BURN | [ katsuki bakugou ]

[ introduction ]

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❝ we'll hate our hearts,
we'll scorch our souls ❞

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EACH AND EVERY INCH,
from skin down to bone, bruised brown and bitterly beryl and bitingly black, pale from pints of lost blood, the ichor that kept the once beautiful system bustling drained from veins vaguely hyperborean to the touch and arteries almost congealed from the cold, was scarred with cicatrix.  No amount of pressure applied could prevent the pain from spreading.  It sunk deep, past flesh and meat and muscle, past bone and brain and body, into the very core of its host, harboring her soul, staining it a myriad of macabre pigmentation, tearing at its once lively lining and implanting its infectious impulses.  Whispers wound round the air, softly like shadows, building in bedlam until breaking, free of caution and constraint and confinement, shouts against a sea of blurred noise and begging sobs.  Once more no limb could be moved, no thought could be processed.

She was simply alone.

Alone, but not lonely.

For every minute of peace she perfected to procure, there were hours upon hours, decades upon decades, of chaos and calamity come back once more to cut her into scrapped sections, strips of lost humanity that were once united in a single being, a single soul, and a single mind.  Even in the darkness of night, the sole match of flickering light igniting in her gasoline-ridden heart was bound to burst into a flame and burn her very being.  The cold was unbearable in its physical form.  Every emotion fleeing her body at once until nothing but terror, sheer and raw and sharp as a knife, was left to do whatever atrocious acts they could.  Rage and rampage.  Destruct and destroy.  Break the bottles of her emotions, so neatly aligned upon individual shelves, meticulously marked with names and dates and meanings, so that they all came crashing down, flooding like fuel and feeding the fire as it scorched all it could touch, all it desired to ruin.  But the heat was worse.

The heat, horrendous heat, that glowed like a warm, welcoming light before bursting into famished fire, craving the crippling taste of cataclysm and catastrophe, swallowing all semblances of escape, all chances of extinguishing, all the thoughts that had been repressed and achievements represented as good days, breather days, against oceans of darkened days and blinding days, was everything she strived to avoid.  She could not prevent her old wounds from occurring, but she would be damned if she did not try to prevent them from reopening.

But she was damned.  Damned to the hellfires of her own heart, her own mind, her own four-walled prison that she called her room, her house, her home.  Damned to relive every moment of every detail that had determined her fate, guided by the dastardly hand of destiny, as it toyed with her choices and forced her to flirt with sorrow, dance with danger, feign friends with suffering.