Anger was the first stage.
Anger, red hot and burning, like the blood underneath Nagi's fingertips, like the guts and bits and pieces of men scattered and smeared on the walls. Anger, the substance that came bubbling up from within him, materializing itself in laughter and obscene screams. He thought nothing of it as he tore intestines and stomachs and organs from those he'd murdered. There was no premeditation, nor second thoughts. He let himself free, tearing into people and mutilating them until they were no longer even recognizable. Anger, burning within him, ripping free as the blood, guts, and brain spilled forth on the floor, soaking the floor tiles and smeared on the walls in some sort of bizarre finger-painting.
Anger, like he'd never felt it before. Anger that brought forth joy and release. He'd howled with laughter when the Branches of Sin tore into them, watching with wide-open eyes the entire time. He'd taken their guts and organs, feeling the texture of the intestines or the slimy, smoothness of a still-beating heart, and he'd squeeze it, wringing blood out of it, his hands dyed red, the color that symbolized his rage. He'd stomp on whatever he'd pulled from a person, or throw it at a wall just to watch it splatter and ooze. He had felt the utmost joy at being able to hold the organs of a member of the group that had killed his wife, and he'd felt even more joy when he'd been able to cave their face in or drag their brains and intestine out, the grey of the brains and the red of the blood mixing to make an even lovelier color. Joy, because he was destroying them as they'd destroyed his family.
He remembers it now, and "No," he whispers. "These memories aren't mine." But they are, and he knows damn well that they are. He can feel it again, the anger, the stage he hadn't even known he'd went through until now, and he can also feel the high of sadistic joy he'd gotten from painting the room full of organs and guts of his enemies, and it's that that scares him. He doesn't want to believe that these memories are his. So he denies it. Maybe that will make them go away, as if they could disappear at will. He doesn't know how to live with himself knowing that he'd so brutally killed so many like that. He doesn't want to think of that person as him. Oh, but it is, and he knows it, and it's suddenly become a fact that he can't deny, and one the man in front of him won't let him forget.
He wants to say it again. He wants to claim again that the memories aren't his. But he can't, and he relives them again and again, and while there's guilt, something else stirs inside of him.
Something else red hot and burning. Anger.
Denial was the second stage.
He doesn't have a child. He never had a child. Not a born child, at least. But he'd honestly thought he had. He hadn't kept an empty locket around his neck—no, he had seen an actual picture in there. Maybe there was some sort of clue he'd overlooked, whether it was the look Karako's face when he first showed her the locket, or the fact that the picture had never looked quite right. There had never been a born child. It was all an illusion made up by his grieving mind, and he'd convinced himself that there was someone waiting out there, a little girl, his kin, someone who loved him. It had given him hope, a light in the dark tunnel that encased the entirety of Deadman Wonderland, something to look forward to once he and the other deadmen broke out of the prison and showed the rest of the world what really went on.
That had been the plan. He was going to hold his daughter in his arms for the first time. He was going to be a dad. He was going to have a family. Nothing about all that hope had felt fake. To him, it had all felt very real. But it wasn't real. It had been a way of coping with grief. He remembers it all now, and he can almost feel his pregnant wife in his arms, dying, his phantom vocal cords straining as he tried to call out even just her name or to whisper to her that it was going to be alright. He remembers now that the child died with her, his unborn daughter.
The Undertaker tells him that his child isn't dead. He's smiling that ever-constant, sadistic smile as he leans in and Nagi can feel his breath on the skin of his face and it leaves him trying to pull away from him, yanking against the chains. He's forced to listen, forced out of his stage of denial, forced to face the facts as Genkaku tells him of the fate of his unborn child. He doesn't want to listen, and he wants to be back in his state of bliss, denying that he'd slaughtered the monk's men and denying that the only thing he had to look forward to was gone and had never been. Ignorance is bliss, but he's no longer allotted that feeling. He has to face the reality now, and he comes crashing into it head-first as tears form at the corners of his eyes. He vows not to show his weakness, but it's too late.
Much too late, as he's reminded by the widening of Genkaku's smirk as he leans forward, his slimy, hot tongue flicking at the single tear that had made its way down Nagi's bruised cheek, the Undertaker's hand cupping the stump of a limb that had once been.
Nagi clenches his teeth at the feeling, revolted by his closeness and the hand on his skin. He wonders how he'd lived in denial for so long, how he'd gone so far without noticing, and why the others had allowed him to live in his world filled with illusions for so long. If he had known that there was nobody and nothing waiting for him, he doubts he would have gone this far. If he'd known, he wouldn't have been betrayed. Lives wouldn't have been lost. And he wouldn't be here right now, unable to move much, drugged, and wallowing in painful memories. He has no one now, and the others are dying because of his incompetence to see through one person's act. He's falling, and he doesn't know what's going to happen.
He's snapped back to the present when he feels a harsh yank at his neck, and then the snapping of the thin chain the locket hung around his neck on. It snaps off with ease, and falls into Genkaku's hand with little more than a hard pull and now Nagi knows what's going to happen, and he begs, bargaining, pleading, "No, no, no-". There was no child. He has no born daughter. He knows it, but he doesn't want—doesn't want to see the inside of the locket, the emptiness, the despair.
There's a moment of Nagi simply begging, the same word falling from his lips as he struggles against the binds holding him down. He stops the moment he hears the soft click of the locket opening, and he's left staring at his own reflection in the metal of the empty locket. That's the end of the denial.
Bargaining and depression are lumped together and he doesn't know where one stops and the other begins.
He doesn't know how long it's been, nor how and when he got on the floor. He knows he's drugged, and he knows he can't move, and he wonders, hopes, that he might die here. Everything's a blur and he doesn't know what's going to happen or what's happening. He feels hands on his skin, calloused at the fingertips from the hard strings of guitars. He can only softly cry out in protest once his waist scarf is pulled away from him, but no words form at his mouth, the sound he makes being akin to an owl's hoot. He's promised the scarf back, and he knows what's going on, and he doesn't want to fight anymore. There's no fight left in him. Part of him does want to throw Genkaku off of him, but there's another stronger part of him forces him to lie there, because the others are dying and there's not a damn thing he can do about it, so what's the point in even trying?
There's hands on him everywhere, and he can't fight it, nor can he recognize what those wandering hands are doing, but he knows it's Genkaku's hands on him and the simple thought forces bile to rise in his throat. Everything's blurry and distant, and the touches feel like they're miles and miles away from him. He's drifting further and further, feeling nails at his skin and teeth and a tongue. He does nothing, lying underneath the monk, allowing him to have his way with him. Those fingers continue, strumming across his torso and downwards, playing him like an instrument. It's only now that Nagi becomes very aware that the panting, gasping breathing filling the room isn't just the Undertaker's.
He's sensitive to touch, more sensitive than he's ever been before, and it's obvious that Genkaku has no boundaries. His teeth dig into Nagi's skin, his collarbone, dangerously close to the scars around his neck. Fingers trail across his lost arm, and he hears but doesn't quite comprehend some sort of snide remark hissed into his ear. He feels the breath, though, hot against the skin of his face and ear, accompanying the fingers stroking along where Nagi's arm had been cut off, rounding the stump. And Nagi just lies on the floor, allowing it all. He has nothing left. There's nothing more to fight for. He's been a failure to the others. He's failed himself, as well. People are dying now because of his constant delusions that he'd so relied on for two years. Without that, there's no more driving force. There's no reason left.
And yet, through the drug filled haze, Nagi has never felt so real.
He's never felt the harsh reality like this. He's never felt such a loss for hope. He's never felt such despair. He knows that this is it. This is the real thing. This is reality. This is life without delusion.
This is solitude.
He's alone in the world now. Since he's failed the others, there's no way they would still stand with him. His wife is gone. His child never was. He's completely alone, and he begs silently please, please, please let me die here to a god he's not sure is even listening. He begs to be let free of this pain, this reality, and he knows that he would give anything to go back to the insanity consisting of a deluded reality that he'd lived in before, because even being insane would be better than this.
His body is reacting to its own accord against Genkaku's actions, but Nagi doesn't care. There's no reason for him to care. If he can't die, then this is what he deserves. He lets it happen, losing himself as he shivers against the cold of the room, another wordless, panicked bird's cry rising from his scarred throat. It's met with an unexpected reaction, something more gentle than he ever could have imagined coming from Genkaku. He'd never thought anything even remotely kind could have come from the mouth of the man who'd killed his wife and subsequently, his child. He'd never wanted to imagine that, nor had he ever thought to actually be calmed by it. He feels himself unwillingly relax, just slightly. Whatever is running through his system makes him incapable of letting him do much more than tense up.
He doesn't know what he wants anymore. He doesn't know what to beg and bargain for. He hates this reality and the pain, both physical and psychological, and he hates the pain of knowing that he brutally slaughtered twenty undertakers, and he hates remembering how invigorating it was, how free it made him, and how much he'd enjoyed it. He begs for something, anything, trying to form words and speak, trying to beg to anyone who'd listen, his voice coming out in short, breathless hoots, the calls of a bird who couldn't speak at all. It hurts, and he wants something, anything, but he doesn't know what. He can't think. He can't feel. Everything is gone except this.
It hurts. He doesn't know if Genkaku is trying to hurt him or not, but he is, and even the pain of losing his arm wasn't like this. He can feel it too well, and he begs to stop, pathetic and weak, lying on the tiled floor like a broken winged bird. The monk calls him Owl, never referring to Nagi by his actual name, constantly making comments comparing him to the actual bird, and yet, he finds some sort of solace in his voice. It's always there, never wavering, and no matter how much Nagi despises this man, he's the only thing Nagi has left to hold on to.
He feels like he's being ripped apart at the seams and sewn into something new. His fingers try to clench, movement only slightly possible. Things were beginning to clear, but not by much. His fingers twitch, and his caw is a sharp yell of pain as he's torn apart, and he begs for something to hold onto, something to cling to, to clutch until his knuckles turned white and the joints of his fingers ached. He breathed heavily, his panting in synch with Genkaku's as he both physically and mentally feels himself being ripped apart. He wants something to hold onto, to vent his pain into. He hates this and yet…
It's not as rough as he expected. It's not that rough at all. He had expected something a lot worse, a lot more violent, but this isn't that. He wants Genkaku to be violent and rough with him, but another silent plea is left unheard as his naked hips slightly buck upwards in response to the monk's touches and thrusting. He'd be a lot less confused if Genkaku had the intention of hurting him and tearing him to pieces. He'd be able to hate Genkaku. But right now, this is all he has. Everyone else left him, and now, only this remains.
Maybe this wouldn't have happened if he'd been a better leader. Maybe they would've gotten out. Maybe they would've achieved freedom. Maybe he could've lived his entire life without knowing he'd never had a child. Maybe. It was all maybe, and he would give anything for any of those 'what ifs' to become truths. But this is reality. They're not true. This is reality, and the fact of the matter is that he wasn't a good leader and they didn't get out, and it's no one but his fault, and the realization of that just breaks him apart further.
He doesn't know what he wants. He's able to raise his hand now, just a bit, and instead of trying to push and shove the Undertaker off of him, he rather grabs at Genkaku's back and shoulder, clutching onto him as slews and slews of emotions rush through him. Anger boils beneath his skin again, anger that he only remembers feeling two years before, and he's suddenly so in touch with reality and so 'there', despite the drugs, that he wants nothing more than to take it out on something, someone. He remembers what it felt like to slaughter the Undertakers and how it'd felt to squeeze the life from them. He wanted that again. He wanted a way to get all of this out. He wanted the pain to stop.
He wanted—
Salvation.
And salvation was exactly what he got.