❝Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn into poetry. All the blood was never once beautiful, it was just red.❞
A story of a half breed, half human half demon, that walked the earth hated. She learned of selfishness and blood lust far soo...
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Sanemi Shinazugawa leaned against the wall, his eyes distant as he began to speak, his voice gruff but laced with a rare vulnerability.
"I sat with my anger long until it told me its real name was Grief. I'm not a whole person and I don't think I will ever be. Parts of me died in the house I grew up in and I visit them in dreams," he confessed, the words heavy with the weight of his past.
The girl, the half demon and half human, looked at him with understanding. She had seen and felt enough to know the depth of his words. She took a deep breath before she spoke, her voice steady but filled with a quiet strength.
"When you are not fed love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives. Your anger knows your mistreatment and abuse are unacceptable. Your anger knows you deserve to be treated well and with kindness. Anger is important. It needs to be expressed, acted out, and vocalized. When it doesn't, it begins to manifest into rage."
Sanemi's eyes met hers, and for a moment, the barriers between them seemed to dissolve. In that exchange, they found a strange camaraderie in their shared pain, each understanding the other's struggle in a way few could. Their lives, marred by the cruelty of fate, had led them to this moment of raw honesty, where anger and grief intertwined, yet they stood resilient, determined to face whatever came next.
Slowly the girl held a hand out, loosely hanging and palm facing up. Her hand looks soft to the touch the opposite of his own that is littered with calluses and scars. "Do you wish to share these memories? You don't need to speak, you don't need to be alone with it any longer."
Sanemi stared at her outstretched hand, his expression unreadable. The offer hung in the air, heavy with the weight of its implications. He knew of her demon art, the ability to share and see memories, emotions, and experiences without words. It was a raw and intimate connection, one that left no room for masks or defenses.
For a moment, the battle-hardened warrior was silent, his eyes reflecting a storm of thoughts. Sharing his memories, his grief, his very essence with someone else—especially a half-demon—was an idea that both terrified and intrigued him. He had always borne his burdens alone, believing that was the only way he could survive.
