When I was in my freshman year of high school I knocked my best friend's cellphone out of a car.

It hit the ground like a hammer against a skull and shattered the screen to pieces, shards of glass and touch-screen fabrication catapulting into the disconnected summer air.

Said best friend, to keep me from falling victim to fault, blamed it on his new puppy, a Pit Bull that reached his knees and curled against his chest when he slept, kicking at random intervals, shoving its nose between the crook of his arm, but with warm, fresh apple pie eyes that dripped sugar onto the ground it walked.

It had been an accident. The phone was on the counter. The dog jumped up and bumped it with its paw. It was an accident.

But phones were expensive, and his father worked hard, very very hard, all day hard, every day hard, and shit like this was unacceptable, that excuse wouldn't cut it. Where do you expect to get a new phone, Mondo? Do you know how much money that cost me? How can you be so ungrateful?

So the bloodshot man dragged the untainted dog to the backyard, pulling at its snow speckled skin and clutching his rifle so hard the safety lock left indentations in his skin marking 'Hold' and 'Fire'. Because when bad things happen, someone, something, had to be punished for it.

Originally I wondered if he saw the small string of brain matter flick out of the wound exploding atop its head, glimpsed the lolling of its premature tongue, smelt the rottenness of an underdeveloped body leaking red, liquid life onto the cowering grass. I wonder if he sat there and heard every single thing, how his father kept shooting, and shooting, and shooting, until the neighbors yelled, until he ran out of bullets, until the stump leaking piss and bile just stopped writhing all together, no longer stirred by the metal ricocheting into its body, completely silent.

Or he saw nothing, sat in a corner, plugged his ears, faced a blank, white wall almost as clean as the puppy's cozy fur coat and waited until the back door swung back open and his hands ceased shaking.

Either way, no matter what he saw, heard, smelt, felt, he was strong. Strong, strong, strong, so strong he said absolutely nothing on the other end of the phone while I sat on the edge of my air mattress and bit my fingers so hard they turned numb. I began to cry realizing I had caused the death of something innocent.

The thing about self-loathing is that it's sort-of like a dead puppy. It seems monstrous on the outside, depraved, heinous, atrocious, skim a thesaurus for the words to describe the emotions you feel upon imagining the sweetness of a young animal limp at your feet.

But when you get close to it, it's not like anything you had ever imagined. It's messy, it smells, it leaves you with an upturned lip and a desire to never, ever, deal with this puss filled creature again. It isn't something you want to protect against, it's something you want away from, so far away you never feel the searing image of convulsing puppy stuck in your retinas ever again. You want nothing to do with it.

I helped Mondo dig the grave for his dog, a day when his father was out, so my skirt wouldn't be questioned, so our mourning would not be disturbed. I couldn't stop crying, I was useless really, the globular tears clouding my eyes, making it impossible for me to do anything other than wipe them away and invite them back in again.

I tried to use my shovel to be of some help, aiming for the ground, but jamming into my toe instead, denting the fabric and scuffing the pure white of my shoe, cheeks inflating as I inhaled into the depths of my crackling bones. I began to sob uncontrollably, more than before, gray matter jiggling as I snapped my head forward to hide the tidal wave erupting out of my nostrils.

I could have grown a flower garden with my tears, collected them in a jar and sprinkled beauty to new life, but I instead let them wash into a half-dug, shallow grave, empty and lonely and drinking poison with each drop that fell.

I think that's when I hated myself the most, in the middle of July, sweating against my own chest as I blubbered pointlessly, hopelessly, endlessly, throat contracting in pain. I felt bad for Mondo, I felt bad for myself, it was embarrassing.

"Sh-Sheesh Chihiro," Mondo set his shovel down, somehow gentle in his harlequin hold, "It's not your fault, I told you already."

I dug my nails into my thigh with one hand and brushed at my face with the other, making room for more water to flow. His face was red with his own emotion, one that I couldn't quite capture with my eyes glued shut and my mouth gasping for air.

He took a step forward, then backward, then closer to my side, maybe afraid, maybe a little sad himself, but he didn't let it show as he pulled my hand away from my face, clammy fingers fidgeting past mine. One hand in his sweating grip, the other attempting to clear my tears, we looked down at the barren grave we had built together, no eye contact necessary, no words welcome.

Sometime later I found my way to his side, crushing pressure on my back as he wrapped his arms around me, face flush against his chest, my own tears halting as he began to shake on his own.

Hello.

Ah, this is my first time writing for Dangan Ronpa. I fell in love with Chihiro right away, along with this pairing, so naturally it's the first couple I wrote for.

I know Chihiro may seem slightly helpless in this, but that's what I was trying to aim for. I believe Chihiro has a little spark in him, but I intended for this to show the utter self-contempt he sheltered inside himself, and is supposed to be set in the lowest point of his life.

Nevertheless, Mondo will be there for him, through dead puppies and training sessions uwu.

The title comes from the flowers I usually put on graves of deceased family members.

Please review, favorite, and enjoy your day.