Danganronpa Extra Life

Mental Therapy Sessions

Chiaki drifted through the next few days as if dreaming. Only if she was asleep, she could actually wake up. This, this state of emptiness, guilt and sorrow, wasn't ending. The world had taken on a hazy, ash-gray tinge. It didn't seem quite real. Kamukura-kun had given her medicine for her mood, but Chiaki had yet to notice a difference. Sometimes she felt so awful she just wanted to curl up in her bed and lie there, like a useless lump.

Progress on her physical therapy had ground to almost a complete halt. She just couldn't seem to muster up the energy to put actual effort into it. The mental-emotional therapy wasn't much different—she'd talk for maybe a few minutes, then clam up.

Such as now.

"Recount what happened."

"I don't see the point. You already know what happened, probably better than me."

Kamukura-kun's eyes were like stones—flat, hard and unamused. "I know what happened from my perspective. Tell me what happened from yours."

Chiaki shuffled a foot against the tatami, shifting in her seat. She'd thought the imagery of "sit down and tell me how you feel" was just a silly stereotype. And while this wasn't quite the same, it was close enough—her on her bed, Kamukura sitting in his chair, knee up.

This wasn't the first time they reached this kind of stalemate. At the therapy sessions Kamukura-kun would sit her down and ask her to tell him everything that had happened. But she could never bring herself to. Every time she tried it was as if she was transported back, and she'd shake and sweat, and it was just...so awful. She could talk about a few events, but not the entire thing. Then he'd push her to say how it made her felt. And she would always lie and say she was fine.

But in truth her dreams had morphed into nightmares. She would run through that endless maze, and each wrong turn would bring her before a red-eyed classmate. Sometimes Hinata-kun was there too, staring at her accusingly, blood dripping from a crown of cuts on his head. She'd turn and try to run, but they'd follow her, steadily increasing into a mob. The words they flung physically manifested as blades and darts, nicking and stabbing her until she woke up. "You were supposed to protect us." "You should have done better." "We would have been better off without you." "I needed help and you didn't notice."

Sometimes she wanted to shout at Kamukura-kun to stop trying to help her. She wasn't worth helping, and it was irritating that he wouldn't just leave her alone. Why did he even care about her? She couldn't do anything right. She'd just disappoint him in the end.

And then, sometimes she wanted to shout at him for not trying hard enough. Because she felt so alone, and Kamukura-kun—all he did was watch. When they weren't in therapy, he let her be. He didn't try to intrude on her space, and rather than appreciating it, it annoyed her. He only ever asked about her health in a clinical manner, as if she were some interesting specimen in a lab that was misbehaving. Maybe that was all she was to him. Maybe she was just deluding herself when she thought he actually cared, at least in the way a normal person did.

Then she'd swing around to being guilty again. Hadn't he done enough for her? What did it matter whether he actually cared or not? She shouldn't ask any more of him. It wasn't his fault she was such an emotional, needy mess. It was all hers.

It was a ceaseless cycle, a whirling maelstrom of misery-anger-guilt-misery, and at its core was the memories she'd regained. The central belief that she didn't deserve to live.