true death is only sweeter - saiouma

worn out

a/n: official Spotify playlist

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5a6SWKqPL8iXsha53f851C?si=1QYIg83lSnSXB8_qpDIZnQ

Kokichi was never meant to die.

Sure, that was his plan, but really, it was mostly a backup plan, and, well, Kaito never really did what Kokichi wanted him to. Also, his original dying plan consisted of a bit more... sadness? Mourning? Attention?

Even Shuichi was happy about his death. And why wouldn't he be?

Shuichi...

The memory came back to him again. Of course it did, given the amount of times Kokichi had replayed it in his head, over and over and over.

"You're alone, Kokichi. And you always will be."

Kokichi would never forget Shuichi's face, beautiful even in his contempt.

Kokichi might be the ghost, but Shuichi was the one that was haunting him. The way he had tenderly bandaged Kokichi's hand... the way his face lifted with relief when he saw Kokichi mangled, crushed to a pulp. Perhaps a mercy, Kokichi supposed, that the rest of them would have no corpse, no last farewell, no regret for the human that they killed, because Kokichi was no pretty blond pianist, he wasn't kind or talented or beautiful. He wasn't worth anything at all.

Kokichi almost let out a laugh. Of course, smart as he always was, Shuichi had figured that out quick enough.

Anyway. Death.

Oops.

Maybe if Kaito hadn't been so damn bloodthirsty, Kokichi could've gotten nicer, maybe he could've helped end the game and escaped with Shuichi, maybe he could've made amends...

But all that was over now. Far too late to change the past, but hey, a guy can dream.

Staring out the hospital window, Kokichi watched the silhouettes of city birds flit to and fro against the egg-grey afternoon sky. At least he thought it was afternoon. No clock in his room. In fact, almost nothing at all other than his cot and a single, small table where his food automatically refilled twice a day. The walls were pale and washed-out, stained with who-knows-what, cracked in places, interrupted only by a single window to the left of Kokichi's bed, a small TV on which he'd watched the rest of the game, and a heavy-looking door across the room.

Death. Was this what it was like? Other than the nervous purple-haired nurse who'd come to see him the first day he woke up, Kokichi hasn't seen a single person since the simulation. Yes, because that was what it was, and that was why Kokichi was stuck here, in rehabilitation, unable to do anything but marinate in his own misery.

Death. If only.

No, just endless days of staring at blank walls and city skies. City? Was he even in the city? Kokichi couldn't summon the energy to run logistics right now. Analysis was beyond his current capabilities, after what the nurse— Kokichi thought her name might be Mika?— called "extreme mental and physical trauma." How the simulation gave him physical trauma, Kokichi wasn't sure, but his entire body hurt like hell all of the time. A simulation.

But it all felt so real, something in the back of his mind whispered. More real than this existence does.

Now here Kokichi was, alone with his thoughts and his pain. No lovely, awkward blue-haired boys with messy eyeliner. No cheerful criminals ( not that there ever were) . There was nothing at all.

Maybe this was just a test. Kokichi thought he was fairly sane and conscious given the situation. Especially the isolation. Yeah. In theory, he should probably be clinically insane at this point. Maybe there just wasn't enough of his battered, broken mind for anything but exhaustion. Exhaustion, and the sick pleasure of watching his former classmates slowly kill each other. Though Kokichi didn't know if he could've withstood any of it without the possibility of Shuichi escaping. If anyone could do it, it was him, and he did.

Are the others trapped here, too? Are they all together? What if I'm the only one alone?

It would totally make sense, now that Kokichi thought about it. What had he given them but lies? His harsh persona... his cruel jabs... No wonder nobody had come for him. There was nothing quite like seeing one's friends overjoyed after one's death.

The evening slowly faded into darkness. As usual, the sky was too clouded to see even a single star. The harsh fluorescent lights remained, flickering, all night, every night. Maybe another side effect of the simulation— Kokichi didn't sleep anymore. Nights were spent staring out the window, the occasional nightmare or hallucination or sharp pain that was too much to bear until Kokichi couldn't stop himself from screaming in the dead of night, desperate, begging for someone, anyone, to come and rescue him, or, sometimes, to mercifully end his life. What would a second death feel like? Would it be as harsh and agonizing as his first? Or was that falsehood manufactured for torture, and was real death quiet and painless? Strapped to his bed, Kokichi had no way of knowing. His only movements possible were a slight curl of the neck to drink the disgusting smoothie that popped up mechanically. Metal straw, canister bolted to the table. The taste of mud in his mouth. Sure, all his water was piped in through an IV, and the simulation had modified his digestion system to significantly minimize waste, but there was nothing but motivation for the growing rumination in Kokichi's heart. What would happen if I just wasted away here? Would they ever know? Or would my body just rot inside this sterile room, pristine and free of maggots or worms? Would it even decompose at all, in this chemical air?

Admittedly, Kokichi always had a tendency to be dramatic. Fantasizing about his own death... overthinking every minute of the killing game... foolishly hoping he'd ever see the light of day again...

Ridiculous, all of it.

And then. And then, as Kokichi's mind ran a million circuits a second, the door slowly creaked open.