squirted from my carotid artery as I fell to the ground in a pool of my own fresh, red blood. I'd only one thought as the world went black around me, my life force draining. 

I regret nothing.