Beautiful Hands
She remembers exactly what happened. A simple child, painting at her easel with acrylics. The miasma, thick in the air, triggered her memories in an odd way. The simplicity, or was it complexity, of the miasma was an odd combination to smell alongside the memory of paint.
That day it was rainy. She sat in the art museum, painting the trees in the rain. A child prodigy artist, it appeared she would make millions of the perfect scenery, always looking to the innocent side of life. But a simple comment would end it all.
" You have beautiful hands..." A passing woman mentioned, continuing along her way. The child smiles, her black hair and white teeth shining at the praise. She returned her chocolate eyes to the painting, finishing up and beginning to walk home.
The miasma thickens, blurring the events like a set of shattered mirrors. Just the sharp, twisting pain, and then a dull throbbing still within her hands today.
She had beautiful hands, so he broke them.
She had nice hair, he pulled it.
She had flawless skin, he scarred it.
She was a mirror of himself, so he shattered it.
This was the work of Naraku Onigumo, the former businessman in Tokyo square. He sits behind 8 metal bars in a small room, staring at the walls, brooding over what he would do to her next.
Nothing could come close to him, nothing should ever be him. No one could no his supreme power.
Kagome was his image, only flawed by her mother, Kikyo Higurashi. So he broke them.
The miasma drifts away, and the memories fade to a thin throb. She looks down at her hands, and remembers that aching pain. All she paints is pictures of smoke and fog.
She had beautiful hands- And now they spawn exactly what he wanted.
His image, repeated over and over again.