This is just a drabble I came up with a few nights ago and decided to write down when I was terribly terribly exhausted and falling asleep - grammar mistakes have been fixed, but as such it has not been beta'ed and likely never will be, since it is just a small spewing of my imagination. I believe there are two different ways that the ending could be interpreted, and I'm honestly curious as to how it comes across, so please let me know what you think.
Trigger warning for panic attacks, depression, and (somewhat graphic?) mentions of death.
I do not own Magic Kaito or any of its affiliates, and it's likely a good thing that I don't, as I have doubts as to whether I'd have published more than Aoyama has by way of content for it at this point.
You smile, because it hurts.
Every moment you walk into school there's just more and more hurt. More and more from her. You don't blame her, of course not, it's all your fault after all. But sometimes you wish things had turned out differently.
All the time, actually.
You smile, because that's it. That's the poker face.
It's not a neutral expression. It's not telling. It's a default.
When she insults you, smile. When she's angry at you, smile. When she talks about how much she wants you in jail, how much you deserve it, how much you're horrible and you should rot in hell and never come back and how much you should leave her alone and let her father be in peace and give her her father back, her friend back, her life back.
Smile.
And you do.
Even though it's tearing you apart.
Especially because it's tearing you apart.
Can you only imagine how she feels?
You can't.
But you can't stop either.
Stopping means letting the killers get away. Letting yours fathers' murderers get away. Letting them go off in their search for something so unbelievable and to remain so determined in their goal that they will kill anyone that crosses their path. Anyone that even thinks about getting in their way.
You can't do that.
But you can't stand to see her lonely face contorted in pain again, either.
You smile, because otherwise you'll break down.
You'll panic, you'll freeze, you'll lose it. You can't afford to lose it.
The last time you did was the night you learned that your father didn't die in an accident. You held it together pretty well, you'll admit. Long enough to get home, get to your father's room, and break down.
You're breaking down right now, but you don't want to admit it. You can't. You don't have the capability for that. Your lungs are filling with too much oxygen, your hands reaching up to grab at your neck, in your hair, around your throat.
Tears are streaming down your face, you're not paying attention. Neither is she. Neither is he.
Your best friend and your best rival, they don't know, and they won't.
You can't afford that luxury.
Even as you practically suffocate yourself. Even as you beg and plead for it to stop even though you know you deserve it.
Even if you wish your life had turned out differently.
You're exhausted, now, and that's understandable. Did you know that a panic attack consumes the same amount of energy as running a marathon? Of course you did. You're smart. You have an IQ of 400 and an eidetic memory. You remember everything in a clear, detailed picture.
And suddenly their lifeless bodies flash before your eyes, cut and shot down until there was nothing left.
Even in dreams, you have no peace.
But that's where you're headed now, aren't you excited? Your body can't keep up with it anymore. It's tired, drained, losing energy. You know what'll happen when you fall asleep. You'll be back in that land of terror. Back where they're dead and it's your fault and there's nothing you can do about it.
Her, sprawled out on the floor in front of you – frozen in shock at your unmasked face and the moment before the bullet went through her heart. That moment frozen on her face, forever.
Him, desperately clinging to the stone you'd had not moments previous, shielding it from its wanted captors. Fighting them off. Now lifeless on the floor, sprawled out on the pool of blood pouring from the slash in his neck.
They were unaware. They were innocent. They weren't part of this, and that lack of knowledge very well may have been what killed them.
You smile, because you're crying and the mask is shattering and there's nothing to be done about it, and you can only hope that sleep comes easy and your mind allows you some rest, devoid of the images that just won't. go. Away.
Your imagination is cruel, tormenting you every second it gets the chance with you and it hurts. And finally, finally you find that sweet relief coming, creeping up on you as a blackness in the vision and a shadow settling down across your shoulders.
Oh, you let it. You sink further and further, willing to let the dreams images go away in hope for something else. Anything else. And you slip down, further and further.
.
.
.
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.
You wake up.