Falling Skies
Kenta stood over Yuriko's corpse, feeling numb. Her eyes had been shut, her head lolled to the side. Her arms were cut but the blood had stopped flowing. Her palms were massive scabs, the fingers blue and curled inwards. Her lips were parted in what seemed to be serenity, a small trickle of blood still drying on the side.
Blood, Kenta thought, such a strange thing. Without it, violence didn't seem real and it would have been colorless anyway. It was a life-giver, so extremely vital, and yet the killer had drawn it so carelessly.
Yuriko's body was freezing cold. The cut on her chest was still wet. He tore a part of her kimono and pressed it against the wound. He knew it wouldn't do much. He tried to remember why she left, something about speaking with the mistress of the okiya. His mind didn't seem to be working correctly anymore. The world seemed to be crumbling around him.
He picked her up, pressing her to his chest. Her smooth hair fell around his fingers. He pressed his face into her lifeless head, shutting his eyes tight. Tears rolled smoothly down his cheeks. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.
Who could have done this?
Does it matter? He hissed in his head, I will kill whoever did it. Regardless of whom they are. Let them feel the fury of my sorrow. Let them feel the blade against their own skin.
Yuriko's limp hand fell to the side. Kenta stood, picking her small body up in his arms. He knew he shouldn't let anyone see her body before she was cremated, lest they notice who she once was.
Everyone seemed to be perishing around him, at the hand of the Ghost.
The Ghost…
It was his fault. Burning rage clenched Kenta's heart. He didn't care if he was chasing phantoms. The creature would suffer his vengeance. Kenta held Yuriko closer, his head thundering.
The Ghost will die.
Again.