Blood runs steadily down the front of her face, dripping from the lowest part of the child's pink bangs. Surrounded by flesh, broken and bloodied, fallen in awkward positions, several figures locked in protective embrace. Expressive faces with empty eyes like mannequins on a store shelf, clothed in the finest shades of crimson and black.
There was so much blood. Blood was currency, blood was payment. Roughly a meter behind her, a young boy lifts his hand. She breaks his wrist without so much as turning around.
From either side of her skull, roughly perpendicular to her temples, two small horns protrude from scarlet-stained locks.
Her small frame shudders in cold realization. She cannot even begin to comprehend what she has done.
She is overwhelmed by the carnage. And all at once, she cannot understand. All she knows now are her complacent memories of Kouta. She cries out in desperation, and her voice is swallowed by the silence. It consumes her, and there is no escape.
She finds her feet, stumbling, and begins to run from the scene of calm chaos she's created. Her mind gropes for words, grasping at potential causes, and comes up short. The small creature, clothed only in darkness, disappears into the night.
