- Sightless -

- Prologue -

Flames.

Ashes.

Torment.

Tragedy.

Death.

These were only a few of the many tragedies that occurred on that fateful night, on the twelfth of November, the year two-thousand. The day renowned for the Azuma-shigai Massacre in Japan, and the deaths with no known survivors in the town.

Screams would fill the night as crimson plagued the dirt. The soles of boots and shoes would produce marks along the ground, tracing these souls to their inevitable deaths as the men in coats and suits marched inwards, surrounding as they blasted down doors and sunk knives into necks.

"Stay away from my children!" A man would say as he stood bravely before the intruders, arms stretched to both sides as if to protect the three cowering figures behind him. The woman would hold the little girl and the baby boy closer to her, her eyes frantically bouncing around in search for a means for escape; sadly, finding none.

The men in white spoke no words, only flicking their wrists as the sound of guns reloading accompanied the screams and horrified yells of the night. The brave man would face death right before him, without a fear, for the sake of his family, shaking as they huddled in a group behind him.

He died courageously. It was a truth seen to the father's wife and children, but a mere obstacle to the town's murderers. They would simply shove the man's dying form to the side, and slowly, ever so agonisingly, approach the woman and the two children, both of which held prominent fear that gleamed in their eyes.

"Take me, please!" The mother would beg, tears streaming down her cheeks as her eyes met that of her husband's lifeless ones. "Please, don't touch my childre—"

She never had the chance to finish her sentence.

"Mama!" The girl would call as she bent over her mother's body, a pool of blood now gushing out from beneath her. At the time, she would be too young to understand the prospect of death, but seeing her mother that way was enough to get the message across: 'She's not coming back.'

The men then grabbed the girl by the wrist, hauling her unceremoniously over a suited man's shoulder. She would pound her fists over and over on his back in feeble attempts to wriggle herself off his grip, only to result in a failure.

It was the last time she would see her parents, and her baby brother, too; and the saddest part would be that the last time she saw her own family would be the time when they were murdered, left in the remains of what had once been a happy home.

This is merely the start of her story; and this one will be quite lengthy.