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Inequity
Red dotted the ground precariously, the sound wet and gruesome as it splashed the dappled grey-and-brown earth, the smell pungent and sickeningly sweet as it fermented and marinated, bringing the whole scenario to life.
Three dimensional.
"Beautiful", he would have called it, if it hadn't belonged to him.
The quiet thud echoed across the plane, seeming magnified ten times its usual volume as it reached his ears. He wondered if everything was this loud for Marie.
It seemed so unrealistic that he would be the one to die; he who was rumoured "immortal". He had sustained wounds before – both calibres of serious and paltry, and he had always come back.
It was an intense feeling, his mind thrumming an echo for every crimson drop that left his body half a fraction colder – not that he'd been all that warm to begin with.
His breath mingled with the dust beneath his face, each inhale filling his mouth with dirt and coating his tongue and teeth with sand-fine grains while rocks – sharp and malicious – poked into his sides, teasing the wound and picking it apart further in the most sadistic of ways.
"Maybe this is payment," he muttered as an akuma wailed loudly to his left, a smirk fixing itself on his lips, only to be replaced by a grimace as he drew in another, more painful breath. "Maybe this is judgement." He struggled to laugh, but soon gave up. It hurt too much. "Maybe this is the end."
"–da!" Someone called faintly, already distant – lost in his painful haze; a wonderland he had yet to explore.
"–da!" The voice called again – most certainly male, he decided, half annoyed, half amused. His eyelids were heavy, slowly closing on him, blotting out the sun, the flashes of silver, the red.
Why couldn't they just leave him alone? His side was on fire and he had the notion that if he went to sleep now, that pain would go away. Why couldn't he just go to sleep?
"Kanda!" Someone screamed.
Kanda closed his eyes.
–––––––––``
It was bright, he noted, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Too bright.
His head was spinning and the urge to throw up overwhelmed him as he lay on the soft bed, the mental shock of white lights too much for his body to take.
Was he in Heaven?
The painful jab along his left side and the pressure on his chest answered in a resounding no, he was not in Heaven.
Maybe it was Hell, then.
He mentally nodded (physical movement still beyond his grasp). That seemed more accurate. He'd heard that Hell was an incredibly painful place.
Cautiously, he peeled an eye open, and was rewarded with a stable image. He opened the other, too.
An off-white rectangle met his vision and he followed it to a dark beige stain in the upper right corner, leading down, down, down–oh. A room: he was in a room. He didn't think that rectangles had creases. Or stains, for that matter.
He traced the brown-coloured seam with one eye, following it down across the gleaming grey floor to a white mop resting against his leg. Upon further inspection, he discovered that it wasn't a mop, but rather hair. Hair that was attached to white, white skin buried under black cloth – an arm, he realized after a moment of staring. The fact that it wasn't white startled him. There was colour.
There was colour.
He blinked as a pale blue eye fluttered open, the eyelashes – a dingy grey colour – waving at him: up and down, up and down. He heard a lazy, muffled yawn from under the coat and wondered if maybe, maybe he'd woken this stranger up by looking at him. A trill of guilt ran down his spine as he noticed dark purple bruises under the stranger's eye. That was impossible, though, and he immediately dismissed the notion (and the guilt).
Slowly, the man raised his head, rubbing at his eyes with the fist that wasn't busy holding his hand. He was remotely surprised to see a red pattern – tattoo, he decided – down the left side of his face. Surprisingly, it suited him, the passive design adding a strange artistic glow to the character's face, angry and red, yet dangerous and disquieting.
Shocked blue eyes, hazy with sleep, turned to him, peeking out from behind half closed eyelids.
A moment passed. And another, and another.
"Kanda...," the boy murmured, sounding surprised to see him. He wondered if this person often crawled into people's rooms and slept on them (and kept their hands captive). The thought unnerved him. Then, with more enthusiasm, he added, "Kanda! Kanda! They said you might not wake up! You've been out for three weeks, but I knew you'd wake up. Hah! Lavi lost the bet! He lost! That means I won...! And Lenalee–" he turned out the babble expertly, musing on the sparse information that had been fed to his poorly deprived brain. Making sense of it wasn't easy, as he had expected. He didn't have enough to go on.
Lavi? Lenalee? Who were those people? Who was this person? Obviously the boy knew him, but he had no recollection of ever meeting any white-haired boys.
He had said three weeks... he'd been out for three weeks? How? Why? He stared at the boy as he continued to ramble, trying to figure out where he was and who it was beside him.
"–you gave us a scare, Kanda-san." The boy was saying, squeezing his hand tightly. Ah. He–his name was Kanda, apparently. He'd thought it was some form of speech pattern or a god this person acknowledged as his "own". Kanda frowned.
The oblivious boy seemed to realize that something was wrong then, when he got no reaction. "Kanda-san?" He prompted patiently, his blue eyes filling with concern.
"Where am I? What happened?" He shook his head to clear it, looking for an answer and ignoring the stab of pain that lanced along his side. Lurching another violent spasm through his torso and threatening to make him vomit.
The shocked look on the white-haired boy's face irritated him for some reason, and when no answer was forthcoming, he tried a different approach.
"Who are you?"
(Inequity – because in return for life, you must forget everything. It's amnesia. Ah, the horror of anonymity and conformity. 'S not so different from what we do every day, hmn? 'M not so happy with the ending, but let me know what you think. – Requisite)