Whoo, back again! Higurashi Month 2019, because it has become one of my lowkey life goals to keep perpetuating this until it becomes a proper tradition for all three-and-a-half people in this graveyard of a fandom. And then keep doing it anyways, because tradition. If you wish to check out the prompt list, its on my tumblr page under the same username.
June 16th, 2019
Rika's friends are patchwork dolls. She wonders how no one else but herself can see it, the skitter of red thread going up Mion's white temple to sew her back together after Keiichi's bat cracked her porcelain skull, the spiderwebby lines sprawled across Rena's face from the shoddy job her doctor did in piecing her psyche back together.
Mion's back is black and blue from her time as the Sonozaki head, the invisible burden her tattoo placed upon her weighing the spritely club leader down like an anvil, like the blows rained down from the strap of a belt.
Shion has her heart out for everyone to see, a gaping black spot where it has been torn right from her chest. You can see the world behind it, right through her body, and the world you see is Satoshi Hojo, lost and dead.
Satoko is splotched all over, like a preschool doll passed from too many inky hands to too many paint-smeared fingers. The smears are washed away, but they still remain in ghostly blooms of black and blue and green, because the hands she is passed to are from aunt to uncle, and their hands are anything but kind, always raised in fists and blows.
Keiichi's stitches claw down his neck, little red seams of glue where he got pieced back together, cracks that perfectly match his hands and most especially his nails, shadows of broken bones on his arms and legs from a fall near a bridge, an umbra over his heart from where it ceased to beat, too many worlds ago in a hospital bed.
Rika's friends are patchwork dolls, and only she can see the cracks in their perfection.
AN: Every time I write these my brain goes "angst? Blood! Death! HoRrOr!? Whump?" and I'm just sat there like "Be quiet!"
I try to write wholesome fluff to balance out the times when I give into my impulses, but with mixed success, as you can see. It's either horror and gore or tooth-rotting fluff and ships with me, no middle ground whatsoever. We die like angst-thirsty bitches overcompensating for our sadistic character-based tendencies here.
11.54 AM, USA Central Time