I own nothing of Soul Eater.

sync me to your soul


0 .breakup and breakdown.


Maka


Papa comes home late at night or maybe early morning, either way, she's not quite so sure anymore. His hair is a flaming crow's nest, snot and tears running like streamers out every possible opening on his face. Without further ado from his entrance, he bawls, "PA–PAPA LOVES MAMA AND MAKA THE MOST!"

And promptly kisses the floor.

She's used to the melodrama, watching silently from her bedroom door, finally decides she needs to him peel off the floor before he's permanently glued on by his own slobber.

Maka sluggishly hauls him onto his knees, glancing at the puddle of bodily fluids and noting to herself that she needs to wipe the floor in the morning. He falls against the wall, sliding once again to the floor, mumbling his drunken apologies to his fingers.

When she pulls him up again, he mauls her, blabbering nonsense and saliva into her neck.

She's not surprised at all that her mother had finalised the divorce and left that stupid lying skirt-chaser of a man. Maka doesn't blame her at all; her mama suffered time after time of endless cheating, believing the pretty plastic promises her papa fed. It's right for her mama to be finally free of the lead weight that held her down. But she's surprised to feel hollow, as if the woman who walked out of her life also packed away a piece of Maka's heart, leaving a gaping hole in her chest, a missing piece of a jigsaw.

Hoping he'll maul anything else other than her, Maka unceremoniously dumps him on the floor near his room, and her father struggles to his knees and stumbles, hugging the wall for support. The stink of floral perfume overpowers her, and he staggers inside his room, teetering precariously on his feet. Maka hurries to the bathroom to wash off any existing papa slime. The moaning continues, for a while at least, drifting out his open bedroom door.

She stares into the mirror, looking at the face that looks so much like her mother. A loud phlegm-racking snoring begins, and Maka knows it's time to go to bed. It soon quietens down to a shrill wheeze that sets Maka's mind in turmoil, the desolation finally catching up to her.

The near-silence is poison to her mind, as coherent thinking pours salt over her freshly opened emotional wounds. Her mother was a strong-willed woman; she did things her own way. No one could keep her down.

Not even Maka.


Some constructive criticism please?