Re: Zero: A Hell of His Own Making

Teetering on the Brink

The wrinkles formed on his forehead were aligned with his eyebrows, further accentuating the naturally sharp and intense gaze of his eyes, now bloodshot due to sheer stress. Beneath them, a frowning mouth from which a small, but noticeable trickle of blood was oozing out, slithering down his chin and making its way towards his neck.

Mechanically, as if moved more by force of habit rather than any instinct of self-preservation, Subaru wiped away the thin red line, pushing down on his lips in an attempt to staunch the flow.

Putting one foot in front of the other, he kept walking across the corridor, hoping to reach somewhere, anywhere in which he could be left alone and undisturbed.

But as he tried to think of a place, he clearly discerned that his intrusive thoughts had only abated for a short while. Within seconds, his psyche was assailed by an impetuous wave of questions and accusations.

But to his mind's ears they all blended and blurred together, for despite how much rest he had been able to cut out for himself, he still felt tired, far too tired to properly elaborate any of the poisonous notions that were oozing from his brain.

In fact, it had been a long, long while since he hadn't felt tired, exhausted and drained.

No matter how much sleep he may have gotten, he would always wake up as if an unseen weight was pushing down on him.

It made even the smallest, simplest task feel like a grind.

It turned the most exciting parts of his routine into a series of dull chores.

It crushed the joyous moments into an indistinct mass of barely recognizable sensations.

Throughout these considerations, there was yet another touch of malice, an additional nail in the suffocating coffin:

In spite of his apathy's weight, the itching, aching sensation that had burrowed under his skin still made its presence known.

Through the stress it had grown, or rather, festered within his soul.

Metaphorically speaking, one could compare it to a mob, their faces twisted into a wall of inquisitive gazes.

At the center of said mob, surrounded and with no escape in sight, would lie our hero.

No matter how many bonds he may have forged along the way, in these moments there's no one.

No one except for him, his thoughts, and the only form of abatement he can perceive.

He's been here before, he knows what those "people" represent.

For every misstep, one more joins their crowd.

For every failure, one more of them adds to their demands.

For every single time his life slips between his fingers like sand from a broken hourglass, they all wish for the same thing.

And he knows exactly what they want.

In fact, he knew so well that, with the same mechanical nature as his previous gesture, his hand reached towards the hidden shard of ceramic.

But within that moment, his instinctive movements were just slow enough to allow him a small moment of clarity.

As if he were acting as his own diplomat, he argued that he was in the middle of a corridor, a place where anyone could have walked in at any moment, catching him dead in the act.

Not to mention, he had already acted strangely enough in the eyes of the people who trusted him, so it would perhaps be best to indulge the spilling of his own blood in a more isolated, safe place, away from prying eyes.
And convincing himself of that was what he needed to pinpoint a place in which he was certain none would disturb him.