Years have passed since that day
The ruins, the breakage, all of which we've create
Still, in my mind, they freshly replay
Specks of dirt were unceremoniously scraped onto the filthy ground, deranged footsteps regaining its lost equilibrium as silhouettes in between the alleyway dampened with an ethereal haze. The surrounding was enclosed by shadows, monumental compound structures so immaculate that it obstructed daylight to exude radiance below.
Soon, shallow breaths then arose.
How he got there, he does not know.
Perhaps because it was our last encounter
Wrinkled fabrics grinded against the surface of the wall, both for leverage and efficient comfort. He straightened himself up, head positioned towards the raging sun above, eyes hidden within the shades of color which loosely hung along his countenance. Heat became more unbearable, clothes are becoming a nuisance. There had been no actual rational source to where such anger begun.
"Shizuo, take a break. You need to blow off some steam. The heat is getting to you lately."
Words of a treasured friend and a respected superior alleged. True enough, the warmth could possibly be one of the factors why his temper flared to anyone, anywhere at hand. Influencing every bit of his self-restraint to rupture like flames, burning everything in its way.
Yes. Blame the climate.
Are you alive and well,
I wonder?
An improbable airborne pressure.
"Tch."
Asphyxia took place. Every ragged gasps emitted formed a palpable mist upon the surface.
He slid across a finger unto the strap of his sweltered bow tie to unwind its tightened grasp, sweat pouring down in a significant amount. Burnt umber blinked once or twice behind purple-blue hues that protected it from sunlight. Limbs immobile yet trembling with sustained might. This started out as any other day, the same way as yesterday.
Another typical, monotonous display.
The man came onto him and attempted to dive an overly so familiar switchblade into his abdomen whom was of course sent flying over the heavens, leaving that wretched blade lying on the pavement. He'd yearn to crush it in between his fingertips, to relish once more the satisfaction of being victorious. Triumph? Nonsense. It wasn't bliss nor anything close to contentment he felt when hurting someone else, even after they deserved it. Rather, it merely proved to himself that he's still the same. Years had passed, yet, nothing's changed.
To call it hatred, is an understatement.
If I killed you then,
What would happen?
Knuckles pale and white, inverse to his tanned skin, shuddered and winced. Subsequently advancing his fist to the wall near him, splintering its fragments underneath.
Will I be happy?
Will I feel ecstatic?
Mad.
Furious.
Irate.
These sugar-coated terms couldn't illustrate the indignation that ached.
Or will I suffer?
No one was to blame.
For the cause of his exasperation wasn't the weather itself, or the debtor who wanted to slice his gut open.
For the cause of the shape he's in, wasn't even present.
Our feud has finally ended
The violence and all the hatred
But still,
Can I ever get rid of the remnants?
Foolishness.
Inept.
Shouldn't he by now step forward and progress? Instead, here he is, dwelling in the past he cannot go back to make a difference. Peace is something he craved. How he wished to be away from these atrocities when he himself was the very incarnate of carnage.
What made him reminisce?
Almost everything in this city – the streets where they held their first chase. The smirk that never seemed to wipe off his face. Auburn eyes, that knife, that awful stench decays. Friends, acquaintances, the memories.
How can one forget something who's been a part of your life since the beginning?
To hold on to something that's not existing.
To regret, even after you're the victim.
He had no one to blame, but himself in this case.
Should I repent?
Will I be able to move on and forget?
Can I even forget?
Cements crumbled before his hand; bits of it fell down, combining into the dirt itself. He knew the thought was stupid. The bastard had already left, with no intention of returning again. He probably learnt his lesson. For everything that happened, he was the cause of it. Now, he's gone, yet there's still madness.
That question...
It's unavoidable.
People understand in their own level of perception, believe only based on what they see, seemingly unaware of what's beneath. The monster of Ikebukuro wasn't an exception to it. Because despite his strength, he is the most human among the rest.
No more sulking in the darkness.
Fallen debris resounded, the faintest collision snapping him out of his senses. Chatters outside the alleyway begun to clamor, rays of luminosity aslant, smothering the avenue with a sheen glow. Tom was probably waiting for him to call, wondering if he still had plans to continue the day as it was before. So he retracted his hands from the wall, wiped it, tapped his clothes and settled himself into the bustling crowd of Ikebukuro, hoping these unneeded recollections in his mind would eventually turn to vapor.
Because he doubt he could handle the load it bore any longer.
Remains unanswered