𝐇𝐨𝐩𝐞'𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 | Inquisitormaster & Zsquad| Danganronpa

☆𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑0☆ || 𝐀 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐔𝐬... (Reuploaded)

JUNIOR YEAR-150 DAYS LEFT

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: **✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *

~Alex's POV~

The chill that subdues a life, the cause of blood running down someone's once innocent hands, painting them in a color of crimson so deep that it's mistaken for a pit of torment. Down that pit, your dignity, your innocence, any purity nestled in your veins is drained, and you'll be left with only the profoundness of your crime whether that life was taken by a hand used to give to charities, or the hand that helps someone cross the street, or the hands that hold someone close in their worst moments. All that is overturned once the ichor is spread on those hands. None of the good done matters anymore. You're deemed a murderer.

An unnerving mix of cackles fills the theater, echoing off the walls and reverberating, clear as a speaker. You can't tell who it comes from, their faces are obscured by their hair slick with sweat and paint sticking to their skin. I focus on the girl who laughs and laughs until it's drowned out by silence. The silence that comes once both people on the screen are still. That girl, she's supposed to be me. She's conspicuous against the dull room: hair dyed in a variety of colors, eyes as dazzling as amber itself, interrupted by the swirls taking its course. Beside her twisted wrist is a dirty hammer. Her other hand—that's as filthy as the first—clutches the handle of an oddly shaped knife. This girl, engulfed in sorrows unseen before, used to be the body I resided in. The one I felt comfortable in.

Yet, here I sit in a red cushioned seat, bucket of warm popcorn sitting in my lap with a drink in the cupholder to my right. I place a piece of popcorn into my mouth, letting the buttery taste remind me that I'm not there anymore. It fills me with ease that I haven't felt for a long, long time. This is where ghosts go. The screen goes black, words run down the screen in such a neat, tiny font that it's too much of a strain to read, the typical end credits to a movie. I didn't like this one, though I know it's going to be replayed.

Someone slurps from a straw stabbed into a slushy. The theater is almost empty. Why would I be the only one here? Drake sits beside me, eyes glued to the screen, waiting for something new to appear as we've watched this revolting clip more than five times already. His eyes are blue again. There's no more red with black ingrained in his fashion. Roots of chestnut rise from his scalp before falling into the blue of his jacket. I brush my hair over my shoulder, my blonde hair.

The bodies on the screen differ greatly from ours. Red, black hair—red, black, and white for me—just barely enough to shield the red irises peeking out from their lashes. Void of any life. Void of any mortalities. Nothing of us was left anymore. We're lost.

"I didn't expect that," Drake musters, his eyes tracing over the details in the credits. A gentle twinkle for every shatter inside of him.

"We've seen it almost six times. We know how it'll end."

"I know. I mean the first time."

No words have been exchanged ever since the first viewing. I agree. "Yeah. It was sudden. I don't remember the end."

"We were dead before then," he declares.

Drake nods. Here, everything is calm. A gentle aroma wafts by my nose: peonies. It is my favorite, a tenderness akin to the soothing breeze bristling my skin. This place is a question, as flowers have been blooming around my feet ever since I've gotten here.

"What do you feel?"

Drake hums curiously. When I repeat myself, he says, "Warm. Like uhh... You know a bonfire? That. I feel warm. Do you smell anything?"