Title: Rot Me

Pairings: Multiple

Rating: Teen (T)

Warning(s): Mild Depictions of Violence, Torture, and Coarse Language, Suggestive Themes

Recommended Font/Page Layout: Open Sans, 1/2, Expand, Light Story Contrast

Author's Note: Alternate universe, slow build-up, re-upload/re-do of previous version, characters and certain elements from Tsukihime and Fate/Prototype featured, references to Greek lore, mythology, and literature, references to Mesopotamian lore and literature, references to various religions and beliefs

Read and review, but most of all enjoy

I. Misery

A crimson moon, hovering high above in a bleak sky filled with dark clouds, casting a sinister hue over everything caught under its luminescence, painting the barren landscape with its sanguine brush, and dripping with the screams of the dying, the dead, and the damned. The wind as it howled, carrying the voices along, unifying them in a distorted harmony across the nothingness, rising in volume, crying out against wrongs committed, and cursing the world for their untimely demise at the hands of another or because of some fault of their own. Rage-filled anguish that tore through an ever perpetual darkness, birthing hatred to be nurtured in the crags and lulled to sleep, waiting for the time when the depraved shall wake again.

Curled in a fetal position on her bedroom's hardwood floor, staring at her hand and the twinkles of dust dancing around it, bathed in the warmth of a tangerine-coloured dawn, hearing the chirp of bird and buzz of insect outside the window, that was what she saw in her dreams whenever the real moon was full and bright. Porcelain-white replaced by blood-red fright.

Lying there in silence, feeling the heavy weight upon her body being lifted, she knew she had survived another night and, waited awhile longer, before gathering the strength to stand, brushing her hair aside as she now stared at herself in the bathroom mirror and looked into once muddy eyes, cleaned white. Her irises, previously pigmented blue but now showing signs of red. A lack of sleep, and running her fingers through her hair, pulling dead-ends, she tongued her canines, then let it wander, roll around, going over both rows of teeth as she found and spat out a clumped together wad of fluff that flew somewhere off to the right with a zombified grunt.

Washing her hands and splashing ice-cold water on her face, Misaya twisted the rusted valve tight, shutting it off, and shouldered her schoolbag, knowing class was already in session, had long since been, and, once again, knowing she was late. In the living room, her father still sat on his knees in front of the altar, face filthy, hair greasy, and beard untamed. Just staring straight ahead, possessed by the portrait of her long dead mother, a stranger she'd never had the privilege of meeting, as she passed him by with not a word, already out the door and trekking her way up the dirt road toward the hill the school rested atop, braving the swelter of a semi-tropical summer.

When she finally made it, her eyes wandered to the chicken coop outside the church she never attended right next to the school. Another one had went missing, not that she really cared and, continuing inside, head down, she trudged her way through the deserted halls of the school to her classroom. Now standing before the door, peering inside, Ms. Tsukuda was at the board, writing what appeared to be a simple math equation, explaining it as she went. Taking a breath, Misaya knew the chance of her tardiness going unnoticed was nil, same as all the others, and quickly turned the knob, hearing the tail end of what her homeroom teacher was saying as the door shut with a groan behind her.

"... and, taking into account Ms. Reiroukan's slight hesitation at the door, we arrive at our solution: forty minutes and thirty-one seconds late. Twenty minutes shorter than the last time. An improvement."

To the onlook of the other students, she took her seat, ignoring their stares, and, when she laid her head on her desk, their whispers, as Ms. Tsukuda called for silence, chalk in hand at her podium, telling them to continue with the next equation on whatever page they were on prior to her calculated arrival. Behind half-rimmed glasses her eyes seemed to smile, though her scolding expression remained, as she then told her to wake up and join the rest of the class.

Not that she was listening to a damned thing the woman said, leaving her bag untouched against her chair and, as Ms. Tsukuda continued to talk, quickly tuned her out, absentmindedly thinking of the latest chicken to have went missing, the fourth one since she and her father had arrived on the island, having only been here for a whole whooping three months. A new record, given how on the morning of the second or third week her father would already be packing his bags and forcing her to abandon what little progress she would make toward settling in, creating a pattern that eventually led them here, and driving her to the point where she just didn't give a shit anymore.

As if she would make any friends here, anyway.

They were social outcasts on an island far out from the mainland where the highest level of thought equated to "how many pigs does it take to fill one pen?". A close-knit community for all the idiots of Japan where the only thing weirder than being a handicap was being an unsociable shut-in. Though, whatever rumours were being spread on her behalf were the result of her father never leaving their house, not because of her attendance records or own lack of sociability and, again, not that she gave a flying fuck, as the rest of class went by with her doing nothing as usual and, now, elbow propped on her desk as she sipped a carton of juice, her gaze was half on the measly lunch she bought and half out the window, looking toward the chicken coop for the second time today. She leaned back in her chair, arm hanging lazily over the side, and looked around at the others in the class, before travelling back to it, wondering if anyone else had noticed the drastically decreasing number of chickens as she took another sip of her juice. Her answer? None of them, probably.

Though, reaching for her bread, she could certainly think of one who might have as she felt a sharp jab and twitched. It was acting up again, and she ignored it the best she could, straining as she chewed, a searing pain coming from the back of her neck. Pain that dulled and deadened the senses beneath her skin.

She rubbed it, trying to cool the heat before it ignited, and winced. Something was wrong. She had to leave before it got any worse, palm pressed down in an attempt to smother it, resisting the urge to scratch. To dig. Yet, when she tried to rise, couldn't concentrate—only registering the pain—hunched over, and glanced over at the door. Shaking the haze from her vision, wobbly and sweating as she slowly pushed her chair back and held onto her desk, ground her teeth. Putting a foot out, if she could reach it before she succumbed—and that was when everything went blank.

—§•φ•§—

Distantly, Misaya heard a voice as she found herself on a creaky bed, covered in a stained white sheet. Sitting up, the muscles in her neck quivered, and she let out a groan, peering around at her new surroundings. A once white tiled floor, full of tiny cracks, bare walls with long since faded paint, and a dinky fan overhead, and she turned her head to a cloth screen draped hiding her from spying eyes, taking it all in at once. Where she was.

The school infirmary.

It smelt nauseatingly of blood and disinfectant, pulling double duty for both the students and residents of the island, and she frowned, head lowered as she touched the back of her neck.

The pain always came and went on days like this, and was bearable, but not like this. It were as if all the short bouts were happening at once and she'd been so careful in avoiding others when it struck, the thought never crossed her mind that she would succumb to it so quickly, but, that had been when the pain was less severe—less like white-hot needles stabbing into her spine and more like red-hot iron pressing into her back. Like it was now, as she clenched her jaw.

She had to let it pass, had to let it cool, like all the other times and, gritting her teeth, head down again, holding fast to the sheets of her bed. Had to let it ebb away. Let it become cold. Slowing her breathing, she began to sweat again, and that was when she realised the school nurse, Mrs. Ike, was talking, on the other side of the cloth screen. Misaya closed her eyes and huffed. She was sweating profusely now.

Hearing Mrs. Ike's voice again, she looked up, seeing a distorted blotch. From what she could make out, Mrs. Ike had something in her hand and was looking at it carefully and she raised her head again, only to be temporarily blinded by a harsh light from another lamp, as the screen was opened, and Mrs. Ike now held a syringe and small glass bottle filled with something dark. Saying something, the sound of her voice assaulted Misaya's ears and she crumbled forward, hearing it continuously. Over and over again, and shrinking further, it wouldn't stop.

She wanted the pain to just stop. Why? Why wouldn't it just stop?

Clutching the back of her neck and recoiling from the heat, she couldn't take anymore, wanting to scream, melting as her body burned, insides boiling. It were as if she was being cooked from inside out, and hot tears streamed down her face as she blinked rapidly and tried to keep from shaking any harder as something cold pierced her skin, injecting ice into her veins.

Cooling her body, it froze her pain, and her sweat dissolved back into her skin, feeling much cooler than before, and she no longer broiled, grasping her chest and taking in large gulps of air. Clearing her senses, it calmed the noise, and she could see better than before, eying wholly the cross that dangled from Mrs. Ike's neck as the school nurse moved back in her chair with a thin smile on her face, and she heard her words for the first time.

"You look better already."

And, just like that, the torment was over. She fell back on her pillow, eyes wide. Just like that. Her pain was...

"How are you feeling?"

Ms. Tsukuda was standing over her, face contorted in worry. In her hand was a cup of water, and, snatching it, she greedily drank until empty and, swallowing, watched the fan overhead as it spun tirelessly, squeaking as it strained, lying now in confusion and awe. The pain was… gone. Just like that. How?

"You took a nasty fall." Plopping down on the edge of her bed, Ms. Tsukuda tapped a spot just above her left brow. "I'm glad you weren't hurt any worse."

Misaya touched the bandage above her eye from the close encounter with the edge of her desk, recalling the moment when she'd started walking, only to teeter, dizzy like a drunk from one booze too many, hitting it, and slamming into the floor. If... she... also… remembered right, Ms. Tsukuda had been the one to carry her here.

"It scared me." Ms. Tsukuda looked away then, and, after a moment, opened her mouth as if to say something else, then shook her head. "I need to get back, but I want you to speak with me once school's over." Standing up, she went to leave and, staring after the nakedness of the woman's neck between her back and hairline, Misaya sucked in more air, still thirsty. One cup wasn't enough and, as Ms. Tsukuda closed the door behind her, she heard the sound of a pen scrawling away, her attention brought back to Mrs. Ike again.

"I'm writing a request to your father." Mrs. Ike said at her desk where the medicine cabinet was located above, folding a slip of paper and tying it to that same small glass bottle from before. "Your medication needs a re-fill." Spinning around and getting up from her chair, she placed it on her lap, patting her shoulder before going back, "Get some rest."

Staring at the bottle, a minuscule amount of thick, red liquid visible at very bottom, Misaya squeezed, brow furrowed. What was this…? When did…? The slip of paper attached to it… Addressed to her father. Eyes on the ceiling, she frowned. Her father…

As if he really...

It's your fault.

You're the reason.

It's all your fault.

You're the one to blame.

If only you never existed.

… cared about her at all.

She squeezed the bottle tighter and, cracking the glass a little, dropped it. How had she...? She blinked. Her strength must have come back, but, so fast... Closing the hand into a fist, it must have been the medicine's doing and, licking her lips, she rubbed two fingers together, tasting something sweet and falling back to the bed again, for some reason, medicine had never tasted so good as it did now.

How long had she suffered for? With nothing but her willpower alone? How long, had she lay scrunched up in some corner, in agony? Without something to help ease her anguish? How many years? And, now…

Gone. Just like that.

—§•φ•§—

She woke to a purple afternoon, hearing cicadas and feeling a cool, gentle breeze as she sat up, parted her hair, and rubbed her eyes with a yawn. Sleep was something she never got enough of, but, after being given that medicine, she felt more well-rested than ever before, and stretched, looking around the room. She was alone. Mrs. Ike must have stepped out for something and, pattering over to the sink next to the desk, filled another cup of water, took it all down at once, then, did so again.

The school had no funding for proper filtering, even in the school's infirmary, and drinking from the faucets was bound to make one sick, but she was so thirsty she didn't care, as she now downed a third, wiping her mouth and tossing the cup in the trash, glancing over at the window, wondering how long she'd been asleep. Gazing up at the clock, it was after school hours. Homeroom was in the mornings at 8:00. It was now a bit after 3:15. So, five hours. About the same she got on a good night, rare as that was.

Ms. Tsukuda was probably still in the building and she slipped on her shoes with a half a mind to not actually go, but knew the woman would find her no matter what. Hunt her down, if need be, and, besides, even though she never paid attention in class or did any work the woman always let her leave class in exchange for a reasonable explanation. Always. While, on the other hand, he had already given up a long time ago. Beating her whenever she brought up the truth he couldn't see anymore. Neglecting her when she didn't, lost in his delusion. Loving something that wasn't real. That wasn't there. Looking down at the bottle, its existence didn't change those facts, and, thus…

—§•φ•§—

"I know how much you're struggling..." Ms. Tsukuda said, hands folded in her lap. On her desk sat a stack of manila folders, each labelled and organised by grade, class, and individual, complete with a red marker and stamp nearby, cap on and case closed. "... and I know your father is also struggling..." she continued, looking down briefly.

Misaya felt a sting. Her father, struggling? Her mind flashed back to when they first arrived on the island. Her father, dragging his feet off the boat. No, he was well past the point, and she remembered the suitcase bumping behind him, the clatter of...

"... so, again, if you ever need anything, or just want to talk..."

... the clatter of bottles...

"... know that I'm here for..."

Time seemed to stop as the memory paused and was played back. Her father. A suitcase. The clatter of bottles. That medicine. Trying to recall more of the memory, she turned to leave as Ms. Tsukuda began leafing through the stack of manila folders, still talking. She couldn't waste time her time here anymore, and, sliding the faculty room door shut, stomping her way through the sparsely populated halls of the school, went to her locker and tore her schoolbag free from its hanger. Slinging it over her shoulder, she checked to make sure the bottle was safe, and made her exit.

The basement. She remembered him, going there when they'd first arrived. She'd never been, off-limits to someone like her. Though, she knew. She knew whatever was down there would be the answers she wanted. The ones she needed and, as she walked across the courtyard, wondered those what might be, thoughts wandered back to the faculty room, the look that was probably on Ms. Tsukuda's face when she looked back only to see her gone, as if she'd vanished like a ghost.

Of course the woman didn't know about her father. How could she? How could anybody? It wasn't for them to see. It wasn't something anyone was supposed to know. Something the world wouldn't see—couldn't see—that wrapped itself around their house like a veil. Hidden from prying eyes, none would know what went on behind those closed doors. The manifestation of his rotten soul, and coming out the school gates, going past the chicken coop and church, she was barely down the hill when an obnoxious noise blasted behind her and, before she had any time to act, the mud-covered hunk of junk that heaved to a sputtering halt alongside her.

"Hey, Misaya...!" It was Ms. Tsukuda, waving in a boorish attempt to get her attention.

Not that she was paying attention, head lowered in the hopes that the mosquitoes would stop biting at her bandage and the woman would leave her alone along with them, as she kept on.

"Earth to Misaya!"

She didn't want to deal with anyone right now. Not her, of all people. A nosy, kind-hearted person like her. Yet, despite how much she didn't, the truck, trailing black smoke, continued to follow her as Ms. Tsukuda leaned out the passenger window from the driver's seat.

"Come on, get in!"

There was no choice. No way to convince someone such as her. A nosy, kind-hearted, and tenacious person like her, and thus, climbing into the passenger seat, let out of a sigh. Always.

"Glad of you to join me," the woman said with a grin, as she began fiddling with the radio dial, shifting through static until something came through, leaning back with one hand on the wheel, satisfied. "This'll be faster than walking, trust me." Pulling back on a stick between them, the truck lurching forward before going shakily along, and as she tapped to the beat of whatever song was playing, Misaya glanced around the interior disdainfully.

An ashtray and crushed cigarettes were up on the dashboard, filled to the brim. The floor was littered with crumbled pieces of paper and scattered beer cans, and she wrinkled her nose at the strong odor of tobacco that was sure to cling. Hanging down from the rearview mirror was some stupid, fat, blue, cat-looking cartoon character with large eyes, and stuffed into the side compartment were a bunch of ripped open envelopes. A fan was set up on her side, moving back and forth between them, probably there in an attempt to combat the heat, but it only managed to blow even more hot air in her face, as she brushed off a coupon that promised five percent off on the buyer's next six-pack, and, giving that buyer a sideways glance, she couldn't fathom how someone could be so... double-sided.

"Oh, sorry 'bout that. Forgot to clean this morning."

As the coupon was carried out the window by the fan, she looked at the trees that passed them by in a blur, catching a glimpse of the sun and sea before a cluster of buildings, all of them old and poorly maintained, blocked them from her view. One of two decrepit reminders of a once prominent American military presence during the Second World War still left on the island and not invaded entirely by vegetation, the other being the school, entry to it was barred by a long stretch of fence, decorated with bright yellow warning labels and barbed wire. Before long, the scenery changed from abandoned military base back to the sun glistening on the sea once more. A little while later they would reach her house.

"Hey," Misaya saw her eyes through the window's reflection as they flickered in her direction, "Up for talking now...?" Stifling a laugh when there was still no reply, she snorted. "Yeah, figured. Well, offer's always open," she then said, as they came to the front yard, a jungle of weeds. To the average outsider, it would just look like her father wasn't—or didn't care—for appearances.

In a sense, that was true. He spent so much time cooped up in there, after all, but, to get to the heart of the matter it was more like he didn't want to leave her mother's side.

As Misaya let herself out, steeling her nerves, Ms. Tsukuda called out to her one last time, and she turned to a piece of paper being shoved in her face as the woman leaned over and out of the passenger window, taut in her reach. "Take this! For when you... need me!"

As she puttered away, disappearing round a bend and out of sight, Misaya gave the piece of paper a glance then shoved it in her pocket and opened her backpack. Taking out the bottle, she glared at the red barely there—one lick away from empty. She had to find out more.