(Image from Tumblr)
****
TW: Suicial Thoughts!
𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫.
53,245.
That was the count. 53,245 curses eradicated since you left. Each one a silent, ruthless kill—each one a cruel reminder of his relentless agony.
53,245 emotionless annihilations.
53,245 final gasps of cursed beings.
53,245... and yet, Satoru Gojo felt nothing.
No satisfaction, no relief.
Nothing.
Only emptiness.
How could this world just go on.
Why didn't it stop.
Because it had stopped for him—frozen in the moment he lost you.
Satoru Gojo was soaked in cold vengeance and unyielding fury. Nothing more then a shell of his former self—a vessel fueled by rage and an insatiable thirst for retribution, his eyes long devoid of any spark.
Every curse he annihilated was a futile attempt to fill an ever-deepening chasm within. But with each battle, with each kill, the chasm only grew wider, deeper, consuming what little of him remained.
Blood dripped from his fingers as he stood amidst the remains of yet another curse he had violently torn apart. His form was barely recognizable beneath the layers of blood splatter, the gore clinging to his body as if it had become one with his very being.
The wind whispered through the desolation, carrying away the echoes of his silent screams.
53,246.
Still this feeling.
Emptiness.
An ever consuming, overwhelming emptiness.
Why?
Why didn't it go away?
Why did it haunt him?
Why did it have to haunt him so relentlessly?
Why was there no end?
To the emptiness?
To him?
53,246.
But who was counting anymore?
The number was just a hollow count.
Pointless.
Meaningless.
Satoru Gojo had lost himself. He became a shadow, haunted by the memory of what could have been and the brutal reality of what was.
The only constant was the blood that stained his hands.
He didn't care.
He had stopped caring a long time ago.
Because the world had moved on—that traitorous thing of a world had moved on, but Satoru Gojo remained trapped in a never-ending nightmare. Unable to find an escape. Unable to let go.
He had tried to fill the void, god believe me, he had tried so desperately—tried to fill it with his duties as a sorcerer, throwing himself into battle after battle, seeking solace in the slaughter of curses.
But nothing changed.
The emptiness remained.
There was no end to his journey, no final destination.
There was only the hunt, the endless pursuit of a peace he knew he would never again find.
The laughter, the love, the light—all extinguished in the wake of your death. The loss of you had stripped away the last vestiges of warmth from his heart. What remained was a man driven by a singular, unyielding purpose: to eradicate every curse that dared to taint the world you had once walked upon.
And so, he continued, a lone figure against the backdrop of a world struggling to maintain its balance, a sorcerer whose heart had been irrevocably shattered, leaving behind nothing but the cold, ruthless determination of a man with nothing left to lose.
Because nothing really mattered any more.
All that mattered was the void in his heart, the ache of your absence. He had lost the love of his life, and nothing else could ever compare.
Some days he couldn't help but think back to the days when it wasn't too late, remember the sound of your voice, the color of your eyes, the feeling of your skin—they were distant memories now, fading with each passing day. He had tried to hold on to them, but they slipped through his fingers like sand.
And then the darkness consumed him again.
So this was his life now—a never-ending cycle of violence and death.
He was the strongest sorcerer in the world, but it meant nothing to him. All that mattered was the one thing he could never have again. All that mattered was the one person he could not protect.
Why couldn't he protect you?
Why was he so pathetically powerless?
Why?
Why?
When did it all go wrong?
Why didn't he see it sooner?
Why didn't he keep you closer?
The question echoed relentlessly, infiltrating his every waking moment and plaguing his restless nights. He searched for answers that seemed forever beyond his grasp, aching to comprehend the agonizing twists of fate that had torn you from his embrace.
His mind relentlessly retraced the steps that led to this loss. He replayed those moments, desperately seeking the point of divergence where he might have altered the course of fate, prevented the tragedy that had destroyed his world.
But he couldn't.
It was all meaningless.
Amidst the bloodshed of his massacre, he stood, his head tilted back as he gazed at the sky above. He wiped across his eyes with the back of his hand.
It's been two years.
Still every day was painful.
Still every day he thinks about you.
Some days he thinks he's healed. Other days the wounds are fresh, cutting deeper than ever. But the unchanging, unbearable reality was that he missed you every single day.
****
"It's hot," Yuji remarked.
He's right.
The summer heat was unbearable, the air heavy and still. This summer was violent, each day bringing a scorching heat that seemed to drain the energy from everything it touched. Yuji and Megumi sat in the shade, seeking a fleeting escape from the heat.
"I wonder if Nobara's happy overseas," Yuji mused, his hands mechanically working through the motions of slicing watermelon.
"It doesn't matter where she is. Here or overseas. She won't be happy," Megumi said as he watched the aimless swirl of a leaf caught in the still air.
"Probably not," Yuji agreed.
A heavy silence fell upon them, pressing down like the summer heat.
After a moment, Yuji spoke up again. "Aren't you leaving soon as well?"
"Yeah, tomorrow."
"You think it'll change anything?" Yuji asked, his eyes searching Megumi's face for an answer they both knew but didn't want to admit.
Megumi paused, his gaze drifting away. "I have to try."
Yuji exhaled heavily. "So, it's just me now here."
"You'll be fine, Yuji. Gojo's still around," Megumi tried to reassure, though his words lacked conviction.
Yuji propped himself up on one elbow. "Didn't Gojo-sensei say he wants to quit teaching?"
Megumi's eyes widened slightly.
At that moment, a familiar voice cut through the heat. "Did I just hear my name?"
As they turned, the sight of Satoru halted their breaths. Of course, they were shocked. But they were not surprised. They long stopped to be surprised to see him like that. In this state.
His silver hair hung in disheveled strands, plastered to his forehead with a mixture of sweat and dried blood. His form was drenched in scarlet, the blood indistinguishable as to whether it was his own or someone else's. His eyes were shadowed with the familiar emptiness.
His exposed skin bore the marks of numerous injuries, bruises and scratches marring his pale complexion. He no longer healed himself with his reversed cursed technique unless his injuries were lethal.
He wanted to feel the pain.
He wanted to feel the pain of each and every scratch and wound.
He wanted to see the blood run down his skin—wanted to see it run out—wanted to see it end his pain.
Yet amidst the chaos of his broken appearance, a small patch on his left hand had always remained meticulously shielded by his infinity, untouched, unblemished. The wedding ring still adorned his finger, a singular spot free from the onslaught of his self-imposed penance.
Satoru drew closer until his shadow fell on Yuji. Yuji tilted his head back. "Oh, Gojo-sensei. What brings you here?"
Satoru strolled closer, picked up a slice of watermelon and sat down next to them. He seemed unfazed by the blood that transferred from his hands to the watermelon as he took a bite. The air around him carried the pungent scent of battle.
"You reek of burned flesh and ashes," Megumi commented.
"Do I?" Satoru responded, seemingly unbothered by the observation.
Silence.
"Is it true?" Megumi spoke up. "You're done with teaching?"
Satoru turned his gaze to them. "Yeah, I'm stepping back. It's time for you all to take over." He paused, his jaw clenched. "I'm tired," he added, almost in a whisper.
His gaze then shifted to Yuji. "Yuji, you're in for the teacher training program."
Yuji's eyes widened in surprise. "What? Really?"
"Yes, you've done well," Satoru said with a fleeting smile that hardly touched the weariness in his eyes. "You too, Megumi, if you want to stay," Satoru added, but he already knew the answer to that.
"Who would've thought? Me as a teacher. Times really are changing," Yuji mused aloud.
Just then, Maki arrived, her directness cutting like a blade. "Gojo, you're reeking up the place. Ever heard of a shower?"
Satoru shot a quick, irritable glance her way. "Shut it, Zenin."
She raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his response. "Seriously, Gojo? When are you going to end your self-destruction? It's been two years!"
Satoru's fist clenched, his patience clearly fraying. "Watch your words," he retorted sharply.
But Maki wasn't done. She had had enough. She had grieved, too, like everyone else, but to watch Satoru drown in self-pity made her blood boil; knowing that it was far from what you would have wanted for him.
She crossed her arms, her gaze drilling into him. "Look at yourself, Gojo! You're a mess! When do you think you will finally be redeemed? Huh? When you have wiped out every curse on earth?"
At her words, something in Satoru snapped. He stood up abruptly, his presence suddenly more threatening. "Enough," he warned, his voice icy, barely containing his simmering rage. "Shut your tongue, or I'll rip it out myself."
Maki held his gaze, unflinching. "And then what, Gojo? You think that will bring you peace?"
Satoru's eyes narrowed. "I advise you to stay out of matters that do not concern you." With that, he turned and left, leaving Megumi, Yuji, and Maki behind.
Maki let out an exasperated sigh, running her hand through her hair. "When will Gojo get a grip on himself?"
"Drop it, Maki," Megumi snapped back with an uncharacteristic sharpness.
Maki's eyes narrowed, her own patience wearing thin. "Oh, come on! You're just as bad, Fushiguro. Both of you need to move forward. It's painful to watch."
Megumi's expression darkened. Without another word, he stood up, turned on his heel and walked away. Maki and Yuji were left in silence, the tension still hanging in the air.
"Was I too harsh?" Maki sat down besides Yuji.
"Maybe, Maki. I don't know. I really don't know." Yuji let out a weary exhale. "Just don't be so hard on them. They torture themselves enough already," he said while his fingers traced the faint lines under his eyes where painful marks had once been. "We all do."
That's it, isn't it?
That's fate.
That's life.
Unforgiving.
Cruel.
Somehow, some bonds are meant to be cruel—cursed even.
And all they could do was hope—hope that one day the pain would ease, that it would become more bearable. Or that life would, at lat, offer them the sweet release they lacked the courage to seize for themselves—the release from the pain that held them captive.
Sometimes, Satoru thought about it.
In the quiet nights.
When he missed you the most.
He wanted to forget, to let go of the memories that haunted him. Maybe then the pain would be easier to bear. Maybe then it would be easier to breathe. Yet, he couldn't. He couldn't allow himself to forget, even though he wished he could.
But the curses that plagued the world were a constant reminder of what had been cruelly taken from him, and he couldn't rest until he had annihilated every last one of them.
Until that day came, he would continue his relentless hunt, each cursed spirit he extinguished bringing him a faint step closer to redemption.
Or so he desperately hoped.
****
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬' 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞.
I should stop listening to sad music while writing D: