DELIRIA - YANDERE!CHUUYA NAKAHARA

Sixteen: Mother's head.

"Boss," You walk into his office and pretend not to see the mini clothes strewn all over the place, with the man sitting by his desk surrounded by Western aesthetics of trinkets and shelves filled with European and Japanese war strategies. Books that he would reference them to you, yet you would simply have to nod in agreement because while you didn't understand where it came from, it seemed to be true because your Boss believed it.

That was the life you lived all your life: Confused, dazed, following the man of the house.

It was just that this time, it was a better man leading your life.

"Congratulations," He says, though his words end in a sigh of disappointment. "I've kept up my end of the deal, and so have you."

He presses a red stamp against your request to be formalised: You are going to Switzerland. The operation was simple: Structuring. It was when you would be splitting large amounts of money into smaller chunks to avoid transactions from seeming suspicious. And with the Swiss banks, this would be an easy task. You let a small smile cross your face; a victorious smile, your eyes filled with darkness of a fallen night.

"I know someone won't be pleased with my decision," He continued to say, the rich scratching of his fountain pen against the coarse paper filling in the brief silences between each word, as though he was seductively drawling them out. "I wonder if you know who that would be."

Your brows furrow. You have an inkling as to who it might be. "Who?"

"You can't guess?" He looks up after he dots his signature on the paper.

"I have a guess. But I'm not sure."

"I have a hunch that you already know."

"Is it Chuuya Nakahara?" You say, your voice full of doubt. Boss hums, before breaking out into a slow applaud.

"Correct," He says. "You know, he came to me when he was eighteen, four years ago, for intel about you. You must have given off a strong first impression, because he was insistent on knowing you."

"I was in Iran after that interaction."

"Yes you were, for four years. Has Iran made any strong impressions on you?"

"The Hasanlu Lovers," You say, remembering the picture that were being sold as souvenirs in the vendors of Iran: a black and white picture of a skeleton, the bodies around 20 to 30 years old, found locked in a forever kiss buried underneath the anonymous soil in Solduz Valley. Boss makes a noise with his throat; a humoured noise.

"Has the great (First name) succumbed to the highs and lows of love? To be swayed by an image of two lovers?"

"It has made an impression on me, yes," You admit. "But a curious one."

"Oh?"

"It is curious to me that some people would die for love," You say, your hands locked behind your back. "To die for something as trivial as that."

"Well, to some, it's not trivial at all," Boss says. He collects the papers and your fake passport before handing them to you. "But you have your ideals. Goodbye, (First name)."

"Goodbye, Boss," You dip your head in farewell before leaving the room. The door swings shut behind you, and you let a sigh escape your lips. You walk down the hallway and squeeze your eyes shut when remnants of the hymn play in your ears, softly and swaying, like a blade of grass weighed down by a dewdrop being moved by the violinesque singing of a gentle breeze. Your footsteps become more or less silent and the beating of your heart overtakes the noise.

Jesus keep me near the cross—

You find the dial to the radio and turn it off. You hadn't turned it off during the massacre; it had been kept on, concealed by the screaming and the bullets and the metallic crush of bones; yet it continued to sing on.