Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry,
When the boys came out to play,
Georgie Porgie ran away.
She's gone.
That's it really. There's no bitter resentment at the world that took the one thing he loved away from him. There's no foul aftertaste lingering on though she doesn't. There's no anger. There's no pain. There's no sorrow. Only a stinging numbness, an empty feeling that starts in his throat and spreads downwards to his stomach. It skips his middle, but he feels it in his knees and his ankles and the soles of his feet, which ache with every weary step that he takes, despite no longer caring where he goes.
It's disgusting.
He's hollow, and no amount of food could ever fill him. Every dish is the same; tasteless, bland, rotten, filthy. Bread turns stale in the hands that once kneaded it. Hands that could remove feasts from ovens know begin to fry in the heat. A body that was once plump, healthy, well-fed, now wears an apron that's too big, shirts that hang loose, and trousers that need belts where they didn't before.
Nothing will ever taste as good as her cooking. It's the only thing he wants. It's the only thing he needs. He has no appetite for anything else. Even his own food pales in comparison to hers. And no one cares that he loses weight. No one cares that he loses interest. The school would, if they had the ability to. They'd tell him he's only here because of his cooking, and if he can't focus on it, then he's not worthy of his title. If he's not worthy of his title, then he has no place in this school.
He knows he isn't worthy of his title. He doesn't care if the school kicks him out. He hates it here. Because it's their fault; if he wasn't at Hope's Peak, he could have been there with her. He could have kept her safe. He could have let her know she was loved, right until the end. If he wasn't here, who's to say it would have even ended?
He screams, but it isn't an anguished scream. It isn't a pained scream. It's a frustrated, pathetic attempt at feeling something, feeling anything. And it doesn't work. Just like all the other screams don't work.
She's the only one worthy of the title of Chef. No one else could ever cook like she could.
The tears come, like they always do, accompanied by that urge to vomit that he can't explain. He's eaten so little that if he did vomit it would probably just be acid anyway. For a moment he considers that the pain he'd feel as it surged up his throat would at least be pain. It would be something more than just this sense of incompatibility with the rest of the world. It's like he's on another level; a level that does not exist for everyone else, that only he has the ability to play, to reach, to complete.
He loved her. He loved her and she loved him.
None of the other girls have ever felt anything for him. They laughed at him. They scoffed him and called him names and rejected rejected rejected him. There are only so many times a guy can hear the word "no" before he just expects it. Not that that ever stopped him. He'd hear the same response a million times if it meant one day he might hear a different one. And in the end, he supposes it became a coping mechanism. Hit on a girl. Hit on a guy. Hit on anyone and everything so they don't see how empty you are inside, so they don't see how much you miss home. And don't tell them where home is; don't ever tell them that. Don't speak about your mother because you slip into her dialect and her dialect isn't understandable and isn't acceptable and just keep this front going no matter how many times you get turned down because if you keep going keep going keep going, then one day you might reach the end you want.
Except he doesn't know where the end is anymore. And he doesn't care about reaching it.
He kicks over a desk. He's taking to sulking in classrooms after lessons are over; it's not something students are meant to do, but who gives a shit anymore. People are dying. Hope's Peak is losing control. The teachers don't give a fuck about the students; they never did. They just want to look as good as possible for as long as possible.
He smirks, and for a second, just a fleeting second, he feels a rush. He's not sure what it is; relief, maybe. Gratitude. He's just so... so glad that someone is doing this, that someone is tearing this school apart from the inside. He doesn't know what they're doing, no one does. They're not allowed. Students aren't allowed to know. But something went wrong, something went very, very wrong. Some plan the school had to make them look even better than usual backfired and now they're suffering the way he is because he made the decision, the wrong decision, to come to this shithole. Because he left home. Because he left her alone.
Hope's Peak deserves to be punished, and that's just what some glorious person has clearly got their mind set on doing.
The anticipation starts to fill his body, raw and real. It's not a lot of emotion, but it's the most he's had in a long time and it overwhelms him for a second. He staggers back and sits down, because this rush is just too much. His head is reeling and his mind is racing and his heart is beating with all the vigour its lacked for however long, and for the first time in forever, he feels alive.
He promised his mother he would graduate, and that's just what he's going to do. Then he's going to burn this hellhole to the ground and send it back to the fires from whence it came. He won't be a prisoner here. Not anymore.
His feet seem to guide him, and he realises that they might know where his end is, because the path he now treads leads him to the most incredible sight he's ever seen, and he smiles up at that sight, and she smiles back at him. She holds him close to her. She says she's been waiting for someone like him. She says the words no other girl has ever said.
"Yes."
And she takes his hand and leads him to a glorious promised land, a land where Hope's Peak is rubble and its staff are putty in his hand. A land where he can take revenge on those who wronged him, on those who wronged his mother, and in this land, he regains his appetite. With countless knives at his disposal and everyone else as his ingredients, he begins to cook again. He prepares banquets for her, and she laughs and relishes every bite of the meal, because he's done so, so well. Her little chef.
He sees his mother in her. He sees his mother in his actions. He cooks in his mother's memory. And it's in his mother's memory, and Junko Enoshima's name, that he cuts, and slices, and peels, and chops, and guts, and boils, and burns.
It's in his mother's memory and Junko Enoshima's name that his apron stains red with blood once again.