The pen stops moving over the paper, not because of the aching pain from him writing too long again. He was writing about another one of his friend's death, describing their screams of agony, told of their pleading eyes, and their thankful smiles as they realized he was going to put a bullet in their brain.
The young man placed the pen down and leaned back into the wooden hard seat, letting out a long sigh. Then pushing further back, he pulled away from the desk and stood up. Through broken glasses he stares out of the window, watching the winter grey skies.
Kohta was not longer the boy he once was, he was a man; the fat had turned to muscle, while he was still wide, he had grown far taller than Takashi Komuro ever could, because Takashi had stopped growing when he died.
A sharp intake of breath and he stared at the paper once again. Kohta wanted people to know, those in the future. Wanted them to know that these people, his friends, lived and fought with their whole being.
Until his own death Kohta would keep a copy of his friends life, other copies he was boxing up and placing around Japan for others to find. This was his goal now, this was the only thing he lived for, just to say to the future would, 'We Were Here!'.
The tall young man harden his eyes and nodding his head to himself he went to sit back down; this copy was to be left here, he was sure people would find it in this kind of place.
Putting pen to paper again, Kohta continued on with his quest.
