DELIRIA - YANDERE!CHUUYA NAKAHARA

Twenty: Kiss-sensual-in the light.

You're sitting on the couch in your room in utter darkness, the curtains drawn to block the midnight rays from hazing the room with its silvery light: Your room is a block of black. You're breathing slowly—in and out—your eyes closed and hands crossed over your lap.

You're scared of the dark. This is no act of meditation, but a calculated effort to bring back horrid memories. To trigger yourself until you were past the point of dissociation.

You are breathing in unison with the darkness until you are merged with the blackness, until you and it are zero. You tremble—not only out of fear, but at the possibilities of becoming nothing but a speck of dust, becoming nothing but a shadow spilled across the floor. You're empty inside: The horrible feeling; your heart solemnly quiet in the cathedral of your ribs. You now exist as a singular form: a composite of shadows. Your arms melt into the darkness, and you become child-like again.

You recall the axe in your hands. How the strong, polished wooden handle had taken your hands when you entered the chilly darkness of your house almost lovingly, as though promising you happy secrets of freedom with its metallic swinging. The handle was solid. You couldn't replicate that same feeling now; it was an exchange limited to a particular time and place. It was bound to fade and disappear. But the memory remained, like a stone cast onto a river. Memory can give warmth to time, and only the mentally deranged can replicate that, give shape to that memory, fix it into history.

You were the one that had fixed it into history: The (last name) family massacre. 20XX.

Were you mentally deranged, or just hurt beyond human comprehension?

You could still feel hands roaming around your body like cockroaches brazenly scuttling over your skin, centipedes and crickets alike taking refuge in the living shell of your body. How the hands adored your skin: if skin were dead cells, how the hands took almost a necrophiliac obsession with it: The tyranny of trauma. You are still but a little girl, the kernel of lost time trapped within you, everything else growing around it like a bullet lodged in skin. Everything was a cyst apart from the deep dark secret that you had committed when you were fifteen.

A click to the door.

"Why're you sitting in the dark?" Chuuya's voice cuts through the darkness like a knife. His voice is demanding, but with a firm gentleness that you had come to know as curiosity. He doesn't turn on the light, but instead slides his way around towards you, as though the darkness was serpentine, and he had to step over it.

"Why not?" Is your calm response. You can hear the clinking of wine glasses on the glass coffee table. You can hear the thick braid of dark red hitting the thin glass as he pours wine into each one, the decadent swirling noise light and delicate like mist in the air.

"I just had the strangest thing happen earlier," He takes a seat beside you, the cushion wielding under his weight as his hand nurses a wine glass. "I saw you. As a kid."

Your eyes open. They have adapted to the dark, so you can see the distinct, albeit handsome, features of Chuuya swathed in the blackness, his voice rumbling in his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing like a raft lost at sea, his long, slim fingers cupping the round surface of the glass as though it was a face. You hum.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I saw you. It was after you had murdered your family," He takes a sip of wine. "It was weird. You started talking about God, how it was his fault instead of your dad's."

"Aren't they the same?" You say. At that, Chuuya leans forwards and slaps a hand on his knee.

"That's similar to what I said," He says. "Don't we see God in our fathers? Theoretically?"