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Though I am often in the depths of misery, there is still calmness, pure harmony, and music inside me.
Vincent Van Gogh.
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FOR AS LONG AS HE COULD REMEMBER, GETO SUGURU AND DEATH HAVE BEEN SCANDALOUSLY INTIMATE.
Long has Death been leering, leaning over his shoulders, its bony white fingers placed over his neck. Not quite choking, no—it wouldn't give him that satisfaction of relieving his sorrows and aches so soon. Its fingers curled gently around his throat, placed there before he could even crawl, and that's where they stayed—never tightening its grip, never loosening the grasp of its fingers. Simply waiting, forcing him to be still; to be patient and wait your turn.
And wait patiently, Geto Suguru did. He knew how to be patient, for it was all he had been doing his entire life. He waited and waited, forced to stand by as he watched others get their chance at death before him, forced to sit excruciatingly still, drowning in his own anticipation and apprehension, and wait. He waited, until he couldn't anymore. Back then, when he was only a naive teenager, ignorantly blissful of the corrupt world he lived in, he hadn't wanted to die. Back then, when Death had first moved, after years of lying still—lying dormant—he had fought back.
Suguru was only sixteen, when he witnessed Amanai Riko die in front of him, a bullet piercing clean through her skull. He was only sixteen when he learned of his best friend's death, by the hands of the sorcerer killer. He was only sixteen, when he experienced his first encounter with his own death. He was so close, so very close to Death's waiting, ice-cold hands, close enough, that he could feel its grip tighten around his neck when Fushiguro Toji inflicted upon him the x-shaped scar across his chest that would haunt him for the remainder of his years. He had almost let it—let Death consume him, like the way Death consumed his closest friend. But he stood Death up—turned and ran from his date with Death. And just as quickly as it tightened, Death's grip on his neck loosened, returning back to its ever present, ever controlling placement. He had lived. He had yet to find out if it was relief he felt, or bitter disappointment.
