The prompt list for these (if anyone in this beyond-dead fandom is interested) is on my tumblr, which has the same penname as I do on here. Sue me. I'm a simple soul. Enjoy and whatnot. I haven't written a gory psychosis scene in a while, so here, have some trauma for this day's prompt.

June 10, 2018

The underground torture chamber hadn't been filled with this much blood in a very, very long time.

The floor was awash with it, the crosspiece stained, and the limply dangling corpse, held up like a puppet in a show window before her, was simply soaked in the brightly dripping gore.

Mion cried in the outside cells, poor, poor, filthy Mion. It was no more than she deserved, after all, for letting Satoshi-kun die while she sat idly by and blithely lied about it to her sister. This bloodbath was her cleansing ritual, no less saccharine and dark with sin than she was.

Shion's hand felt numb where she held the knife. It wasn't grief, it wasn't guilt, it wasn't even shock or horror.

It was pure revelation.

How could something so bad feel so good?

Oh, a cliche line if ever that was. But it did. The feel of her knife sliding into doll-like Satoko's flesh, turning her into a broken little blonde ragdoll in truth…the desperate clenching grip of the muscles as they tried to stymie the rich red flow of blood…the spurt and gush as she wrenched free the blade…oh, how desperate little Satoko-chan's body was to preserve her worthless life, air rasping in her lungs as her tragically brave tissues tried to sacrifice themselves to keep the source of her injury lodged in her flesh, preventing it from going any deeper or pulling out any further.

But the human body, in this case, was wrong. Satoko needed to die, and there was nothing that the struggling organism that housed her leeching spirit could do to save itself, or her.

It felt amazing.

The power that this desperate struggle gave into her hand…it was like no feeling Shion had ever experienced before. All of every life on the planet struggled for one thing, though humans masked their desire with petty trivialities –money, love, power, success– and that thing was sustaining life.

Every moment of every person's life was dedicated to just that, preserving their own. Breeding continued the species, true, but it also meant one could live on in one's offspring. Money preserved life, bought amenities needed to prolong it, food and shelter and medicine. Power and success brought pleasure, and increased the lifespan and the memories held within it.

This thing before her, this dangling bit of meat and cotton, had once been a living, breathing entity. It had struggled and gasped and fought for life, to live, had had ambitions and dreams and hopes and fears and friends and family.

Now it was nothing. Less than refuse, less than trash.

Shion had brought about this unholy alchemy, this transformation on a cosmic level. Frankenstein had crowed about bringing life to the dead, but he failed to mention the sheer exhilaration of bringing death to the living. The dance of nerves thrilling along Shion's spine, the rush of adrenaline as the ultimate struggle in Satoko, in Kimiyoshi, even in Rika whose death had been by her own hand…was lost. Snuffed out like a candle, crushed in her grip like a broken butterfly.

The last fragments of Shion Sonozaki's sanity were lost, lost in the maddening surge of sudden, heady power.

The underground torture chamber hadn't been filled with this much laughter in a very, very long time.

10.48 PM, USA Central Time