1 Bury Them Alive [Nōmisu][Private][No Kill] Sat Dec 17, 2016 5:15 pm
Shimada
D-rank
It was a pitiful sight to her, and three years later, it still managed to come back with a haunting force. Creeping up on her in the dead of night, choking a throat full of unused screams and bloody cries of lachrymose. But it was a cold morning, early sun filtering through a hazy sky of pastel pinks and oranges, and she was not crying. Barely awake, but stable. Not suffering from the nightmares that failed to even go near her consciousness in her waking moments. The sunlight seemed to almost have an affect on the Hattori woman's mental state, and for that, she was grateful.
Shimada's dark sandals slipped through the dew soaked grass, cold against the uncovered skin, but she paid no heed to the sensation. Her tired ruby eyes fixed ahead on one of the many gravestones rising out of the ground - a beacon to a past life singled out from all the rest - and she frowned. Thin lips pulling into a deep, sorrowful scowl. She knew the rough marker by heart, having visited the grave for quiet some time, and, if asked to map out each and every fracture within the somewhat maintained stone, could do so without thinking. The scene permanently seared into the recesses of her mind. That, and the name it slowly came to be connected with.
Stopping in front of the quaint headstone, she cast her narrow eyes, wrought with exhaustion and manifested indifference, onto the engraved writing. Gaze tracing over every word as she worked out a clenched jaw to speak. Trying to find the right phrases each time never got any easier, and the way she went about it, signified it never would. "Hey, ah, Uncle Hattori. Just thought I'd stop by again." She mumbled apathetically, attempting to hide the true weight of her emotions underneath the pale-faced mask. Shimada did not desire to have anyone see her cry; it was solely a moment of weakness she gave into at the sanctuary of her empty home. And despite the absence of presence within the silent cemetery, her guard remained plastered. "I know how you liked daffodils, so I picked some up for you at the nearby flower shop you frequented." Shifting her folded arms away from her chest, she displayed her possession.
A bouquet of freshly cut daffodils wrapped in paper were clutched within her hands, reflecting back a sunny yellow - a revitalizing color Shimada failed to experience. Her bloody red hair swayed in a gentle breeze, untied and loose against her stiff shoulder blades as she stared quietly at the gravestone. Making up a fake conversation in her head about what her uncle's answers would be. "Yeah, they, uh, they symbolize rebirth, new beginnings, forgiveness, and all that. But you'd know, wouldn't you?" She paused for his answer, throat tightening with something ugly desperate to crawl up and emerge, but she swallowed back the pent-up words with an exhausted sigh. Grip slacking on the flowers. "God, I just don't know if I can do this anymore. I'm talking to a damn grave, for sake." Shimada bemoaned, biting back a bubble of frustration just wanting to burst.
'I probably look absolutely insane, but what would that make me if I stopped coming? No, I have to see this through to the very end, no matter how irate I become. I did this to him... so I have to be the one to atone.'
She shuffled her sandals awkwardly against the wet ground, bending down to gently place the bouquet of flowers against the stone. As much as Shimada cared for the remains of her uncle, it was difficult visiting alone without emotional support, but after years of being an orphan, she expected the loneliness. There had never been anyone there with her in the first place. Not since she lost her last remaining family members to cruel fate: death and comatose. And that's what she dreaded to speak about.
"Aunt Hattori is still in the hospital." The young woman began, almost immediately stopping at the heartache it brought; heart clenching painfully in a slender chest. "They say she won't ever recover, and though I, disown me all you want, have given up on her, too, I still see her every now and then." It was the most difficult subject she could speak about, and she fought back the choked sob that threatened to break free. Covering it up with a grating cough and attempting to wipe her trembling voice free of all emotion. It was not like her to get teary-eyed in public so freely.
And now, it just left her feeling so tired and extinguished inside.
"I'm trying to make it up to you. Not just you, but Aunt Hattori as well, and everyone else I ever failed to protect. I keep trying to grow stronger, and I'm getting better everyday. Hopefully," voice faltering, hands clenched into fists so hard her nails left crescent imprints into the flesh, she continued, "I'll feel worth of approval, too." Shimada craned her neck to peer into the now blue sky, breath coming out in light bouts as she gazed at a flock of common bird taking off for destinations unknown.
Mentally vowing to herself that she would grow enough to be able to seek the forgiveness she so desired, even if it buried her alive.
She could hear a few villagers arriving, later in the morning to where many more people were rising from their slumber and heading out to start their day. Shimada backed a few steps away from the grave, trying to distance herself in case any stragglers caught the last of her emotional outbreak. Senses alight with guarded posture.
It was the last thing she needed.
Shimada's dark sandals slipped through the dew soaked grass, cold against the uncovered skin, but she paid no heed to the sensation. Her tired ruby eyes fixed ahead on one of the many gravestones rising out of the ground - a beacon to a past life singled out from all the rest - and she frowned. Thin lips pulling into a deep, sorrowful scowl. She knew the rough marker by heart, having visited the grave for quiet some time, and, if asked to map out each and every fracture within the somewhat maintained stone, could do so without thinking. The scene permanently seared into the recesses of her mind. That, and the name it slowly came to be connected with.
Stopping in front of the quaint headstone, she cast her narrow eyes, wrought with exhaustion and manifested indifference, onto the engraved writing. Gaze tracing over every word as she worked out a clenched jaw to speak. Trying to find the right phrases each time never got any easier, and the way she went about it, signified it never would. "Hey, ah, Uncle Hattori. Just thought I'd stop by again." She mumbled apathetically, attempting to hide the true weight of her emotions underneath the pale-faced mask. Shimada did not desire to have anyone see her cry; it was solely a moment of weakness she gave into at the sanctuary of her empty home. And despite the absence of presence within the silent cemetery, her guard remained plastered. "I know how you liked daffodils, so I picked some up for you at the nearby flower shop you frequented." Shifting her folded arms away from her chest, she displayed her possession.
A bouquet of freshly cut daffodils wrapped in paper were clutched within her hands, reflecting back a sunny yellow - a revitalizing color Shimada failed to experience. Her bloody red hair swayed in a gentle breeze, untied and loose against her stiff shoulder blades as she stared quietly at the gravestone. Making up a fake conversation in her head about what her uncle's answers would be. "Yeah, they, uh, they symbolize rebirth, new beginnings, forgiveness, and all that. But you'd know, wouldn't you?" She paused for his answer, throat tightening with something ugly desperate to crawl up and emerge, but she swallowed back the pent-up words with an exhausted sigh. Grip slacking on the flowers. "God, I just don't know if I can do this anymore. I'm talking to a damn grave, for sake." Shimada bemoaned, biting back a bubble of frustration just wanting to burst.
'I probably look absolutely insane, but what would that make me if I stopped coming? No, I have to see this through to the very end, no matter how irate I become. I did this to him... so I have to be the one to atone.'
She shuffled her sandals awkwardly against the wet ground, bending down to gently place the bouquet of flowers against the stone. As much as Shimada cared for the remains of her uncle, it was difficult visiting alone without emotional support, but after years of being an orphan, she expected the loneliness. There had never been anyone there with her in the first place. Not since she lost her last remaining family members to cruel fate: death and comatose. And that's what she dreaded to speak about.
"Aunt Hattori is still in the hospital." The young woman began, almost immediately stopping at the heartache it brought; heart clenching painfully in a slender chest. "They say she won't ever recover, and though I, disown me all you want, have given up on her, too, I still see her every now and then." It was the most difficult subject she could speak about, and she fought back the choked sob that threatened to break free. Covering it up with a grating cough and attempting to wipe her trembling voice free of all emotion. It was not like her to get teary-eyed in public so freely.
And now, it just left her feeling so tired and extinguished inside.
"I'm trying to make it up to you. Not just you, but Aunt Hattori as well, and everyone else I ever failed to protect. I keep trying to grow stronger, and I'm getting better everyday. Hopefully," voice faltering, hands clenched into fists so hard her nails left crescent imprints into the flesh, she continued, "I'll feel worth of approval, too." Shimada craned her neck to peer into the now blue sky, breath coming out in light bouts as she gazed at a flock of common bird taking off for destinations unknown.
Mentally vowing to herself that she would grow enough to be able to seek the forgiveness she so desired, even if it buried her alive.
She could hear a few villagers arriving, later in the morning to where many more people were rising from their slumber and heading out to start their day. Shimada backed a few steps away from the grave, trying to distance herself in case any stragglers caught the last of her emotional outbreak. Senses alight with guarded posture.
It was the last thing she needed.
[973]