heartache | t. muichiro ✓

self-destruction

「

"if only he could see the impending danger before him. they had all been awaiting him."

」

Your grip on reality grew looser and looser, the clarity of your life slipping between your fingers with each passing day.

Jiro held you close, an arm wrapped around behind you around your waist whilst you sat on his bed.

Your boyfriend's room was fairly clean looking, despite the burns on the walls and the knives in the wall.

Jiro was excellent at throwing knives.

But, this small moment of tranquility was ruined once you felt his hand dip to your thigh. You, in a startled state, shoved it off quickly.

"What the fuck, Y/N?"

I fucked up again. I screwed it all up again. "I'm sorry, just instinct."

He gave you a strange look before shrugging and moving his hand back onto your thigh, rubbing it half-mindedly and drawing small circles onto it with his pale, slender fingers. You shuddered at the contact.

Everything about this felt so wrong.

I want this to be a dream. I don't want this to be real.

You bit your lip to silence the dissatisfied noise threatening to pour out of you.

Is this even real?

It felt real.

It doesn't need to be... real.

It can just be another dream.

Yeah.

This is just another dream.

—

Reading the words you'd written over to yourself, a satisfied sigh passed your lips.

You couldn't tell what it was that lured you in about writing. Maybe the fact that it let you be a bit creative, ...

... or perhaps the fact that it let you know you weren't in another dream.

You'd tried it several times. You could never read anything in a dream, let alone write.

The pencil in your hands was your reality.

Recently, you hadn't dreamt of a distant memory or sweet situation, rather the same repetitive dreams.

Cars running you over, specifically that damn firetruck, and drowning with no savior.

And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't not dream. Your only option seemed to be going lucid, but the fear you felt each time had you tensing up and forgetting all over again.

The angry voice downstairs, your father, had you shuddering. You could hear the sound of a vase shatter and things falling to the floor in the main room.