絆 | bond | gojo satoru

よんじゅうに | forty two

絆 | kizuna | bond

42

day two before the execution

Satoru

KNEELING ON THIS UNFORGIVING FLOOR, I've lost count of the hours. My knee throbs with persistent ache, a constant reminder of the time spent in this agonizing posture. I fixate on the wooden floor, the grains and patterns becoming my only focus as the sun relentlessly rises and falls, blurring the passage of time.

Exhaustion clings to me like a heavy cloak, each passing moment stretching my limits further. It feels as if my brain is on the verge of irreparable damage, and closing my eyes provides only a fleeting escape from the torment.

Sweat pours down my forehead, the beads forming and trickling down my face, dampening the wooden floor beneath. My clothes stick to me uncomfortably, mirroring the turmoil within. Labored breaths echo in the silence of the room, each inhale a desperate gasp for life, each exhale carrying a piece of my dwindling resolve.

The desire to wield reverse cursed technique, like Shoko effortlessly does, taunts me. Frustration wells up as I grapple with the unfathomable intricacies of that technique.

If only I could comprehend them, if only I could tap into that power to alleviate this suffering. But understanding eludes me, trapping me in my own torment.

In the midst of my silent struggle, my thoughts turn to Yuri. Her struggles, far more severe and profound, fuel my determination. I picture her alone in a dark cell, enduring untold horrors. The contemplation of her suffering threatens to unravel me completely, yet I cling to the belief that my endurance is her lifeline.

Through gritted teeth, I whisper to myself, the words barely audible in the suffocating stillness. "Hold on, Yuri. I can't let go. Not now." Each syllable resonates with an unwavering resolve, an internal promise to weather this storm for her sake.

I find myself in a desperate state, my knee still protesting from the earlier ordeal, and now, an added weight on my shoulders—my father's inexplicable absence. The absence is palpable, and it gnaws at me, like a relentless question with no answer.

The realization that my father doesn't want to be involved, especially in the tangled affairs of the royal family, shatters a piece of the admiration I held for him since childhood.

His indifference to my plight is disheartening, a stark departure from the pedestal on which I'd placed him. I always aspired to be like him, to follow in his footsteps. However, as the years pass and reality unfolds, the idolization wanes. He, who once stood as the embodiment of strength and wisdom, now disappoints me with his reluctance to act.

Even if I continue to kneel, a desperate plea etched in every line of my posture, I know he won't budge.

His selfishness cuts deep, leaving me grappling with the disillusionment of a once-glorified figure. A bitter chuckle escapes my lips, a bitter realization that perhaps this is the world I have inherited—a world of unfairness, suffocation, and unrealistic expectations.