Disclaimer: I do not own Danganronpa. All credit goes to the creator of Danganronpa. I do not own the game Fukawa-chan, all credit goes to vamoosi (check out his profile on AO3) I own nothing, if I did Ishimondo would be canon.

Warnings: Fukawa-chan is a game and fanfic about being Fukawa for a day. It isn't a comedy! Be warned that inherent to being Fukawa is a lot of self-loathing and anxiety and bullying, as well as a tiny bit of casual ableist language. She does not have a good time of things. This is a more serious game centered around the Super High School Level Literary Girl; Touko Fukawa and her upsetting life... I also based this fanfic off the game so vamoosi if you see this fanfic, I'm sorry if the writing is similar to yours but I just added a bit more to make it a story and made sure to give you all the credit. Now, enjoy! And make sure to have a box tissues next to where you're at!

Sincerely,

~BlackButlerFan13

Touko's P.O.V.

I take the route around the school to get the dorms everyday. Like that'll keep me from finding trouble. It doesn't.

Flashback

"Ohh, Fukawa-san~!" Laughter followed. It was always them laughing at me. Don't these idiots know how to do anything besides that?

I hate them.

I hate them.

I hate them."

Flashback over

But it's morning now. It's fine. It's over. It's time to do it all again.

I need to find my things. My books, my bag, my uniform. My writing.

I pick up several books that littered the floor of the dorm, examining each of the books' covers. Vladimir Nabokov. The prose is beautiful. War and Peace. Ha, as if. It's a cover-up for *their* yaoi magazines. I don't know where they keep those That they can hide something from me like that just- terrifies me. Shakes me up so easily. Before the Sea's Scent Fades Away. Ugh. I'll never live up to this again. A collection of Poe. I hate his writing so much.

The last book trembles in the clutch of my right hand. This is a diary. It's mine, but I haven't read half of it. I should, I should see what *she's* been up to, but... I can't. I can't do it. I can't do anything.

I glance under the beside table, most of my books have fallen into a heap there. I pick them all up one by one like I would even use them. I dropped my bag off the side of my bed last night. Picking it up, I shove all my books into it haphazardly. I found my uniform dropped onto the top of my dresser. It's wrinkled. Ugly. Sounds familiar. I rip the half-written page out of the typewriter. The rest I can do by hand.

I have everything. I can leave. Not that I want to. Why would I want to? God, today will be terrible.

Every school day is like... once, I watched a video of an octopus that could squeeze itself through a dime-sized tube. And I got so claustrophobic and nervous just watching it; my breathing quickened an my shoulders hunched. Every day of school is like being that octopus, forcing myself through something far too small for me.

"Dear Hope's Peak Academy, your school is a hell-hole and I have no one to protect me." As if.

I walk to the school's main entrance, the door is locked. Oh. I forgot-I forgot my I.D. I feel my heartbeat getting faster. God, god, how could I be so stupid-but it wasn't at home, it wasn't there, I checked everything!

I felt sick, a boiling freeze in my stomach. Maybe yesterday when-I need to check the schoolyard.

It's happening, it's happening, it's-I feel as though I'm breathing water, treading water, I'm so tired just walking. My jaw is shaking and I can't stop it. I need a break. I need to... just find something to look at. Sit by some flowers, I don't know.

"It has to be back here somewhere." I thought. It wasn't always this dense back her, was it?

It's getting dark. Or no, I just think it is- it feels dark. I found *her* scissors and feel a bit ill as I held them in my hand. At least these scissors have some use.

There's something back there, I can see it. I snip away and think sickly of the punishment for hurting school property. There's a door here and enter to what appears to be one of the classrooms and began to search for my missing I.D.

It isn't here. It isn't her, because I've looked here. I know it. Glancing at a nearby wall, I take a moment and just read the words on the page not even reading just looking. It helps, if only a little. I wonder if anything will ever help more than just a little?

A medium sized object catches my eye and distracts me from wherever I search. "This is... a locked safe." Oh. Ahaha. Hahahaha. Of course, of course it is-The way my life works, the most difficult path is surely the only correct one. I don't know the combination. "Of course you don't; why would you?" But there's a remnant of a note attached to the front, like something had been torn away.

Taking another look at the safe, '00000' is all the screen reads and press a few random numbers. No luck. Ugh, I hate puzzles. I spy a piece of paper at the bottom of the bin and put it in my pocket.

Looking at another bin, 'There's a piece of a note in here.' It seem familiar. I take it. There's a part of a note in the trash here and take it out, immediately feeling more disgusting than usual.

Another random bin. There's something at the bottom-it's a piece of paper with writing on it and take it cautiously.

Looking at these notes, they fit together fairly neatly... I put them together as best I could and make the safe's...password...

This is... This is a puzzle. A sudoku puzzle to be exact, its numbers and colorful dots teasing me. I put it away, so I can look at it later.

After a difficult time solving the dreaded puzzle, I had successfully figured out the safe's password and walked over to type in the combination. Thank god. The safe opens. But its, its, its... empty.

I could laugh. I do laugh. I start laughing high and thin. It's not quite empty, I realize, giggling in a way I can't control. There's another note. "Check your door" it read.

I could scream. I do.

Running back to my dorm and there taped on the door in plain sight, it could have been stolen, it could have been broken is my I.D. I take it but have to collect myself and by collect myself, I mean falling apart in my room. Shaking. Crying.

It takes an hour at least. By the time I leave again, classes are half over. Which makes it worse. Which makes myself take more time. I spend the day staring at my books, not reading or listening. Ignored, as usual.

School has let out. Small miracles. About now I go back to my room and write, sometimes about the people who hurt me, but... I don't know if I can, today. They've taken even that away from me. May as well try.

Making my way back, everything was even more dulled than it was before. Taking a look around, I stared at one the various objects on the dorm room floor. Old. Old, disgusting. Just like me, one day.

Staring at my bed, now's not the time. I'm awake. Though sleeping has a certain appeal. The appeal being not to face recollections of this day. It's time to write, though. 'At least promise yourself that.' I thought.

My eyes glance at a potted plant, this is the only plant I haven't killed. That girl Fujisaki gave it to me though I think it might be fake but water it daily all the same.

Glancing at my typerwriter, I make my way towards the left side of the room. 'All right. Sit down.' I like to start out my writing time by typing up what I've handwritten. It sort of gets me flowing. Now I take my writing from- from my- bag-

Of course, it's not there. Of course it isn't. The way today's been going, I would have been so very suprised. Where could have it gone? Was it taken? Did I lose it in some flamboyant display of my own foolishness? Ok. No, not ok. This is not ok. Nothing is ok and right now, with my throat so constricted that I could hardly even breathe, I can't even consider to *think* to *consider* where my writing could -oh, god. I need to calm down. I say that alot to myself.

Calm down, Fukawa.

Calm down, you piece of trash.

Calm down, you disgusting waste.

And it doesn't work just saying it, and it hardly works trying all my little techniques, drinks of water, quiet moments. All the same.

What else can I do but go look for them. I saw them last during classes, maybe someone took them? Only one way to find out and began to walk back to the hellhole they call 'Hope's Peak Academy'.

After 15 minutes of walking the hall I spotted a familiar cream colored paper on the carpet. One of my writing pages. I guess maybe they got scattered, no. Someone... must have taken them, and... thrown them around like trash. Looking in a trash can, its empty and I feel disgusting. Twisting a knob, I discovered the doors are locked. I try another one, locked. It figures.

I checked one of the classrooms and found another one of my writing pages. There's a glint in the trash can. I don't know exactly know what I've taken to searching througt the garbage, but here I find a small key. On the key, there's a small tag reading, "Shop room."

Trying open the desk drawers, I discover that all the desk drawers are stuck. Or worse, fake.

My curiousity gets the best of me and I enter another room. On the ground I spot an old hand dial phone. Most of the numbers on the phone have faded away, all that's left is 4 and 6. Another safe is found amongst the various objects in the room: it's locked, of course. Another combination lock. I try the previous code from before, it doesn't work. No, no no, that's wrong! I don't know what I was thinking, that it would open it at all.

I spot a clock on the ground, only one of the hands is still on the clock. The big hand points to the 7. An old-fashioned cash register sits at the front counter, dust collecting from lack of use over the years. Most of the numbers on the number pad have gone blank from continuous use. There's still 7 and 3, though.

There's a page of my writing in the trash. Right where it belongs, I guess. I take it all the same, smoothing it out as best I can. The poster is covered in clipart and the words, "Ring tick ding!" Nothing makes any SENSE in this school.

There seems to be a pattern with all the items numbers within the room. I punch the few numbers on the combination pad, the lock clicks and the door opens. There's a key inside, a small one with a tag that reads "A/V room."

I make my way out of the shop room trying the key on random doors before one opens. From the corner of my eye, I spot a single piece of paper on the wall. This is... actually, this is a page of writing. It's mine, of course. 'Ugh, now there's staples in it.' I though, trying as carefully to remove the page from the wall.

Predictably, in the trash, there's... a... key... Less predictably, the key is snapped into two pieces. I scoop them up anyway and stare at them for a moment. Walking up to another desk, I shove things around until I find the superglue again spending around five minutes trying not to glue my fingers to the key. I come away with a precarious but mended key and sticky fingers.

Oh, joys of joys, another safe. I'm so sick of numbers. They never made any sense to me anyway, all their weird sharp shapes and formulas. I try to once again guess but no luck. At least I can force this one, if I need to.

Three pieces of paper were tacked to the bland beige walls, each having different handwritting than the other. 'A This page doesn't lie. 23501' it read, appearing to be typed. 'B C is false. This is the honest page. 41887.' another one read, handwritten in a different version of cursive. 'C A is false. This page is honest. 66928' this time written in a quiet plain, simple handwritting.

I decided to take as someone would say 'A wild guess' and pick C. Lock clicks, door opens, the usual. I am so tired of this. Tired in that deep, eyes-hurting, bone-aching way. My heart is heavy, fragile like dry dead leaves. Crunch, crunch. Only I would ever have to go through all this *process.* Finding yet another key and a page of my writing.

Only this time the key had no identification to what it open. Spending minutes searching through the vacant hallways, trying every door I passed until one of the rooms opened 'This key must go to the teacher's lounge.' It certainly didn't look like the classrooms, the only thing both rooms had in common were the many trash bins placed in the room. There's another page in here, too, and it looks like it's the last one that I can count having lost.

I hate this place.

I hate these people, the ones who would take from me and go to such lengths to make my life a living hell. Thinking about it boils me in a righteous, vicious rage, but then, I have no right to be angry at all. When I'm angry, I'm laughed at, belittled. I'm not angry at all, I guess, but oh, do I hate myself so. For letting them to me. For letting them take my things, for not watching closely enough, for being all alone in times like these.

My fault, of course.

My fault.

My fault.

My fault.

My fault.

'MY FAULT.' was the last thing I though before I blacked out.

"Fukawa-chan"

"Fukawa-san, Fukawa-san." I hear the echoes in my head but that's not here.

"Fukawa-chan, are you okay? You're shaking!" Was I? "It's a good thing that you're already in the infirmary..." Of course, now I know whose voice it is. Asahina Aoi, her large chest was as big a slut as she was. I hated her with a passion. The way she wore the same white tank top to reveal the large amount of cleavage and those ridiculous shorts that made the boys go wild like a pack of lions fighting for their prey.

"Fukawa-chan, are you alright?" she says again, looking almost as if she cares.

I say "No, I'm not." getting up and then leaving. I don't understand. Why she followed me a few feet behind, why she smiled whenever I looked.

I am not allowed to have people who care for me.

It's the sort of isolated life I lead. Insolated. Cold. Dangerous. I ruin things so I can't touch anything or I'll cover it in ice. I close the door on her. "I'm not inviting you in so go away." I'm going to bed. I curl up on top of the sheets, still in my uniform.

Knock. Knock. "Fukawa-chan? It's me. Um..." Her again. "I'm sorry if I'm bothering you. But I wanted you to know that... if you want, we can be friends?" F-friends? "So you can talk to me whenever! You can even over and hit me, if you want or throw something at me. I can take it!" Was she being serious?

"Um, so, I hope you feel better. I think you deserve to. And, um, I found this..." The sound of paper sliding on the ground. I crack an eye open and see a sheet of my writing under the door. "Ok, well, I'll go now. Sorry! Um, bye!" Her footsteps are loud but light but hearing her voice, maybe-maybe it calms me down enough that I'm not thinking about how fast my breathing is going, how much I hate, hate, hate this place and everyone in it, how quickly my heart is beating.

I drift off to sleep, thinking:

'Well, no one deserves of me but there are some people strong enough to shoulder it.'