AN: This story is somewhat of a misguided and heavy handed attempt. Forgive me, I was only 13 when I wrote this.
Prologue
There are many roads. Roads in life, roads in decisions, roads in death. It never mattered which ones were taken, only the path itself. After all, where would anyone be without roads?
Such was the case when Kurosaki Hisoka found himself lying in a hospital bed. He hadn't done anything to go arrive there, someone simply pushed him and he found himself at a dead end. Literally. Everyday he wished that he could find the way out, choices that were suppose to appear when others disappeared.
And each day he only found fewer roads than the day before.
Hisoka stared out at sunset from his bed, the first sunset each day scene by human eyes. Everyday he watched the ball of fire bury itself into the greedy earth. There was never a difference, rain or shine. And one day, he thought to himself, he would follow the sun into the earth.
The setting sun and twilight was decidedly his favorite time of day. Not because of the sleep it brought on, or the coming requiem of night. He always told himself it would finally bring an end to the pain and loneliness and desperation.
People in the twilight were simply lost forever—they followed the last of the sun brothers as he descended into hell and did not turn back in remose.
And no turning back was pretty much how he had felt. The hopelessness had made him want to hit his head against the walls, but there was a road hidden in the thick plants, undisturbed by the numerous people who looked past oblivious. Just as he hadn't chosen his current road, Hisoka didn't choose to go down this one either.
There was simply no other way.
Maybe there were a few, but he went down it still. Perhaps he unconsciously chose it, but he didn't like to look at it that way. No matter the road, the outcome what was he considered favorable. It wasn't everyday that one could become shinigami.
He thought about his short life and everything that he wouldn't be able to accomplish. Like growing up, going to college, living. But it didn't matter much anymore. After the initial shock of his death, it wasn't that bad anymore. Yet the dull ache in him still hurt every time he looked at the things he would never do.
It hurt more than that.
It hurt so much he wanted to cry.
He just couldn't somehow. It would be letting himself down if he did. So it stayed inside, forgotten, put away, never to be touched.
And like all emotions shut up, it bidded its time…
…then began to eat its way from the inside-out.