Ink Stained

27: remember?*

見覚える?

There are white walls everywhere. It's all there is.

One white wall and two white walls and three white walls and four white walls, closing in on her when she tries to sleep, suffocating her when she can't. A white ceiling over her head with the electric light turned full-on, glaring at the top of her head. A smooth white floor that she has fallen on when trying to walk and slipped on the blood that coated her feet, blood that seeps from the gaping cuts she opens up all over her body when she is alone after they are done with her.

Her eyes are trained on his shoe. It is black. Polished. Laces tied messily, which seems oddly in contrast with his otherwise neat and orderly countenance. He is wearing a black trousers and a pale yellow sweater under the white lab coat he dons.

White. She thinks. Why is it white? White, why is it always white? White, white, white. White.

White, white, white. Let's paint it red, Pai. Let's paint them all red.

Red...red...she thinks hazily. Red like...blood?

Let them bleed like they made us bleed.

Her mind is muddled. Slow. She knows it is because she has not completed her task, the one Akira set her to. Once she has, she knows she won't feel this tired, this drained. At least, she thinks she won't. She'll be used to it by then.

But she hasn't. Not yet. "Train your body to function normally on three hours of sleep. Do that, and I'll let you talk to her as a reward for the good girl, eh?"

She hasn't done that yet. She'll feel better once she does. She'll be able to see her once she does. She'll feel better then, she knows she will. She just has to get rid of this aching heaviness in the marrows of her bones where lead lies, pushing her down into the bed when she knows she should wake up.

"Do you know why I am here?" Kazuki asks.

It takes a while for her to understand what he has said after she hears it. She says nothing. Her eyes flick up to Kazuki when he shifts. He crosses his legs. She goes back to staring at his shoe.

Three hours. Sleep...sleep on three hours. I can do four now. Need to make it to three.

Let us out and you won't have to.

I won't. You're not coming out. It's your fault I'm here. I won't let you out.

The voice starts fading away. It is still there, she knows it by the weight in her chest, by the slight tapping at the back of her skull like a headache asking permission to wreak havoc, but it goes silent.

She wants to cry. The voice is the source of her madness, and it is the only thing keeping her sane now. It hurts her, but she doesn't want it to go away. Please don't go away, don't –

It doesn't say anything, but she feels it surge up slightly, a chill spreading through her. Her simmering panic quietens down, cooled by the frigid essence she rarely sees but always hears.