𝐇𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 || 𝐉𝐉𝐊

Ch. 41

𝑹𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒔 𝒂𝒈𝒐.

𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫. The uniform he had been so accustomed to wearing could only feel like they were constantly gnawing at his skin, almost like his own body was rejecting the cotton. The same material he had worn for months to a year with no problem.

It felt like his clothes were the gates of heaven and his body was the sinful hands that reached for the door knob. All for it to melt in his hands after climbing the miles and miles of heaven's strenuous marble staircase. Refusal to the holy hand he would never deserve to be apart of. Wearing the infamous gold buttons meant he would have to put on a front, one that his body wouldn't allow him to perform anymore.

Sure, it was the summer time and educational classes were technically over, but his duty as a sorcerer would have to continue. Missions seemed to come in waves that constantly crashed against the land with no break for its terrain to adapt. Even though, Satoru had managed to shoulder most of the missions, the ones he would be forced to take always detailed spirits he needed to consume.

There, throughout the rumors though, there was talk of the Gojo twins getting stronger. And, here he was on the verge of crying to himself in his bathroom, pitying the life he lived. He was not strong, he wasn't even able to keep up. He couldn't do it anymore, none of it.

No one knew, nor could they understand, just how deteriorating a strong cursed spirit was to his mind. They talked non stop, spouting constant speeches of destruction, murder, suicide, terrorism. The whispers never stopped. They would never quiet. They drove him mad, convinced and ushered him to commit similar acts, when none of those we're equivalent to a single thought he, himself, has ever had. When does it end?

When will I be able to stop consuming them? He filled his mouth with the hard trickles of the running water to try and wash away the burdened taste of spirits. They plagued his tongue, melted away at his palette, and rotted the enamel of his perfect teeth. The flavor was too describable for him, something it shouldn't be.

And, the feeling, it lingered, clogging his esophagus with the terrible dryness of a washcloth soaking up his saliva. But, to add to the horror was the taste of vomit, bile, and blood all soaked into the fiber. Like, the small square of weavings was thrown into a pile of each fluid, soaked in, wringed out, soaked up, dried, absorbed, squeezed out, soaked. Dried. Wrung out. Absorbed. Draped to dry. Soaked. Squeezed. Wrung out. Over and over.

The feeling never changed, once. But, the flavor was intolerable and he would never forget it, even if his brain rotted into nothingness due to dementia. It would forever linger. It made him fearful to speak or kiss his girlfriend sometimes, scared that she would have a taste of his misfortune herself and never want to share a piece of her passion with him, again.

The summertime sadness he was faced with heavily contrasted the season of happy memories he prayed for day and night. Waking up every morning was more dreadful than the terrors of the night he endured. Nothing about his summer was borderline content or worth gleefully oversharing to anyone.

In fact, he had hidden it all away, pushed it down to the depths of his belly so no one could discover what was wrong with him. The list of his problems, alone, could go on for hours. Days. Weeks. No one would even bother reading that far down the manuscript of his internal dialogue.