Shizuo closed his eyes in thought of his home.

There had been a large, gnarled tree outside his bedroom window that turned burnished orange in the latter part of the year, its leaves seeming to glow from within with a warm, golden light so brilliant it couldn't be contained. That light would fall in through his open window, bringing with it the scents of autumn - oak leaves and cedar and wood smoke and apples.

Thinking of that now made his pain less real. Even his high tolerance for pain couldn't bear this. There was a cold metallic table, he was lying on it, his hands tied with chains on the table leg. They were useless though, the drugs inside of him made him unable to move even a finger.

Shizuo and his brother would be downstairs eating their dinner while drinking a bottle of milk. Their house was always filled with the scent of cooking, warm heartening fragrances that promised happiness and comfort and home.

Agony burrowed into him, so cold it burned, like ice working its way underneath his skin.

There was no pain at his home, nothing to fear. Just a lazy Sunday afternoon, just him and his brother, surrounded by the scent of fresh milk, baking bread and a pumpkin pie.

At home there was never the scent of decay, of blood, the taste of it thick and dark on his tongue, clogging his throat when he tried to breathe. The feeling of something sliding inside of him, wringing him dry, wringing him out, until he was hollow inside, empty, not Shizuo Heiwajima anymore but someone different, a hollow person, someone without a name, face or a soul.

He was home, he was! And nothing bad could happen to him there, nothing bad could touch him, but even that frantic assertion couldn't take away the knowledge of what was happening to him and what was yet to come.

He felt like he was going to die in this place...