Prologue

Disclaimer

This was written a long time ago. For reference to the content, it was written to bring about awareness. Since I'm updating it, albeit crudely, I made the effort of fixing it up a bit. To me, this chapter is very awful. But, I'm keeping it like this because I don't want to write another prologue. If you stick around for the latest chapter, the writing improves greatly.

A time ago I use to wear clothes that matched the seasons.

A time ago I used to wear short sleeved shirts when the rays of the sun landed on my skin.

A time ago I use to slip into comfortable basketball shorts when spring handed the job of "season" over to summer.

A time ago I opted to cover myself in the fabric of my sweater when the day was cold, and remove the material when the air turned warm.

Yes, I once dressed to the norms of society, despite all the constant critism and backlash that I pour onto the senseless and false ideals of socialism. Ironic, isn't it?

Yet now when the air is stale with summer's heat, and the classrooms that I attend are rendered warm due to the school air conditioning, why do I cover my body with such seemingly uncomfortable, and lengthy fabric that are is my clothes?

Why do I refuse to remove my blazer when I am at school, and my sweater when I am at home?

Why do I depend on such meager material like my life depends on it?

You could say that I am trying in vain to be an excellent student and adhere to the school guidelines of clothing that is our "dress code", but any person who decides this is my reason is sorely mistaken.

Why?

...well…

For protection...why else?

These clothes that I face increasing interrogation for wearing, these clothes are my lifelines, my saviors, my warriors, my protectors. You must be itching to find out the explicit reason as to why I must always wear long sleeve clothing, as to why such trivial articles of fabric are things that I depend on so much.

Well it's because of what I do.

What I do to myself; what I do to the ones that love and care for me.

'"I remember that morning well. Why? Because it was so damn cold. As soon as I had provided myself with breakfast and I opened the door to begin my journey to school, I was hit with what felt like a wall of bitter cold. It should have affected me much more than it did that day, but the cold, hard metal of the razor that was my friend the night before was much cooler."

Alright, I admit, that was a bit explicit, but I think you can get the point now, yeah?

Now that we have the pieces of the puzzle that everyone so desperately needed, I can inform you about why I value my clothing as much as I do.

It's as I said before, it shields me. Shields me from the horror that is sure to come when one would look upon my scars. It shields me from the shame that occurs when I look at my club-mates in the face. In short, it protects me. It cares when no one else will. Will they care? They are just mere club-mates, of course they wouldn't. One has denied my request of friendship twice, which sent me scurrying for my tools of self-inflicted harm both times, and the other... a nice girl. The most dangerous and betraying type of female, other than a yandere. Then again, who is to say that she isn't? I think I shivered at that thought.

My dad? Don't get me started on him. I know he hates me, I know he doesn't forgive me for what I did. Why doesn't he just say it? Why does he have to act like it's all okay, that I didn't take his life away from him the moment I did what I did?

…

I look at where my fist is currently placed. It seems all that anger turned physical, source: my bleeding hand. I guess I punched the wall during my thought process huh? Good, it will complement the blood that's trailing down my arms. I should really clean that up.

I pick up a clean rag from the pile of them beside me, and sit back down on my freshly cleaned sheets. It smells like lavender, a favorite of mine.

As I begin to wipe the blood gently off of my arm I can't help but notice how much I have fucked up my arm. Former cuts from various types of blades had left their appalling marks on my skin, and have formed into scar tissue, like a lock sealing my secrets within my own body. Of course, it wasn't just on this arm that I had performed my repulsive art, it was all over my body.

If you lifted my jeans that I always wore, it would be clear to you that I had also cut my legs. Lift up my long-sleeve shirt and you would take heed to the nicely cut, thin lines that covered some areas of my abs. I developed those after working out, to help devoid my mind of the memories of that incident.

Ah yes...the incident. You must me dying to know what that certain incident is my friends, however; I just don't feel like we know each other all that well yet. Maybe in a few chapters I will tell you, okay?

As these thoughts flowed through my head I roughly rubbed one of my cuts on accident, allowing it to open yet again and allow blood to once again flow down my already, blood stained arm. I watched it travel down the length of my arm, slowly moving its way around some cuts, and over others. As the drop finally made its way to the end of my elbow, it silently fell to the floor, staining my carpet with a color of rich red. Then almost simultaneously a drop of liquid water fell onto it, beginning to clean the blood out of the carpet. Huh? Was that a tear?

I shakily brought my hand to my left eye, where I discovered more tears starting to roll gently down my scarred face. Why am I crying? I shouldn't be crying. Not after what I have done...what I've done to this now hollow family.

You know...Komachi would not have liked to see me this way…

…

At the thought of my sister's name, a wave of old and hard emotions hit me like a train. The aftermath? Something that was expected.

Tear after tear began to violently will themselves down my cheeks, some landing on the blood that had dropped on the floor just seconds ago. I began to sob, albeit unwillingly.

I did not deserve to let out my emotions like this; I did not deserve to cry. What I did, did not merit such an act.

"But cutting does, Onii-chan?"

I stopped as I heard that. No, I froze.

I know that wasn't real, I know that wasn't really Komachi. What she said was something I had told myself a thousand times, but whenever I heard her voice in my head say that, it made me want to stop. But can I stop when I do this because I have nothing else to turn to? Do I even have the strength to do so? Sometimes I wish I had picked something else to turn to. Alcohol is what my father decided to indulge himself in, maybe I should follow in his footsteps? Or maybe I should look to cigarettes like my beloved teacher? No matter what I do, I don't think I'll have the strength to stop...sometimes I wonder if I even want to.

No, I've wanted to stop. I've wanted to stop going out in the world with clothes that make me hot for awhile now. I've wanted to stop the suspicious and questioning stares that my clubmates throw at me whenever we discuss my peculiar choice of clothing. Maybe I should just tell them that I recently got tattoos and I'd be embarrassed if anyone laid their eyes upon them. Please, the day I use energy to go and get a tattoo is the day I turn into a riajuu. I don't need tattoos, because I've already given myself plenty of permanent scars on my body...those scars that I want to stop giving to myself, locking away my problems and pains inside of them like Captain Avery's lost treasure.

But I can't.

I won't forgive myself...because they can't forgive me.

Mother…

Komachi…

They can't forgive me.

Because they're dead.

And Hikigaya Hachiman killed them.