Red
[Tags: Kurapika-centric, angst, depression, self-hate, feelings without plot, present tense, written while uhh listening to Chrollo's character song on loop]
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Kurapika's trembling hands twist open the tap, smearing it with dark red. Through blurry eyes, he watches as the red is slowly washed away with the gentle cold water. He doesn't even bother to use soap, simply keeping his hands under the running water.
He's grown numb, he thinks as he stares at himself in the mirror. Dull yellow locks framing a pale bony face, deep eyebags beneath glaring crimson eyes. More red. He's tired of that colour.
A few slow moments later, he closes the tap, indulging in the eery silence of his hotel room's bathroom. His hands are cleaner now. But at the same time, they are not. The flesh and gore of his enemies still sticks to it, staining it a permanent red. More red.
He glances at himself in the mirror once more, wondering how anyone could find his eyes pretty. Pretty? The word sounds ridiculous. There's nothing pretty about them.
All he can see in them are remnants of a wild beast, perhaps originating from the dark continent-- Leorio once told him about that theory of his. He does not like to imagine how it could have mixed its genes with humans, resulting in... in whatever he is.
Leorio. A sudden pang of sadness breaks through his numbness, forcing his already weak body to collapse. He's on his knees now, struggling to catch his breath. Leorio.
No. He cannot let his mind wander there-- wander back to his friends, if he even has any right to call them that anymore. He's far away from them now, far enough to keep them all safe from himself. He doesn't know when he can return. Likely never.
What will his end be like? Will he be able to finish off the remaining Spiders before his demise? Will he die...alone? These thoughts haunt him wherever he goes, having snaked into daylight from the initial nightmares. He doesn't have an answer anymore.
Kurapika clenches his hands into fists, agitating the wounds on his knuckles. Red creeping onto pale skin omce more, he squeezes his eyes shut. He killed today. He killed yesterday. He will kill again tomorrow. He will keep killing until he has finished off all of the Spiders. He almost doesn't want to. But he's too deep in it now.
His eyes are dampening now. Crying is a weakness, but for once he lets his tears flow.
He's tired. Tired of enduring pained screams every day, screams that he draws out. Tired of encountering blood every day, blood that he draws out. Tired of feeling his eyes burn, vision turning crimson with anger, frustration and hatred.
He's tired. Tired of struggling to survive in this world of red.
