Character: Hollow Ichigo
Dinner
There's a place on the far end of the table where no one ever approaches.
That place is barren, is devoid, is empty of feeling and sight. And is a remembrance too, of someone they all knew a long time ago. The touch, the thought is cavernous—he likes it. Something sacred, something horrid (and demonic). Somehow, he's got it all down: Ichigo is sitting there (across from him) and facing The Family. Loud, obstreperous and infinitely annoying.
Ichigo.
The one on the outside, and he. Him. It. Stood looking in. Like through a window with no glass, just a diamond shell cut and split and revealing grotesque innards of some decayed animal. He can see all the dirty-stinking-rotten tricks they've planted in others' minds, his, and all their own.
The Family: The Father, The Sisters, and Ichigo.
And him.
The one looking in.
But there's a place on the far end of the table where no one ever glances at. Not even for a teeny, tiny, fracture of a minute.
Because that's his spot: the place where he sits (if he could, manifested in some form). And they all know this too. Because at every meal, there's a silver platter placed speck-and-clean on the tablecloth. Perfect.
Just like him. This he is musing.
(And sometimes, on the plate, there would be a head. Dinner Is Served.)