DELIRIA - YANDERE!CHUUYA NAKAHARA

Eighteen: D-Day.

TW: I tried to make it as vague as possible, but there are references to sexual abuse in this chapter. Again, it is very vague but just a head's up.

—

You close your eyes.

You can envision yourself in the small hut again, curled up into a ball after a particularly bad session from father. Memories that were beginning to be thawed out of permafrost, like bacteria and fossils becoming resurrected in the warming spring air, regaining all their former vigour and fanged glory as they sprawled their magnificent claws out into the open air. You take a deep breath and let it wash over you, and take you away as the tide recedes.

Who will drag you back home, though?

You're back in that house.

FWUM.

Time reverses. This is your specialty. Stopping time was one thing, but going back and reliving everything, from torture to forced pleasure, was another thing. This was a hidden talent of yours, a forced talent that you had been given, despite your fatigued resistance to it. A secret locked away in a small box of your heart, buried deep in the ventricles, with blood vitally pumping over it, like a cancer long forgotten its original route. And the only person who knew it well enough to make it three-dimension was only you, (last name) (first name).

A troubled loneliness that comes from a secret.

You're back in that house, and mother is soothing you with long, languid strokes to the head. The acrid burn on your tongue and the inside of your cheeks is making you cry; thick, globules of tears streaming down your face as you weep into your knees. She's at a loss for words, before she hoarsely says,

"I'm sorry," She says. "I can't stop him."

There's no longer a burning flame in your body; father had extinguished it with his methodical hands, breaking you into pieces and putting you back messily together with bits and pieces of himself. Your hips are marked with nail marks and splotches of bruises are beginning to blossom, the underside of your thighs red and burning from repeated smacks. You're crying while father watches the television, smiling at his slick victory over his daughter.

His own daughter.

"I can't stop him," Mother is saying. "I can't. Here," She wipes your tears away with her orange apron, the fabric darkening and heavy with liquid. "Come closer."

You do the opposite; you wrench yourself away from her and bolt out the door, pumping your arms as fast as you can, a limp to your run. Pathetic little girl. It's you against the world.

You run to the slums, your safe space, and you're greeted with a pair of shining, purple eyes. Behind him are a duo of men, each holding a weapon that you had begged for.

"Boss—"

"I garner it happened again," He says, his voice deep like church organs, a tone darker in its seriousness. You nod, albeit shamefully, gripping your arm with your other hand. You don't respond, instead turning your eyes away from him and towards the direction of your safe spot. "(First name), here are the arms you have requested."

You wipe the tears off your face and when you do, your face is replaced with a metallic determination.

The two men step forwards: One hands you an axe, and it is pleasantly heavy in your arms. It makes a metallic noise when you slice the air with it. The other hands you a shotgun. It comes with a strap that he puts over your shoulder for you, resting against your back like a backpack.

"How will you execute this, I wonder, (first name)?" Boss questions as the two men step behind him once more, their hands locked behind their back. You aspired to be like them one day, serving under Boss without hesitation.