Rewritten version of Sugar and Molasses

Prologue: Fuck my Life

(Parenthesis is me, your author, talking/messaging/idfk)

(Ok so before I even start with actual writing know that I like to follow a specific format each time. Well, as much as I can at least. So I tend to do a little note at the start of every chapter/section and one at the end) 

(No I will not write Japanese this time because that's hard to read and I just wanted to terrorize the world with my disgusting writing. No Hisoka, Gon, or Killua. Primarily because the age wouldn't make sense and I hate that clown.)

(Now I will officially begin my writing)

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The crisp winter air bit at your skin, peeling off the layers of warmth that your clothing tried to conceal. Out of all the nights you had to get a last-minute grocery run, it had to be the coldest night of the week. The cold can be nice sometimes, but hauling heavy bags in your arms while trying not to slip on the ice is a different problem. 

You're not fucking Elsa, who waves her hands in the air, and suddenly the problems of winter are magically gone. No, you're a person who is sleep-deprived every night, who hates their co-workers, and the only unique thing about them is that they listen to a different genre of music that isn't your typical Pop.

But of course, life just had to be a bitch.

After scurrying for a few minutes on the slick ice, you finally arrived at your apartment. You open the door and head straight for the kitchen area. There, you place the groceries in the fridge and cupboards. The products should last you at least a week, then you can go do your midnight run once more. 

You lazily waddle to your bedroom, wanting to stare at your phone screen and scroll on whatever social media you find interesting enough to tolerate or watch YouTube. You slam your body onto the bed, face harshly landing on the pillows. Slowly, you slide your hand into your pant pocket for your phone. 

Only to realize it wasn't there.

You instantly turn onto your side, hastily checking both pockets for your device. Still, nothing. You knew you were a forgetful fuck, but surely you couldn't have lost your phone? Standing up from your haven of a bed, you retrace your steps back into the kitchen, eyes flickering everywhere for the rectangular shape. Not on the counter, not on the stove. 

"Fuck, did I really drop it on the way over here?" You question yourself, anxiety gripping your mind. Repositioning yourself to the doorway, you approach it, grab your nearby coat, and leave.

In the hallways of the apartment buildings, it's surprisingly quiet. Usually, a neighbour or two is blasting R&B music to the point it vibrates the walls, but fortunately, not today. Although...There always is a bit of noise that resonates with the building's metal borders. It's almost too shushed for it to be considered the apartments you're familiar with.

You don't want to be weird or intrusive, but your curiosity needs to be satiated before it can rest once more. You walk around a bit, looking at each door for any signs of mishaps. Supposedly there's nothing. Looks like your paranoia got the better of you again.

...

...

...

The squelching of liquid makes you freeze, your chest feeling like there's a hole spiked through it.

You turn around, careful not to make a single tap with your shoes. 

And there. 

A pool of blood.

With a mangled hand facing toward the ceiling.

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Alright so um.

That's the prologue. 

Now I'm gonna stab my heart out.

- Your dying author, Celina