Music often brings people together in unexpected ways, as it speaks naught to the person, but to the core of their being.
Shirota Mahiru is coaxed into accompanying his friends to a free mall live show, globally hosted every year by STRIKE Organizat...
It started as a small seed by the base of his jaw, but as potent as it was, the fiery sensation blossomed into a whole new world of agony. He wished for it to be over, yet he desired to absorb all the blows and cuts as a form of repentance for the sin he had conjured. The dichotomy of his thoughts was nearly foolish even for him. The pain being inflicted upon his body stopped, the points wherein he'd been hit threatening to eat away at his flesh, and blood, and bones.
There was light.
Albeit muffled, he knew the voice. He'd been hearing the warmth and radiance of this voice for quite a while, which he now doubly regretted as he heard the same soothing tone cry out in a guttural sound of anguish. It came again.
And again.
And again.
The cacophony of fist and shoe and metal against bone was the accompaniment to the bittersweet melody of concern and the consequences that lay by this innocuous sentiment. He couldn't see anything. He wanted to, but movement was all but a distant memory to his aching mortality. He initially wished for it to end. Now he realized tossing the fire away had passed it on to someone else who didn't deserve to suffer the consequences of his crime of involvement.
He wanted air, but his lungs recoiled from the jagged protrusion of broken ribs. It's funny how the human body fights itself with the complexities it's been built with. Whoever designed this anatomy must have found the idea of vulnerability amusing enough to be a plaything.
What kind of God...?
He choked. Wheezed. Gasped. His swollen eyes would barely open, but he willed them to crack just enough for him to asses his surroundings. He wished he had not. The hot stone he passed on caused pain, this time to his mentality. He no longer heeded any mind to the burning in his body and his battered jaw, which he tried to move as he spoke with the last of his consciousness.
Nothing.
It burns, he thought. It burns like a motherfucker.
Please.
He just wanted to stop them.
Only one thought circled through his cloudy mind as his cheek scraped against the rough ground, sandpaper against his throbbing flesh.
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"I'm sorry."
He blinked.
"Ah."
He realized his lashes were heavy with sleep and tears. He breathed deeply, exhaling shakily as he rolled onto his side, a hand reflexively flying up to his face, covering both his mouth and nose. Kuro then passed his palm over his eyes to dry them before he buried his face onto the covers. Light filtered through the gaps in the curtains, the early brilliance of morning teaming up with the sound of activity from the other rooms to wake him.
