A/N: 1 AM prompt, somewhat of a PWP— What plot? I was listening to some Malice Mizer, and this is what became of it. If you squint, my pairing used here is Ryoji / Minato from Persona 3. Apologize for the bad grammar and the annoying abuse of separation lines. xD They're magical, aren't they?!

Persona 3 Characters © Atlus & their respective owners.

. . .

You make choices, and people stop you because they know the consequences.

. . .

There's still time to take back what you decided. But you're just too stupid, aren't you?

Everything is but a memory.

Your mind is black and white, distorted, and tainted with that murky, glowing green of the thirteenth hour. Everyone's laughing, and in the twisting, fading presence that you are lost in, you cannot tell if it's that of happiness or mockery. Those words that old, mysterious man told you are repeated, rewritten, and encrypted into the part of your mind that reveals your weaker ego. Those words tie you down to the basics of truth and life in its darkest hour; they follow you, eat you, lacerate you until you find comprehension.

A resounding gunshot pierces your hearing; there's the sharp noise of shattering glass, and it echoes through your eardrums louder and louder, in a slurring, deep tone. You recall the feeling of your subconscious reeling with a raging adrenaline, provoking your tired spirit into a malicious craving of violence and dripping blood. It's so dementedly joyous it's unreal, and it feels like this heavenly nightmare is your new state of reality for the mere seconds it lasts. Your body itches with this unusual need of slaughter, so much that you want to rip your flesh until it reveals bare bones and its dripping liquid. Your body is submerged into a puddle of blackness, and through its dark abyss you swear you see a pair of eyes, deep with a gleaming midnight blue.

The same as your hair.

Your lost imagination becomes perplexing, to the point where you do not understand what your own mind is trying to say. There's a meadow of swirling butterflies, colored in an aquamarine hue that rivals the afternoon sky. Their wings flutter through the breeze— though you can't feel it —and the sight of their freedom revives your relaxed demeanor. If anything, butterflies were symbolic; you die, and you are reborn. You know butterflies don't get killed very often, because of their mysterious beauty. But those ugly creatures, those that fly with that annoying buzz in your ear— You just want to slap it—

But what have they done?

If anything, butterflies should be killed, too. Don't you think so?

It's midnight, and you know this by that familiar church-like ring in your school grounds. But the sound is warped, ending with the high notes instead of the usual droning, low ones. Beyond your control— even though this dream world belongs to you —your lungs are stripped of its oxygen, then pushed in again by an unknown force. The sudden appearance of your classroom's clock startles you, for the hands ticking itself away were rewinding.

Time was reversing itself, and isn't that what you wanted?

You hear the unorthodox ring of the clanging and smashing from metallic weapons, mixing with the backward recital of spells and their names. The rays of the sun seem to burn your eyes as it appears over the western horizon, moving through the clouds that were once invisible in the night sky. You find yourself being dragged around; your friends say goodbye to you, but then approach with an air of pleasure. You make out the movement of their lips, trying to interpret their animated conversation by blocking out that reversing noise. It seems like some sort of incantation to your trained ear, the usual language you and your friends speak with seems foreign to you now. Before you notice the passing time, your friends move backwards again, saying hello in a sluggish manner, as if awaking from the arising dawn. You feel the hours pass by like minutes, and you wonder if this is the feeling of death.

A person's life is defined by actions, from the point of appearing from your mother's womb, to how you die—

Time stops, and you see yourself standing in the middle of a nostalgic road. The concrete, despite it's black color, is distinctively stained in crimson puddles that still seem to be forming its flowing shape. The smell in the air is that of copper and burning leather and metal; you turn, and your eyes lay on those unmoving heaps of bodies you once called your parents. They are illuminated by that reddish-yellow full moon, eerily brightening the clear evening sky. Strands of navy hairs cover your right, widening eye, acting as a drape over that memory that you scrapped all too long ago.

But now, all around you, there are bodies of those you know now, those that you associated yourself with so much that they're family. You see Akihiko's distinguishable silver locks coated in blood, and if you squint, you are certain the whitened part of his scalp are the bare skull. Shinjiro's, Fuuka's, and Ken's bodies are crushed together, flesh melting into one another until they are a single mass of bones and folds of skin. Junpei is on top of that dog, Koromaru, the one that welcomed you home with a warming yip— but all you hear is a faint growling now, for its fur has been stripped, and so is Junpei's lower half of his body. Yukari is no better, and through the faint moonlight, you see her pupils rolled to the back of her head, and Mitsuru is the same way. You wonder where the remains of their bodies are.

—You don't want to see anymore. You think you're going to wake up, but the eyelids on the other side won't open.

A rattle of chains and flapping, tattered clothing cause you to snap up. You did not sense this presence earlier, since yours and its shadow were one. But contrary to its now morphing silhouette displaying itself on the ground, it's source is only a normal person—

On the outside.

"I missed you," Ryoji says softly, and you cry in his arms as he welcomes you to your new home.