The inside of the house is painted red: a dark, decadent red, bordering on violet, with splatters of blood smeared on the walls: handprints stretched across the plaster—a dead, silent cry for help, now long silenced by the metallic swing of an axe. A broken lamp strewn across the room, its cord seeping into the dark pools of crimson, the bulb torn out of the delicate paper cone like a broken tooth.
There is a long hallway in the house. It is flanked with photographs; photographs that are now dripping with blood, rendering its subjects anonymous and battered in the scenic background of the beach, the restaurants, the birthday events. Yet there is something peculiar about each picture within the wooden frames: There is a little girl, progressively growing older within each picture, whose fists are clenched by her sides despite the smile on her face. The smile is evidently forced; it does not reach her eyes.
One may enter the house and the door closes behind them. There is a lamp attached to the wall. It dimly lit the hallway before it opened up to a living room.
The living room is a cesspool of corpses: A killing field. Flies, green and emerald in their buzzing, fanatically dance around the bodies, feasting and already making home in the open wounds: Easy access. Some have already decided to breed in the lacerations, white dots of larvae hatching and chewing their way through the rotting, stinking flesh.
This is the (Last name) household.
A girl stands in the middle of all this gore, blood undulating by her feet like the flood, herself being Noah's Arc, harbouring all the ferocities of the beasts onboard. There is an ignorance in her eyes, but a gleam of victory: Don't the two go well together? The victor will always be numb to the suffering of others. There is a shotgun, its barrel splattered with blood, stretched over her chest and resting on her back. There is an axe resting by her thigh, the blade on the floor. She holds it by its wooden handle, before letting go of it; it lands on the floor with a hefty thunk.
Annihilation.
Pure, red round ponds.
Annihilation.
She tilts her head back and lets her gaze rest on the slowly rotating ceiling fan. An intestine rests on one of the fan blades, swaying with each rotation.
Annihilation.
Bodies smashed into the floor. Screaming giving away to jaysongs and whimpers. Begging for forgiveness dying like light to the night.
You wanted to bleed more.
YOU ARE READING
DELIRIA - YANDERE!CHUUYA NAKAHARA
Fanfiction[YANDERE!CHUUYA/READER] They say that to be loved, is to be changed. You haven't been loved, but you've been changed-changed by violence; radicalised in the face of violence, to the point of extremities, to the point of no return. This is deliria yo...
