Three reviews? Holy shit, that's exciting!

Warnings for this chapter: Detailed violence.


Time continued moving, sluggishly in a way that made her antsy, fidgety, nervous in a way she had never felt before. As days passed, she quietly retreated into her room, avoiding the outside world as much as she could while avoiding suspicion. Of course, this wasn't particularly effective. There wasn't much to do as a nine-year-old, especially not as one who has a 10th grader inside of their brain.

So, one hot summer day, sun still high in the air, she quietly slipped on her shoes and snuck outside.

The heat was glaring, and waves from the street made the sky look like the sea, and it was humid, humid in a way she had never felt before. She hated it too, because it felt like moving through a swimming pool, and even this inked-over horizon wanted her to regret and remember.

Oregon was cool, rainy. Next to the sea and never snowed, but always raining. The smell of fish and dry air, dark green trees that stood out against grey clouds. Temperatures that were only ever in the 80s, at the most. Forested land everywhere, wetlands always fenced off. Cold air and chilled drops, so unlike the terribly freezing winters and suffocatingly hot summers.

A fly flew past her face as she wandered around town, taking every which turn, a challenge to see if she could run away from its numbness, tear away from the reminders of what she had lost and what they were mimicking.

The same birds that flew overhead, the same families that laughed, the same houses that held precious lives, and when she blinked, sweating, she swore she could have turned around, run back, and found her own house, signature red door shining brightly.

She never could.


Year ten came and went.

It was a boring, aching, brain-numbing, agonizing year, of just sitting around and hiding, of doing nothing but watch time trudge on, questioning every day.

Her birthdays passed. Both of them. She hated the one they celebrated, and mourned the one she ignored.

Even such a unchanging date was different now. The typical song held the same tune, the same voices, and yet…

It made her want to gouge out her eardrums, just to stop hearing it.

She wanted to go home.

Ichigo, now eight, had started taking karate classes. He cried every time he lost, and he tried to cling to her, like he didn't get the idea the she didn't want to see him. Ichigo, who expected her to be someone who she was not. Ichigo, who didn't know that Jeanmarie had already killed his sister, even before he was born. Before she was born.

Not that it mattered. They're only ink, and the only thing you need to worry about is survival.

Jeanmarie merely shut the door in his face, probably sending him into another fit of self-righteous tears. That, of course, caused Masaki and Isshin to go into a small lecture about playing nice. She complied. She did owe them. They were housing a stranger comfortably inside their own house for a long period of time, even if they didn't know. She didn't want to raise any alarms, anything that could notify anyone of her abnormality, of her thievery and treachery.

(Any more than she had to, of course)

Karin and Yuzu were two years of age, small and innocent and anomalistic, because she never had any sisters, and of course not twins. The unknown, the unthought of, the constant and definite statement that this just couldn't be her world.

Sometimes, if they weren't around, she could almost, maybe, possibly, just by chance, think that she could live like this. Masaki was kind, so very warm, and soft in a way that made her feel fuzzy inside. Isshin was louder, energetic, enthusiastic, yet still gentle in a very odd way. Ichigo smiled all the time, bright and happy, like his hair, which was impossibly orange in a way that looked definitely dyed. (Ten years were a long time, after all, and maybe she was lowering her wariness just a bit too much)

She could protect them, couldn't she? Save and help and guard them from things that were going to happen, stop them from hurting.

Nori (No, wait, please, don't you dare call yourself such a repulsive name-) sighed, settling down with a yawn, sandwiched between the three. It felt...nice, like she was surrounded by people she could trust, people who would take care of her, people who loved her. Like she was protected. People who were her family.

A cry rang out from the room of the twins.

People who were her family? What a joke. Do you even know what you're suggesting? Do you know you're saying that that you've given up? Given up on your mother, who cared for you, your father, who loved you, your sibling , who you hated, but at the same time, didn't. Your grandparents, your aunts, uncles, friends, achievements, memories.

How dare you.

Stiffening, Jeanmarie (The right name, not the one that tried to smother her) slowly opened up her eyes, sleepiness washed away by a wave of cold tying up her stomach and her spine. Carefully untangling herself, she tip-toed away, glancing over her shoulder for a second before she walked down the hall, peeking in through the doorway, walking in. As a scent of milk and baby powder invaded her nose, Jeanmarie peered into the cradle, slightly illuminated by the nightlight.

Karin and Yuzu slowly stopped crying, starting to notice her, just a bit. They peered up at her under thick eyelashes, eyes black and dark and innocent, new life. Gentle and doe-like. Young and impressionable.

How could she?

The knot in her stomach tightened up to her chest, something dark and bitter and cold wrapping its hands around her throat, cutting off her air flow, suffocating her as stared at the small infants, wrapped around in softness and feathery light. Just the thought of abandoning her life-

How could she?

The numbing hands around her chest eased as a muffled, covered-over keening squeezed out, tears starting to gather as she looked away from the crib, only moving her hand to cover her eyes. She attempted to bite back her tears, gripping the rail with force that turned her knuckles white. As she ground her teeth down, looking away, she caught sight of a nightstand mirror, and blurry sight only barely registered red and brown before she choked.

She wanted to see her face, her own tanned skin and black hair. She wanted it so badly and it hurt like something was tearing at her chest and squeezing it so tight she couldn't breathe, because it was so unrealistic and she wanted to tear this skin of her offoffoff get it off it's choking her it's not her get it off-

This wasn't her home, this wasn't her parents, how could she even think of betraying them like this? Giving them up for a fantasy world that wasn't even real, giving them up for a face and a life that she stole, if it was supposed to exist at all? Just accepting that she would never ever see them again, and oh god could she still even remember their face?

(Ten years such a long time, too long and yet, too short)

What felt like forever passed, staring into the small, insignificantly tiny mirror. That reflection that wasn't hers, the picture of the wrong face. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she uncurled her numb fingers, leaving imprints on the soft wood with her nails. That revulsion at her own skin receded, and the tears stopped flowing, just for a second.

Just another minute.

Just another.

Minutes would turn into hours, hours into days, days into years.

She'd keep it this way.

She would never, ever make that mistake again.

Her slip-ups only proved to make her more guarded, detached, and yet another year later, she could clearly say that she held no more attachment to this group surrounding her.

How could she so blatantly say such a lie, when she was the one smiling? Smiling as the world crashed down for the ones who raised her, as the sun shone down in an unnatural, unfitting heat and cheerful blue sky, contrasted so brightly from the black they all wore and mourned in?

She grinned, truly and brightly, as the center of their world died.

Jeanmarie was only so disgusted at herself, because in all honesty, she was only relieved and nothing more, thankful in a way that would make herself retch in hate if it was anyone real.

Unfortunately for everyone else, they're not.

They weren't real, of course. Only puppets dancing to a set storyline, where she was the only sentient being. Nothing here was real. Nothing was real at all.

And that's what she told herself, incense releasing a thick pungency into the air, and the orange-haired lady disappeared, dead by a hollow, because someone took away her powers.

Not real.

She watched from the back as the prayers were read, ceremony ended, tears shed. She watched, only just keeping her smile off her face, because appearances were needed, of course.

And that, she told herself, was that.

She wouldn't have to worry about reminders anymore.

(Because She was the nicest, the most like her real mother, the one that cared for her, the one that instinctively felt right to this body, and now that It was gone, It was only one reminder less.)

When she saw Isshin pathetically attempt to make up for It's smiles and love and emptiness, she could only laugh, hate herself and laugh. The orange-haired child's smiles fades, the youngest child even attempted to take over their parent's chores, and the spectator sees it as a play, clapping slowly.

Jeanmarie beamed.

The days following were surprisingly easy. She didn't have to think of It, and in turn, she didn't have to worry about replacing her mother.

It was so easy, in fact, that she found she could actually focus more clearly, talk more smoothly, care less with every passing hour. She only hated herself so much, and she shoved it down, over and over.

She threw herself into her schoolwork, easily zooming over her pitiful peers, and that's how life became.

Jeanmarie waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Time ticked on.

Puberty, by far, was one of the worst years. With it, came growth spurts, the re-arrival of periods, massive hormone uptake, bodily development, and other, irritating things. Her emotions skyrocketed, confidence plummeted, and there was nothing she could do about it. There was nothing she could do about the facts that her skin felt wrong, and she hated mirrors with a vengeance. There was nothing she could do, except keep her eyes steadily off of reflective surfaces, pretend there wasn't anything wrong. That no, she didn't want to just claw off her own skin, because that would be seen as mad, and no, she didn't hate her siblings, and definitely wasn't trying to avoid Ichigo.

She sees spirits clearly, but ignores them completely, because they were a fairy tale inside of a fictional story, and she couldn't even get herself to ponder the fact that they could think for themselves.

Stress builds.

(She was going to snap sometime, and she could only hope she could fix it.)

The day comes sooner than later.

She was fifteen, and in high school, grade twelve (Finally something new, for once. She hated repeats, so much.) Ichigo was twelve, and the girls were eight. It had started as a usual, typical day, with a empty haze that lasted throughout the whole time. She threw herself into books, brushed off her 'peers', wrote her answers. Winter was rearing it's head, and the leaves were gone and the chill soaked her down to the bones. Her mind wandered often, and she always, always repeated her motto.

This is fake.

And then, once again, reality decided to show it's face.

She was walking home, alone as usual, siblings in their own school. They crossed paths at the soccer field, where she always ended up picking them up sooner or later.

It was her chore, she decided, for living with them. Not that they knew. They only thought she was being a responsible sibling, kind and patient and smarter than normal for her age. Those words brought a grimace to her face, because they were only ever talking to this... skin she wore. The one she had ruthlessly killed and stolen.

She was slowly making her way home, when the field came into view, and with it, shouting reached her ears. Shouting, crying, fighting. Her feet quickened involuntarily, and soon she was running into the sight of a brawl. More correctly, a standoff. Orange hair bobbed indignantly, yelling at the top of his puny (oh, so puny, she could break it) voice, protectively hunched over, stained with dirt and mud and other things, glaring with a fierce scowl on his face. Two children, a brunette and a black-haired one, sat on the ground behind, one crying into another's arms, fear flashing in their wide eyes, flinching at every yell. They only just noticed her, and she could make out their lips form her name.

Bullies. Gangs. Mindless sheep following blindly, a wolf. By whatever name they were known by, it seems they existed in any universe. They fed off the torment of others, controlled by fear, caused pain and strife and anger. Ruined lives, shunned others. How they became such unacceptable beings, unknown, but they were despicable.

They were nothing.

Jeanmarie sighed, walking down the slope of the hill onto the dusty brown earth, making her in between. (Trust them to cause trouble for her, when she didn't even have any obligation at all). She approached, and she noticed that the opposing side barely cowered away. only driven on by her appearance, although she was older by at least a year. They kept on mocking, shouting, and still, she stood, staring.

bitter anger and hate choked her, and she stared.

"What, have to hide behind your sister?"

"Wow, that's so wimpy!"

"Wimp!"

"Weakling!"

"Weak!"

Weak.

Ichigo stood, looking up at her.

"What, you too scared to say anything?"

Karin watched, scared and tired and so fearful, the grey sky reflecting clearly on black eyes.

"You're stupider than I thought!"

Yuzu sobbed, crying and crying over such a thing.

Weak.

The numbing haze that had been holding her broke, and the thing, dark and bitter and so, so hateful of that word (She wasn't weak, how dare they ever say it, they had no right, the fake little things-they weren't even real.) It rose up, malice and hate for everything that had ever existed, and she could barely breath for a moment because she was furious. It swept over her in a red mist, and the heady feeling that came with it almost seemed to make the world look clearer than it had ever done before.

She watched the bullies. She heard their taunting. She saw her replacements.

Jeanmarie made her choice.

The boy barely had time to react. The girl, frozen in fear a moment ago, moved forward slowly, eyes blank and dull and ugly in a way that made a chill run down his spine. They walked up to him, until they were standing chest to chest. Shaking away the sudden bead of cold sweat that had appeared, he sneered, bearing down on her with an intimidating grin. "What, wanna fight? You'll ge-Ghhk-"

He had seen them reach up, watched them grab, frozen, frozen, frozen, because of that sudden fearfearterror and it was loose and oh god he needed to move-

An ice-cold grip throttled him, suffocating him, and he couldn't get them off, a vice-grip clenching tightly-too tightly, and he couldn't breath. "Gh-Le-" He flailed uselessly, hands and feet kicking out in panic, catching the owner of those, ugly, ugly eyes in the stomach, but still, those hands wouldn't let go. Mouth opening and closing, eyes bugging out frantically, panic and fear and terror and ohgodsavehim, he was dying and those eyes and icy hands wouldn't let go and his vision slowly faded, and strangled screaming broke the air, his dull thoughts barely registering it was his.

With a soft thump, his hands fell to his sides, struggles starting to cease, and the last thing he saw before his eyes rolled up was a smile, dark and ugly and then-

"NO!"

-Sweet, sweet air, he breathed in and out with a cough, and he hacked as his eyes flew open again, spit flowing down his chin and throat burning. He sucked in air, sobbing and hunched over on the ground. Suddenly, sour, burning bile rose up, and he clamped a hand over his mouth. with a retch, a thick vomit splurted through his fingers sloppily, dripping down in a chunky mess. Regurgitating his stomach out onto the ground, tears streaming down his cheeks as he slumped on the ground. His friends had run away long ago, looking for help. As he breathed in shuddering gasps of air, lying limply on the floor, he glanced up.

Dead eyes. Dead, empty, remorseless eyes, so ready to kill him again and again and again.

Screaming, screaming, screaming until his voice cracked, scrambling back, curling onto himself-Terror and fear and tears wracked his frame, blubbering apology falling over and over from his lips.

Jeamarie stared at her hands, somewhat wet from the disgusting saliva that had fallen out of the boy's mouth. The one in question has cryng pathetically on the floor, behind-

Ichigo.

They panted, fear causing their heart to race in an obvious speed, because who wouldn't be terrified if they saw their sibling almost kill a child in front of them, eyes wide.

"What are you doing!?" A shrill voice sounded from his throat, cracking. She looked on, impassive now. "You almost killed them! Just because they were bullying us didn't mean you had to choke them! How-"

"Shut up." Wiping her hand on her skirt, she shouldered her pack again (when had it fallen off?) "I didn't do it because of you."

"Wh-"

"I said to shut your mouth, didn't I? I don't care whether they're bullying you or not. They're right. You're weak."

The silent tension grew. Ichigo's arms, originally spread wide, as if that would, could stop her from attacking again, if she did, slowly fell to his sides. As wind blew by, even Yuzu had stopped crying, eyes screwed up and rolled into a ball, as if that would stop the sight of Jeamarie choking a kid to death. The pitiful mess scrambled to his feet and fled, almost tripping over their own feet. Karin clutched onto her sister tightly, hands almost claws as she buried the other's head into her chest.

Jeanmarie broke the tension, taking a deep breath before turning around to walk to the road. "Let's go. We're late."

Why would it matter, even if she had killed them?

They weren't real humans.

It didn't matter.

And with those thoughts, she fell asleep relatively soundly that night, loathing herself only so much more.


Fourteen years of mourning can change a person.

Honestly, I see this much like an 'Undertale Effect'. You don't see taking the Genocide Route as wrong, not really, because they aren't really alive. You only see this as a game, so you can soundly kill monsters without worrying.

Jeanmarie is slowly falling apart at her seams. She's been trying to remember her family for years, and she's gradually becoming a monster.