He smiled, and it made an icy fist close around her heart. Oh god, to think she had finally thought it was over. Now there was a man tainting himself even more by tending to her in her… fractured state, if it could be called such a thing.
Yomi shuddered, more out of horror than the cold. What about any of this was “good?”
Bringing the back of her hand to her face, she brushed at her wet eyes. Regardless of self-consciousness, on a practical level Yomi knew she couldn’t stay the way she was forever, not with people around her. Wounded or not, she was still a magnet for danger. But trying to collect herself brought on a whole new set of dangers: the more she cleared her head, the more space the sesshouseki had to stretch itself out. Was there no way to make it stop? Was there no way to get one of these people to finish what Albedo had started?
Though if it was the Institute itself that kept bringing her back, then there really was no hope left.
Forming words that made any sense seemed a task far out of her reach, but Yomi tried, which only made her cough up more sticky fluid. With it came the sudden, irrational fear that she was back to before, vocal chords broken, forced into unwilling silence; when she touched her throat, however, there was nothing there. No bandages. No mass of scars. (No Mitogawa whispering the words to her destruction.) She had to remember that physically, the only thing wrong with her was what Albedo had done. The rest was all in her head, and it would pass. That was a good thing, wasn’t it?
So she tried again, emitting a rasping sound. After screaming, words felt inadequate.
no subject
Yomi shuddered, more out of horror than the cold. What about any of this was “good?”
Bringing the back of her hand to her face, she brushed at her wet eyes. Regardless of self-consciousness, on a practical level Yomi knew she couldn’t stay the way she was forever, not with people around her. Wounded or not, she was still a magnet for danger. But trying to collect herself brought on a whole new set of dangers: the more she cleared her head, the more space the sesshouseki had to stretch itself out. Was there no way to make it stop? Was there no way to get one of these people to finish what Albedo had started?
Though if it was the Institute itself that kept bringing her back, then there really was no hope left.
Forming words that made any sense seemed a task far out of her reach, but Yomi tried, which only made her cough up more sticky fluid. With it came the sudden, irrational fear that she was back to before, vocal chords broken, forced into unwilling silence; when she touched her throat, however, there was nothing there. No bandages. No mass of scars. (No Mitogawa whispering the words to her destruction.) She had to remember that physically, the only thing wrong with her was what Albedo had done. The rest was all in her head, and it would pass. That was a good thing, wasn’t it?
So she tried again, emitting a rasping sound. After screaming, words felt inadequate.
“… Why… are you here…?”
The words were faint, barely more than a breath.