He huffs with exasperation as he rushes down the hallway, chest rising and falling rashly. He's screaming internally at himself to pick up the pace — to tread onward and find some place he will be safe. His faint brown eyes are bewildered, blurred in sight as though someone had placed a veil over his eyes, and he is desperately trying to clear that veil away from his sight but to no avail, nothing changes. He needs his sight if he dreams of leaving this place. The jade green patient clothes look wrinkled and disheveled upon him as does his long dark brown hair; his messy hair and clothes entangle him and trap him in the elongated corridors, making him trip in his run.
How did he think this was a good idea in the first place? He scowls at himself. How is it that he is able to willingly, with all his might, believe in this idea greatly that he would sell himself so easily to it?
He knew beforehand of the warnings that had come with the experiment. Of course he knew; that was what held him back beforehand in the first place; it was what made him doubt the experiment's worth. But the taste of glory and pride became tempting to his hungry mind and soul that it got the best of him. He wanted that taste to satisfy him, so he vowed that he wouldn't back down from the agreement. He did not give it another thought when it came time for signing the papers; the black ink of the pen heavily staining the pure white paper with his name, offering his name in exchange for a name that would soon become his own. The boy wouldn't have guessed that he would face a constant, sharp pain in his brain everyday from the moment he signed those papers and revoked his name. He couldn't have — not when they had belittled the warnings with such dismissive attitudes towards their subjects.
That was another thing: his name. With every moment he tries to run, he is losing himself, losing his face. He tries to recall his name, something that should have been deeply engraved within him, but he is unable to think of it. All he thinks of is the foreign name thrusted upon him, and having that name only is what's killing him from the inside, reshaping his entirety into something new — something that he would not recognize.
His head — His head is throbbing in rhythm to the hasty steps he's taking. He's making a run for it with erratic motion and a lacking vision, crashing into the corners of the hallways. He can hear from afar the people chasing after him; the walls are amplifying their shouts for him to stop. But he has to leave. He has to get away from this. Even when things are blurry. Even when he has no idea where he is running off to. He just has to get away from there. He cannot stand it anymore. He cannot stand the stabbing into his head, cutting away at his brain with knives. Needles that would jab either arms inject him with a wave of sleepiness that would only make him fade more and more, and with every moment that he wakes up, he knows he is getting weaker and weaker as the pain gets larger and larger that it becomes unbearable.
No more of that. He cried in his mind, shoving himself out of the stiff gurney they had him lay on for many days.
There, he runs, shuffling to leave, eyes squinting to read signs for an exit, but he becomes shocked and overwhelmed by the loud shouts and yells for him to return to that disgusting gurney — to that horrid state of sharp pains and weakness, where all he wanted to do was destroy himself with every day that the experiment continues. He rejects the idea of returning back to the track of being worthy of that brand new name and title. He could not care less.
This is his chance; he needs to run as far as his heavy feet can take him. He needs to go back home to his friends and family. To a place where he is safe and at ease.
The voices of the halls, they grow louder, shouting for the other name, and it aches him that he finds himself turning back to the voices each time they call that name out. He tries to grab onto the closest wall to support himself, but his feet collapse and he too drops on the ground to his knees. The pain is returning, and it twists his stomach into knots, as though the needles he is trying to avoid has returned to stab away at him some more, laughing with glee at his pain. He curls up on the floor, gripping his stomach, but he looks up, trying to read the hazy signs that hang from the ceiling.
Then he sees it: the glowing red sign that reads "Exit". The only thing that remains in his sight in the dark environment. He is close. He pulls himself forward, clawing at the cold tiled floors toward the sign's direction. He needs to go — go back home to rid of all this pain and be free from his mistakes of ever thinking being here was a good idea.
But then he thinks of his family. His parents, his siblings… the classmates he had barely gotten to know. Faces of people that he had grown up with and knew, but with every face, there was a turn of the head. Eyes averting their gazes from his disgusting face. He would plead with each one of them to look his way — to prove to them he is worth more than just one glance — that his name is worth more than it seemed — but they would just keep their eyes anywhere else aside from him.
It is then that he questions himself: where would he go to if he did run? That's right. Where else can he go if all he will get are disgruntled looks of disappointment? He already wasted their time trying to prove that he is something that he is not. He already wasted their efforts to help him with something he is not able to achieve on his own. They probably would not even remember his name or face either. It will only result in more displeasure if he comes crawling back home.
His tired hands are giving in. He is slowing down and the voices that beckon for the other name are ringing so loudly that it begins to hurt his ears.
Suddenly the boy crumbles abruptly, face buried into the hard floor. His thoughts and limbs are weakening, but the sound of constant tapping and voices are getting closer and closer until he sees the black dress shoes surround him. He could not make out any more words the tall figures say above him aside from the name he has grown to hate, but the figures easily pin him down with firm grips, holding his arms and legs tightly. With the little strength he has, he attempts to pull away, but their nails just dig further into his tan skin and he can only freeze up at the bruising.
He tries to look up again, trying to look at the authoritative figures that ensnare him, but he could not make out their facial features; the only thing he can see clearly is the sign emitting a neon red light to an exit that he never imagined would be his saving grace in this moment. Even then, his vision is getting blurrier and the red begins to mesh into the dark gray of the hallway.
His head hits the floor and he moans like a ghost as a call for help, but no one would come to his help. The figures only surround him; and he knows that he will soon feel the injection of the needle once more into his arm; another moment closer to fading away into oblivion.
He breathes with shaky breath and eyes full of lukewarm tears, trying to turn his head back to those who hold him down, but his eyes are failing him. But his senses do not fail him when the people holding him lift him up. He commands his limbs to shake the hands off of him, but his limbs refrain from listening as the figures drag him back from where he came from. He stares restlessly in despair at his body's defeat into the fuzzy floor, marching toward his doom.
Then he finds himself laying on the gurney again. He can already feel the sweat running down his back, soaking his clothes, and sticking him onto the metal surface. He could even feel the wetness of the cold bed from when he was strapped onto it earlier.
The straps bury itself into his arms again, and it wakes himself from his numb feeling. His senses and his thoughts come back to him with a rush, screaming for him to move; screeching for him to get away from here, regardless of what awaits him beyond the neon red sign. No more of him worrying about the people who have long given up on him. No more of him pushing himself past his limits. He's already learned his lesson. Lesson learned. Stop it already. He needs to stop this. This may be his final chance.
Then he remembers it, more clearly than anything else before him. He remembers the name that he had before this — before he took on this bullshit of a project. He shouts loudly to force himself to remember. He has to… Otherwise…
"My name is Hajime Hinata! I don't want to disappear! My name is Hajime Hinata! I don't want to disappear —"
His wailing is left unheard, but he keeps repeating himself, even when he sees that large needle that will send him to a place beyond this realm; he could not let his own name slip by him once more. He has to keep fighting the restraints that keep him down. With all the strength he can gather within himself, he screams and kicks against the cold metal table, shouting the same chant to deaf ears.
He soon finds himself tired and he wallows in his tears, head turned to the side to the one holding the needle. The sharp edge is getting closer to him, so close that it brushes against his skin.
"Please…" He chokes, cheeks completely wet from the many tears he shed. "I don't want to disappear…. I don't —"
Then the room goes silent with the prick of his arm, and quickly, he falls away for the last time.