hearts formed by solicitude and desolation | chishiya shuntaro

⌈ 34 ⌋

ᏞᎾᎪᎠᏆNᏩ . . . . .

ᏞᎾᎪᎠᏆNᏩ ᏟᎾᎷᏢᏞᎬᎢᎬ!

at times, you find yourself unable to fall asleep, the fuzzy outline of an image you don't recognize longing to materialize in the forefront of your mind. the burst of colorful fireworks exploding in the air. a body floating face up in the water. blood, caked all over your hands and face. you squint into the darkness, forcing yourself to concentrate on each passing picture, but it seems like every time you manage to reach for it, it slips out of reach like a ghost in the wind.

you have a perfect memory. you can recall the exact passage of a book you read years ago and the page number it lies on, can conjure up memories like a photograph never faded or aged by time. even dreams, as distant from your consciousness as they are, can be described in vivid detail.

so why does it feel like your mind is purposely blocking these memories belonging to you? what's contained within them that makes your brain, which has never known what it means to forget, treat them like something better off erased? 

five years have passed since the shibuya incident, and yet, sometimes, it feels as if time has been suspended - forever stuck in that moment of chaos and destruction. 

when your heart stopped, it was only for a minute. a minute in death, a minute far removed from life. but when you'd woken up on that cold, hard concrete floor, bleary eyed and burdened with the weight of something too heavy to bear, it felt like much, much longer. 

you hadn't merely crossed paths with death - hadn't just felt the brush of its cold, cruel fingertips caressing the slope of your cheek. death had dug its nails into your skin, pulling you down into the cold, vast void, and you'd fought to swim your way back up to the surface. 

everyone who had the same encounter with death agreed upon one thing - that upon returning, they could not escape the feeling of displacement in a world that continued moving when you're just barely managing to get back onto your feet. 

tokyo tore the past down and rebuilt itself over it. wounds healed and scars faded, but nothing would ever be the same, would it? 

you'll always be burdened with the inexplainable feeling that you're forgetting something - a ghost wandering this plane of existence searching for an answer they will never find. 

"hey," you feel the sharp jab of an elbow thrust against your midsection, along with the hiss of yasushi's hushed, annoyed voice, "it's your turn."

you blink, and the quick motion tears you away from your pondering and back into the present. instead of finding yourself trapped in that strange border between life and death, you're in the living room of a small apartment, legs tucked neatly beneath you, a deck of cards held in your hands.  

a passing glance around the room reveals the concerned faces from every one of your friends. muto yasushi's furrowed brows, arisu ryohei's troubled stare, kuina hikari's suspicious squint from across the table. you're suddenly struck with the thought that maybe this isn't the first time someone had called your name to get your attention and you'd failed to respond. 

you flash them a sheepish smile, "ah, sorry. the number is nine, right?" instead of waiting for a response, you shift your attention to your deck of cards, deliberating for a moment, before plucking a nine of hearts and setting it face down on the table. 

the game itself is simple. starting from the number one, each player places down a card corresponding to their number. the catch? lying is absolutely allowed - and inevitable. if someone is led to believe that your card doesn't match what's supposed to be put down, they are welcome to flip the card over to check. if they are wrong, they take from the deck. if they are correct, then the card is returned and a new card is added to the liar's hand.