One-shots for Nightkiller (NightKill Is Centered But There Are Others Mixed)

~《"Anything For You" Pt.3》~

. . .

Ink. . .

. . . Did not care at all.

She can't muster up the emotion enough to care.

But she did feel something.

At least there was something, which was rare.

Born from a divorce and an engaged last hate–love intercourse the night before custody, low and behold –because the shit stains didn't bother to use condoms– she was born.

Her lack of feeling emotions surely stemmed from her leaving it in that woman's womb the moment she was pushed out.

The custody was held off by her birth and was cut as her older brother, Reaper, cut off ties the moment he turned eighteen and legally an adult, packed his bags and took off with Cross leaving her behind.

It was a petty, selfish act. She realized way too early.

She was the fruit that bore from the seed buried that alas sprouted (in a close literal sense).

Sorrowfully, she was too conscious even for a mere child.

Her lack of empathy drew a line she can only see between normal people–humans.

Thus started her act of an artful and kind hearted child, coming from a pitiful, declining family that she couldn't care any more than she had bothered to be disturbed by her rotting corpse in the kitchen. She trembled, of course. Was a child body in that state to witness a state? From her observations no.

She walked past, had to nudge her around away to avoid tripping and made an omelet for her dinner and fried rice.

She went to school as normal. And came back home and saw the naked, entangled cold bodies on the kitchen tile with fluids she did not have any knowledge on at the time.

Curiously, she poked the man above that was her father and stared at her mother's messy hair. It used to be in what looked like a tight bun. It was a weird sight to look at, not tamed at all. She made sure she hid her in the basement to ward off her father. She had the keys with her. Walking through and under the spare space of the rotting wooden staircase, she found the small compartment battered with a hammer thrown unceremoniously to the side. Well, it looked to be.

Her mother did treat her well at some point; so in respect before leaving she hid her body somewhere he knew her father didn't even know was a part of the house.

The smell of alcohol was heavy in the air, and things and clothes that were far too tacky and crass for her parent's taste was thrown without a care around.

(Distantly, she thought maybe it would be a good time to call in the authorities.)

She dragged his father's corpse by the hair, a dry squelch and pop resounded in the hollow, rotten, and old house she grew to live in. She continued her treck out on the back garden and kicked in her father's head sticking out of the incinerator. She was mildly aware the man was alive and breathing. That he didn't respond merely for some odd reason or his sense of touch dulled.

But she couldn't care.

She set the incinerator on, with the sharp tongue of her mother's instructions on how to use it echoed hollowly in her head, and she left it at that and ignored the twitching and choked sounds the man let out.

She covered her mother's body with closed eyes.

She didn't know why he was shielding herself by the sight when she'd seen something similar before, but her consciousness told her to do so either way– and she did.

She didn't know why her hand shook and her steps grew heavier.

She couldn't feel anything.

Nor does she care to bother to.

But a thought prods her.

It's pitiful.

Well– anyone in their right mind would think so. Silently carrying and heating up hot water her mother could use and cook for her from time to time, is what she did for at least giving the (unwanted) choice of living she gave him. She didn't say anything. Just stared at her like it was odd. Then just accepted it without a word. She comments about the food every now and then:

"It's a little saulty, practice the amount of spices you put in a dish."

"It's a bit overcooked, but fine."

"Passable."

". . . It's good."

". . . Good enough."

. . .

Well, it's more than what she was expecting (which was none at all), and just hummed and keep the little comments on a mental note.

A hand held her back gently, it was the policeman, coaxing him to instead go to her brother (being painfully obvious that the man wants to pry his curious eyes away at the scene of a burnt and mangled body) and say hi. She did just that.

She was welcomed in a. . . Guilty manner.

But she supposed it made sense.

Then she met Cross, and the boy wasn't pleased to see her. She could tell there was something bothering the latter about her, but it seemed he didn't know as of 'why' he did.

Reaper tried to ease her up and please her with gifts, but she couldn't understand in that moment as to why and chalked it up to his guilty thoughts.

Years passed by quickly and she distantly wondered what should she do when she finishes her studies and get a job.

Well, she wouldn't bother to care now.

. . .

Dream was sobbing, and wordlessly, clung to him.

A really bad choice, but he returned the gesture either way.

He at least felt something.

But, she wouldn't bother for now.

An emotionally starved acquaintance of hers was crying, she'd be magnanimous enough to let it slide and will in effort.

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Made a huge typo, Ink is a girls here hahahahaha forgot to mention, srry✌️

–Xen