Reincarnation

› eighteen: monster.

❝we're all killers.

we've all killed parts of ourselves to survive.

we've all got blood on our hands.

something somewhere had to die so we could stay alive. ❞

— if memories could bleed, if dreams could scream I m.a.w (via dvoyd)

———

“What was the point of this?”

Is all you say to her failed attempt of killing you as you twisted her arm and held it firmly, the ice pick now pointed towards her own neck. The girl glowered, hands trembling—out of fear and anger, you noticed—jaw clenched, her eyes switching between you and the blade, beads of sweat sliding down her temples.

You look at her more closely. Clearly, she is just a kid; choppy, coal black bangs framing her small face, messily braided twintails—however, her eyes, as dark as the night sky—radiated anger, hopelessness, fear—more so the fear of death. Of course she’d be scared. She has a demon threatening her life, and she’s young. She doesn’t want to die young.

But that’s not what her eyes should have. They should have sparkling eyes full of wonder and curiosity, one yearning for adventure or seeking solace in their own world of imagination. Eyes full of life with a glimmering light in their eyes.

Yet, she has none of that.

For someone so young, she had the killing intent akin to an assassin’s. It was sad, seeing a little girl such as her being exploited by the demon to get what he wants.

Then again, you aren’t better. Your childhood wasn’t better, either.

“Die, you bitch! You monster! We can’t have sweet dreams because you guys showed up! You hurt my sister! She’s probably dead because of you! Monster!” She screamed, eyes glossy and voice breaking at the end as she thrashed around, trying to get you to let go of her.

“She’s just unconscious. Besides,” you spoke, and without missing a beat, you hit the side of her neck—effectively knocking her out, the clank! and thump! of her body hitting against the ground, ice pick falling out of her grasp and landing beside her head. 

“We’re all monsters, really.”

You look up, causing the ones who were once connected to your fellow companions to flinch, avoiding your gaze completely. Your eyes landed on a boy—young, around your age or older, most likely. Dark hair parted to the side, glossy, tired obsidian eyes that looked pained and sad and just…hopeless. He…

“You’re sick, aren’t you?” You asked, but it wasn’t really a question—more like a confirmation. You know he is.

“Y-yes…” he stuttered, eyes darting to his hands. “T..tuberculosis. I have tuberculosis.”

Tanjirou takes a step forward towards the boy, eyes full of sadness—not pity, but sadness. Huh.

You let them be, tentatively approaching Inosuke, worried about his state. He still hasn’t woken up—you aren’t sure why. His vitals are fine. So are Zenitsu and Rengoku’s.

You frown, pushing up the mask gently before cupping his cheek, brushing the pad of your thumb against his warm cheek, eyes watching him closely. He was as still as ever, though—you could feel the puff of air escape his parted lips and the way his chest rose and fell. Please wake up soon, Inosuke. We need you.