A/N: Dry run to see how well my writing style goes with this pairing. An exploration of the pre-despair JunkoMikan relationship. Exactly 300 words. Originally posted on Tumblr. Enjoy.
{do not resuscitate}
Useless. Ugly. Whore. Bitch.
Those were some of the words that plagued you throughout the course of your pitiful existence; black poison, twined with turmeric, seeping into your veins, curling around your throat and drawing blood from cracks in your porcelain skin.
Garbage. Trash. Worthless. Waste.
At one point you learnt to sew up your cuts. To suck it up, offer yourself as sacrilege, bundle yourself up nicely with broken bones and a side serving of scratches from a thousand things you couldn't remember, and throw yourself to the wolves. They did anything they wanted to you; after all, you were a rag doll fallen far beyond repair, and a vestigial illusion of one at that.
Or so you believed.
Until she arrived.
You're not worthless. You're human. I care.
And in the blink of an eye, everything was different. You once perceived the world in clean-cut black and white with nothing else in between, planes and angles and sharp folded corners all asymmetrically aligned, but this girl—Enoshima-san, you think her name was—was different, all blurred lines and vignetted shadows, words trickling from her lips like dribbling molasses. She taught you how to suture lacerations, to conceal bruises with makeup, to lace up your insecurities with needle and thread. She taught you that you were porcelain and made to break, but you existed for a pre-allocated fundamental function, a salient being who most certainly wouldn't go out without a sound. She taught you how to live (love).
Fuck them. I love you. I forgive you.
You'd never heard such kind words.
And so, when the proposition spills from her cherry lips—
"Let's make the world feel the pain we did. Let's make the world despair."
—you gladly comply.