Far Removed. ( OMORI )

Prelude: The Bay

Plip, plip, plip

His dark eyes stare into the black abyss of water, neck bent, chest gently bouncing up and down. In one hand, he holds the handle of a long, recently sharpened kitchen knife, gripping it gently, so gently that it could slip out of his grasp at any moment. His stare is weak, with little behind it. He weakly mouth-breathes as he stands in the dark bathroom, contemplating his next actions as he stares into the filled bathtub, the only sound in the dark room that of water droplets leaving the leaky faucet and gently falling into the mass of water beneath. Sunny feels little in this moment.

Years ago, he would have never given such a drastic solution a thought. He was enveloped in a dream world that allowed him to stay at a safe distance from life itself. It was a comfortable existence, even if it was barely that. Then his world was shattered, and he was forced to live once more. He was forced to recognize what he did. 3 days, he toiled in his broken mind about his sins as he was forced to face those he had destroyed. He revealed the truth about his beloved sister so long ago at this point, maybe a year, maybe 2, on the 3rd day he was alive, to his few friends, how he murdered her, and all but one could no longer face him, a 4 year long lie and a murder ruining any semblance of a relationship he had with those 3. It was over. He was forced to reconcile with what he did and was left with no one. No one but Him.

Sunny downplayed Basil's part in it all, sparing him the abandonment that he was now faced with, allowing him to continue with a normal life. This was the only way he could apologize to him, for everything, to say sorry to the boy that had disfigured him the night before, left him half-blind, scarred, hideous, disgusting. It was only fair. He had only ever caused Basil pain. Roping him into everything... abandoning him for four long years... His best friend...

Sunny left Faraway, and with that, any hope of getting better. He was friendless, the only relationship he could still hold onto forced away from him through distance. He was placed in an unfamiliar city, forced to talk to unfamiliar doctors, and take unfamiliar medication. He was alone, his mother drowning her sorrows silently in red wine. He was forced into a school program he could not keep up with, which he quickly fell behind in. His house didn't feel like his, his clothes didn't feel like his. His face didn't look like his. His hair was too long. He could see his teeth through a scar, there was a gaping hole where his eye should have been, he was hideous, a monster. He decided he could not live like this anymore a week ago, he felt that his life was no longer his really, he couldn't deal with all this change, he could not deal with the isolation...

Plink. Plink. Plip.

He rubbed his face, feeling the scars that covered it. He began to undress, pulling off his teeshirt, then pants, then boxers, leaving his clothes on the floor. He turned his head and looked at himself in the mirror, and the only thing he could feel was disgust and a deep sense of face blindness. His body looked grotesque. He could see his ribs and all his scarring. He turned his head back to the bathtub, and he slowly stepped in, right foot first.

It was 10:08 AM. His mother had left for work 8 minutes ago. 8 minutes ago he ran himself a bath, closing every window in the house, turning off every light. He decided that today was as good as any day to die. He took a knife to the bathroom and locked the door, and now he sat inside of the tub, warm water enveloping his skinny, frail body, hand gripping the knife. He waited, for what? he didn't know, maybe for his mind to talk him out of it, maybe for someone to scoop him up and stop him. Nothing happened. He brought his hands up and stared down at them. Boney, pale. It was time.

He lifted the kitchen knife, placing the tip apon the very top of his scarred wrist, and slowly, he pulled down. Like a zipper, he opened his wrist, deep red blood rushing to the surface and pouring down his forearm, dripping into the tub. The water turned red. He clenched his teeth. This pain was like none other, but it would be the final pain he ever was subjected to. He could not will himself to cry from the pain, as he had no tears. His knife switched hands, and he opened his right wrist shakily. more blood bubbling up the the surface, each arm now flowing like endless weak fountains of blood. His eyes twitched.