#hands down omori had the Most trigger warnings

[punkgang]

once i finish everhood i’m going to start another game my boyf recommended which is omori because i love suffering and getting emotionally gut punched

[daphenines]

everything is going to be okay (OMORI)

by daphenines

NOTE: i have no idea how uploading fanfiction on this website goes so if anyone can tell me how, please let me know :')

link to this fic on ao3

TRIGGER WARNING: DEPICTIONS OF SUICIDE

He remembers so much yet too little all at once.

He remembers sitting under the blazing sun in summer, hiding under an umbrella, watching as his friends laughed together. He wasn’t talkative, but that didn’t seem to matter to them. They would drag him out from where he sat, and force him to join in. He doesn’t remember specific memories, only a vague feeling of warmth, slightly fuzzy at the edges.

Most of their memories were captured in photographs. He remembers looking at them, remembers running his fingers down the smooth face of the polaroid pictures. He saw his face in the photos, a faint smile on his lips. He traced the edges of his face, every joy-softened angle. He remembers what his friend had said as he placed a flower crown upon his head. The boy frowned slightly at the sound of a camera clicking. Photos are our window to the past. In a couple of years, you’ll be grateful I took these.

As he stared at them, he wasn’t sure how he felt.

He remembers listening to his friend read to him, eyes as big as saucers, hanging off his every word. His friend was one of those people who could get anyone to listen, despite his soft voice and shy demeanor. He remembers shuffling closer, as if the words themselves were pulling him in. He doesn’t remember the story, only a blurred happiness, a faint disconnect. The boy rarely smiled, but he’s smiling in this photo.

He remembers his friend watching him and his sister practise for their recital. He remembers how they weaved together notes on a page into a discordant harmony. It was their first practise, and their notes were slightly off. He remembers his friend applauding as they finished, despite the music sounding terrible, smiling wide enough to split his face. 

His finger traces the outline of his sister in the polaroid picture, sitting next to him on a piano stool that was probably far too small for the both of them. In his lap is a violin. It’s new and the wood is shiny. The boy is smiling in this photo, too.

There are photos of a tree. The boy skims over them. He doesn’t remember much, but he remembers that tree.

A rush of feelings comes with those photos. He remembers his friend’s hand, clammy with sweat and tears, clutching onto his. He remembers how his friend rubbed soothing circles into his back as he threw his dinner up into the toilet, how he held the boy as he collapsed to the floor. Most of his memories come in brief, vague flashes. This one seems to last forever, though, the sensations stretching on. He remembers, vividly, the words of reassurance his friend murmured to him in his backyard, under the moon. Let’s make some new memories together, okay?

He feels as everything falls apart, leaving shattered pieces in his wake. He feels as his friend picks those pieces up, and hands them back to him, unafraid of cutting his palms on the sharp edges. He feels the comfort of his friend’s warmth next to him that night. The bed was barely big enough for the two of them. He remembers how cramped it had been, and he remembers not caring. It had been so hot with the two of them under the covers, but the boy didn’t care.

Everything is going to be okay. 

Promise me that we’ll always be there for each other.

He remembers the feeling of rope chafing against his palms, an inescapable phantom, the dark shadow that seems to loom over his head. He doesn’t give it a name, he doesn’t need to, doesn’t want to. But one comes to him anyway: guilt.

The dark black hair that looked like spilled ink around his sister’s body. The white flowers that surrounded her coffin. She looked like she was sleeping. She looked at peace. His friend had been there for the funeral, blue eyes wide, staring into the casket. The boy could read the expression on his face clear as day. He remembers wearing the same one.

This is my fault. This is my fault.

The boy and his friend were there when they buried her. He remembers the sound of dirt raining down on her coffin. He didn’t cry. He couldn’t remember how.

This is my fault. I’m sorry. 

His friend had seemed so calm when it had happened, but his façade fell apart once she was buried. The boy wanted to hold him, wanted to reassure him the way his friend had done for him, but he couldn’t. This was his fault. His friend surely knew that. 

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

He remembers how the days alone in his room turned into weeks, then months. His friend had tried to contact him but, despite his best efforts, the boy remained locked inside his room.

His friend had knocked on his door everyday for those first months, pleading with him to come out, to just talk to him. He doesn’t remember his friend’s exact words, but he remembers three. 

I miss you.

After he didn’t respond to that, the knocks stopped, until all that was left was his door, and the relentless ringing of static in his ears. 

He doesn’t remember much from when he saw his friend again, only infinitesimal flashes that were as clear as they were brief.

He remembers unhooking the makeshift noose from around his friend’s neck, his fingers skirting over his friend’s torn and bloody wrist, searching for a pulse that is long gone. He remembers running his thumbs over the dark purple bruises decorating his friend’s throat, pushing down on them, as if the pain would wake him up. The boy cards his hands through his friend’s hair. It feels brittle under his fingertips. He takes one of his friend’s hands into his, threading his fingers through his friend’s stiff ones. His palms are sticky with blood.

This is my fault. I’m sorry. I love you. 

The boy’s head drops with a thud next to his friend’s. The wooden floorboards beneath his forehead are so, so cold. Everything is so cold. His lips move by his friend’s ear, his voice a low whisper. The boy barely hears his own words over the ever-present thrum of white noise in his ears. Everything is going to be okay. Promise me everything is going to be okay.

[countryshitposts]

The Wasted Years, The Wasted Youth

- Japan could not remember what was and what is present. All he knows is that these are fragments.

Trigger Warnings: violence, gore, murder, child abuse

hey so ya’ll can have this 8k one-shot now

-460 “Are we there yet, haha?”, a young boy asks, as he follows his mother through the terrains of the palace, bouncing up and down, while his mother puts her smooth dark hair back in place, as she hums to herself a song she sings to Japan every night to get him to sleep; it was simply entrancing and melodious to the young child as he tugs on her clothing once again to get her attention.

She simply smiles at him, her kindly eyes full of natural fire, as she bends down to pick up her son, who giggles underneath her grasp. “We’re almost there, watashi no musuko.”

His mother kisses his forehead, and he giggles a little, looking at his mother with cheerful grey eyes, feeling his mother’s warmth envelop him. Japan sees bright light up ahead, and he coos at his mother, asking if they are almost there, to which she nods with full certainty, as she bends down and lets him go- now he misses his mother’s warmth, and he tugs at her clothes to signal he wants to be carried by her, but she laughs.

“You have two feet, shin’aina”, she replies playfully, and Japan huffs petulantly. She kisses his cheek, as she takes his hand, warmth once again enveloping the both of them, and her son smiles as they make their way to the gardens.

He could see that there are two boys in the gardens, talking to each other, looking virtually the same in any other way, but the taller of the two looking experienced, his dark hair cropped short and smooth, his crimson red eyes brimming with ambition, toying with the weapon on his hilt. The shorter of the two had dark hair and purple eyes, and he was talking to the taller boy with a worried tone.

Japan could feel his mother’s grip tightening around him, sweat covering her palm, and he looks up- she was biting her lip, eyeing the two boys with a wary look on her face.

As mother and son approach the pair however, they cease talking, the gardens now once again full of peaceful quiet, as they both turn to them, eyes on Japan. The first boy’s red eyes bore into Japan’s mind, his blood running cold as his heart stops in horrid fear, his lungs pushing him to breath harder, hating the fact that his red eyes were the shade of blood; his eyes were now brimming with a mixture of ambition and hatred. The other glares at Koku as if he had done wrong, but his ice-cold glare could never match up to the blood-shot eyes of his brother.

“Teikoku, Tokyo, where is your mother?”, Japan’s mother asks, lips curling, “or was she too… unwell to visit the palace?”

Teikoku’s glare now targets Kyoto, his teeth gritting as his eyes spit fire. “We decide to visit this place to see our own father.”

Kyoto sighs a little, “He is busy today.”

Teikoku raises a brow, “He is busy with what? Spending time with his concubines?”

Kyoto bites her lip; meanwhile, Japan was in awe of how glorious these men look, but their eyes are filled with hate as they stare at him, as if he was the cause of all their grievances, even if he was a youth oblivious to the matters they concern themselves with, wishing to forever keep his innocence and peace, wanting his entire life to be nothing more than butterflies and flowers.

Kyoto’s gaze hardens, “Go back to your mother, or your tutors. You have no place in the sun.”

Teikoku scoffs, a smirk playing on his lips as his gaze turns back to Japan, “You are just afraid we will taint your son. Oh well, goodbye, baishunpu.”

As they leave mother and son, the elder one turning back to give Japan one last murderous glare, they bring with them the peculiar and strange feeling that he had felt from the start. He tugs on his mother’s sleeve, gaining her attention.

“Who are they, mama?”

“No need to think about them, my taiyō, their wickedness has no place in your heart.” She puts a finger to his chest and he giggles.

+1

Japan dreams of he and his mother, in a field of flowers, the number of butterflies swarming and fighting for the pollen of the plants, but in the end it disturbs the peace he and his mother had made for themselves, as colourful wings flutter left and right, up and down, making him a little dizzy, his entire body wishing to swat these damned insects away, no longer is he fond of how beautiful the patterns on their wings are, and he swats them away, away from him and at his mother, who was strangely not disturbed by them.

Then as he takes a look back at his mother, who was so awfully serene in the midst of a butterfly apocalypse, he drops everything in his arms in horror.

She was a corpse, sitting on the grass that is now attached to her dead skin, the warm smile always on her face dead, her eyes closed as if she was sleeping, her hair falling down in clumps as her hands are now already shredded to the bone.

He screams in horror as the butterflies direct their attention towards her body, now devouring the only kindred soul he had.

Japan immediately wakes, his heart beating in rhythm with his breaths, entire body shaking as he panics; he is enveloped in darkness, beads of sweat dripping down from his face and into wherever they dropped into, his grey eyes finding a source of light that would calm him from his nightmare, still seeing the corpse of his mother in his eyelids.

He questions why he was not in his comfortable bedroom, his head pounding and his heartbeat accelerating, his throat sore as if he had screamed a thousand screams in his own mouth, his long dark hair wet, perhaps from his sweat. The only thing he could feel was the hardness of this damned bed, gnawing at him with their texture of hate, wishing for him to suffer the same fate as them, stuck in the darkness, as evil looms inside this room, no company whatsoever.

Then he smells the blood on his clothes, fresh and sweet, and his fingers mangled, feeling his fingernails scrape stone.

And then he remembers everything.

-2

Japan cosies himself more into his mother’s lap, as she silently fixes his hair, strangely distracted as if her son is not the only thing in her mind, as if her mind has jumbled up too much of her reality and she is now about to pay the price for her salvation. She was not even humming any types of song, as if she had never sang in front of her child in the first place and that she had lost her voice all from worry of the unknown.

“Why do you look so scared, haha?”, he asks Kyoto, who perks up from the rather odd interruption, finally noticing there is youthful life in her room.

Kyoto smiles down at her child, her smile comparable to the cherry blossoms at bloom, but more majestic and entrancing, her lips the soft petals that flow in the wind, as he watches them with his mother in amazement.

“I’m not scared, I’m simply worried, my dear”, she replies with a small sigh, tickling the child underneath her arms as he babbles and giggles out loud. “Worried that your father’s reign will come to an end, and leave you as his heir.”

Japan blinks up at Kyoto, grey eyes full of confusion. “But mama, why don’t you want me to be heir? It is my birthright after all.”

She only gives him a sad smile, “You will be too young to rule if your father’s reign would end so abruptly. I cannot help you and only your father’s ministers will help you. Especially those two young men…”

Japan nods; he does not understand his mother’s constant worry for him, as he wants to be emperor of the country now and forever, but he knows his mother was simply worried for him. She goes back to minding her own business, disregarding the fact that her son exists, so he decides to comfort his mother, wishing to bring her out of her wit’s end.

“Haha?”, he gains his mother’s attention once again, as she looks back at him with questions in her eyes, but it did not succeed in taking her spirit away.

“Yes, aisare shi-sha?”, she asks, her voice covered with sweetness.

“Watashi no tame ni utaemasu ka”, he asks from her mother, who smiles and kisses his forehead, obeying her son.

“Mochiron, watashi no musuko”, she replies, as she clears her throat, handling Japan tightly as if he was a newborn baby, opening her mouth to unleash the most beautiful voice he has heard a thousand times in life.

Her voice was brilliant; as if she was performing in all those theatres he had seen for himself, none talking of her marvellous talent except for him and only him, as she starts to sing a song he has heard one thousand and one times, getting tired of the lullaby but never getting tired of the singer.

“Nennen korori yo, Okorori yo. Bōya wa yoi ko da, Nenne shina.

Bōya no omori wa, Doko e itta? Ano yama koete, Sato e itta.

Sato no miyage ni, Nani morotta? Denden taiko ni, Shō no fue.”

Japan, never really one for staying late, yawns as he hears his mother’s voice, always there to make him feel better, always there to comfort him in his times of need, as if her voice was his path finder in life, and without it he will suffocate at the hands of evil, its claws digging into his neck. His mother must have sensed his exhaustion, as she softly chuckles and kisses him on the forehead.

“Yukkuri o yasumi, little one.”

(Japan only realised now that this was the last time he gets to hear her sing.)

+100

Everything has become routine for him; him scratching on the walls, desperately in search of an exit before giving up as he gasps in pain, one of his nails clipped off by the impenetrable stone walls, lounging on his make-shift bed, staring boredly into the darkness, wishing for something worthwhile to happen, wishing to entertain himself rather than sleeping since the only thing he sees is his mother who is dead-

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, softly humming a song his mother used to sing to him when he was but an innocent, naive small boy (he still was; though he could not say life was kind to him now), who has unfortunately been taught that life has its uphills and downhills, that life would spit acid on your face and call it a day in the hardest way possible.

He tries counting the days with his own fingers scraping into the mouldy and dirty stone walls, his only friend the darkness.

His ears then hear the sound of metal clinking, knowing the guards are once again back with his food, knowing this is his one chance in escaping this inferno he had created all by himself.

“Well well well, if it isn’t my dearest brother.” Japan’s ears perk up, knowing that disgusting voice all too well, the voice full of too much pleasure and madness, as if he was possessed by a demon that still controls every action and reaction of his. He finds himself face to face with those crimson red eyes swirling with madness and ambition, as if he never fulfilled his dreams despite the fact he had taken his father’s throne.

And Japan’s right to it as well.

His younger brother did not have the heart to reply, his days being accompanied by darkness not treating him well, the small foods and morsels he had scraped by cannot sustain his hunger, nor do the bowls of water could sustain his parched self. So all he could do is stare up at Teikoku with his dead grey eyes, knowing that his brother’s eyes still instill fear inside him, continuing to gnaw in his insides until he drops dead from fright.

After gaining the courage and energy to do so, softly, he asks, “What are you doing here?”

The sly grin on Teikoku’s face grows wider. “To see if you are still alive; I am quite surprised you managed a hundred days living and rotting in this cell.”

Japan does not speak, too exhausted from his question a while ago, his head hung low, eyes on the stone floors, which are being lit by the light from the ajar metal door.

“Well, since I see you are still - disappointedly - alive, I will leave you now.” Without giving his younger brother a second glance, he stalks out of the cell, and closes the door, once again leaving Japan being embraced by the darkness.

-453

Japan once again encounters the strange brothers that he had seen in the palace gardens a few days ago, talking to each other as if they were in the privacy of their house.

“Father has grown weak, Tokyo”, says Teikoku, his posture straight, his eyes pinning down on his younger brother, who was trying not to be afraid of him. “It is time for a new administration to rise and topple the old one to the ground. The shogunate must fall.”

“You mustn't say such dastardly things in public!”, Tokyo berates his brother, his voice soft with fright and the fear people were listening to their conversation. “We will be deemed as traitors!”

Teikoku scoffs, and Japan could tell this man has confidence and pride mixing to one, which will be his downfall in the near future. “Let them hear us; after all, what evidence do they have against us when they face Father’s court? None. None at all.”

“Even if the shogunate does fall, we will not be the one to inherit it.” Tokyo’s face sours with recall. “It will be that little kaibutsu taking what is rightfully ours.”

Teikoku laughs, wicked and evil, “He would not stand a chance against us. We have expertise on combat and swords and knowledge, while he cannot read most words.”

The two brothers laugh at the elder’s joke, all the while making Japan lose confidence in himself, as if the words of these two bullies could change the duality of time, as if they can actually and directly change the way things run in this country, nothing more and nothing less. He takes a small deep sigh, his entire cheery and jovial mood crushed by fear and paranoia, the brothers’ treats feeling real, their determination to get to their dreams so frightening to his childish brain, still clinging onto the hope that he shall succeed his father, the greatest of all shoguns.

(He meets with his mother, who was worried sick of where he had wandered off to, and his mood lightens as he snuggles warmly with his mother.)

+1,023

He paces around his cell, head hung low to the floors he could never see in the darkness, his grey eyes seeing and noting nothing but shades of black, black, black. As if he was underground, in a location that will never be known to men. He paces back and forth, back and forth with no end, as if his entire life has now been reduced to atoms with the absence of light, his feet mindlessly brushing on stone after stone, his head not lost in thoughts nor memory, but lost in nothing.

There was nothing in his mind, no thoughts that can save himself from the slowly growing insanity inside of him, waiting to pounce and cackle as it does; no memories come up, and if some do come up they are tainted by the human mind’s need of imagining everything was still fine, nothing was wrong, that he was not trapped in this cell for god knows how long.

Truth be told, the man pacing his cell did not even remember his name, or why he was here, and what did he do to belong in such a solemn place, no hope of escaping and no hope of seeing light come across this tight-locked cell.

Just like his mind, his world had gone dark, not knowing where he was, not knowing if he still had a will to live.

Then he stops pacing, his grey eyes blinking with light that he had never had after being put here in this jail from so long ago, his mind finally turning on his gears, suddenly yet briefly. He considers it for a moment, before his eyes turn up dead, as if a flashlight had turned off.

He goes back to pacing maddeningly in his cell.

-234

“Haha!”, Japan exclaims as he runs towards his mother’s throne, throwing himself upon her with such force, almost knocking her off balance.

His mother laughs, comforting him, “My, you have gotten big. Tell me, have you been eating lots?”

Japan smiles as he nods enthusiastically, “Yes mama! The foods the cooks made were delicious!”

She kisses her son’s cheek, eliciting a giggle from him. “I am so proud, Japan! Make sure you eat lots to grow faster!”

“Or you will grow fat”, grumbles his father, who was staring at his wife and heir with the most critical grey eyes, his glare striking fear inside of his son. “And you will be immobilized from wars and battles that you must participate in for glory.”

His wife scowls back at him, cradling her son like a small child. “Do not kill our joy, Tokugawa.”

He scoffs, leaning back on his throne, “My only son with my dear wife is a weakling.”

Japan feels a pang of hurt in his chest, as his eyes widen, brimming with tears, while his mother’s eyes flare with anger. She softly lets Japan go from her arms, as her son goes back to staring at his father, wanting to know he has hurt him in the worst possible way, but his eyes are now pinned on his wife, who stands defiantly from her throne, glaring at the shogun.

“He is not a weakling!”, her mother flares, “he is a child who has not been educated yet! If we are talking about weaklings here, it is you!”

Tokugawa abruptly stands up, his shadow looming on both Kyoto and her cowering son, gritting his teeth, his fists clenched, his grey eyes erupting with anger and hatred for his wife, but instead of striking her right then and there, he grabs her wrist, much to her shock and surprise, as he leads her away from the throne room, leaving a worried Japan.

“Haha!”, he exclaims, and his mother turns around to give him a small but grief-stricken smile.

“Shinpaishinaide, watashi no ko”, she replies with a comforting voice, drowning out his fear, “Watashi wa tsuyoidesu.” She vanishes with her husband, never to be seen that afternoon.

(She returns in the evening with a bruised eye, unable to walk as if her legs were unstable. Japan worriedly asks her if she was all right, and she smiles, replying that she is fine.)

+2,304

How does age work?

Does the body increase in age as if it was moving forwards through time, a vessel for experimentation, as they carry a living conscience inside of them as a journey through time?

He had been stuck in this cell for… apparently he lost count, but that hardly even matters anymore, since he cannot move properly in this damned cramped cell, legs wishing to stretch in the widest of rooms, arms wishing to reach up the highest ceilings, wanting nothing but a cell full of more room, as if the cells are purposefully closing in on him, as he can smell its mouldy stone walls and musty old floors.

Every time he wakes up from a dreamless, thoughtless, and memoryless sleep, he is greeted with the fact that he is now going to spend his entire life in a cell that cannot sustain his needs, being greeted with nothing but darkness as his way of life, the remaining air in his cell making him suffocate.

Or; the lack of it.

It was like he forgot everything someone had taught him about the world, as if he stopped existing and was merely a space in this cramped cell, no escape and no way to tell if he lives or not, his heart in pieces, his mind blank, his memories never surfacing, as if they had grown too tired of his grievances and up and left him.

Quiet reigns supreme in his cell with no room, unable to give him air, water or food he desires, as he goes back to sitting on what used to be his make-shift bed, knowing he could never fit in it.

-321

Japan was minding his own business in the gardens, resolving to wait for his mother who was busy handling important matters, cooing at the butterflies that continuously feast on the flower’s nectar, their wings still enchanting their watcher, who stares at them, fascinated, with how beautiful and elegant they are.

The feast of the butterfly has been interrupted by a shrill scream echoing across the garden, making Japan flinch and the butterflies flutter away in unison.

The source of the scream was a woman who looks close to the age of his mother, hair wild and unkept, purple eyes swirling with madness as she runs towards the palace, the guards chasing after her, trying to restrain her.

She was looking around wildly, screaming to herself as she disappears into the palace, the guards still not being able to restrain her.

Japan stares at the spot where he had last seen her, a frightened and confused feeling inside of him, as if that woman was the root of all his nightmares coming to life, wanting to devour him the way the looming darkness in his dreams gobble him up.

Then he hears the voice of two familiar brothers bickering. Japan turns his eyes on the two who enter the palace, Tokyo looking at Teikoku with something akin to fear and worry, while Teikoku had an unreadable expression on his face, his emotions somewhat absent.

“You should not have scared Mother like that”, Tokyo says, his eyes searching the entire gardens. “Now she will be the laughingstock of the court… again.”

Teikoku rolls his eyes, “As she should be- she goes talking about how I am a demon but in reality she fits the description.”

Tokyo gives him a look, “Be polite! You are talking about our Mother!”

“Does not seem like one”, Teikoku mutters, his eyes catching Japan frolicking in the gardens, and he smirks evilly, “Mother Dearest is not a mother.”

As the two brothers disappear into the palace to search for their mother, Japan felt even more frightened of the elder.

+2,546

His body is empty; no brain, no soul, no voice heard, as if no one has remembered he existed, to the point even he himself starts to consider that he was no more, and that he is just a vessel, a vessel to a life that had once existed, but he’s not sure if he was alive.

So he stands in this suffocating and dark cell, depriving him of the light and air he needs to survive, but that is alright; he’s not alive anymore, he’s dead, his name smeared off of history and the fact that Teikoku took all the glory and fame he deserved.

That is the only name that stuck inside his empty mind.

Teikoku.

He cannot remember who or what he is, if he was friend or enemy or rival, but every time he thinks of his name, he feels pain, anger, anguish and desolation, as if he was the harbinger of every remaining conflicting feelings inside of his empty and dark abyss he calls his mind.

Ah yes, a name to remember, all over the years.

-55

Japan runs around the palace, searching every nook and cranny for his mother, even asking the servants if they had seen her. They point to his mother’s private quarters, and his eyes light up, like a pirate finding its treasure. “Haha! I finally found y-”, he stops short as he sees his mother and a mysterious woman having tea in the middle of the room.

“Musuko!”, says his haha, standing up, fixing her attire as she excuses herself from the pretty lady, as she makes her way to cradle her child in her arms. “Do not intervene in people’s conversations again!”

Japan gives his mother an apologetic look, “I’m sorry, mama.” His eyes shot towards the pretty lady, who was pouring tea over her tea cup. “And who is she, mama?”

“Japan!”, his mother scolds once again, “do not-”

The lady chuckles, “It’s fine, Kyoto- no need to get agitated.” She flashes a smile towards the small boy, “my name’s the United States of America, or America for short.”

There was something in that woman, whether it be the way she looks so pretty to the point it compels him to stay with the two girls who go back to their - slightly heated - conversation, the teapot between them steaming as Kyoto once again pours tea into her cup. As they were talking to each other (which was tuned out by him), Japan was busily - or just enchanted - staring at the pretty lady with a pleasant smile on her face. Her golden hair was tied into a braid, which in turn was tied into a small bun. Her skin was dotted by freckles; they look like the stars in the night sky now blessed into her skin, and her green eyes were just like the gardens; he can get lost in them any single day.

There was something in that lady that made his heartbeat increase even faster, as if he had ran a complete route from the gardens towards the town square, as if there were butterflies in his stomach that wished to escape and flutter over the entire room, lighting up the entire room.

And when she glances at him, a thunderstorm meeting a rich forest, she smiles, as if they will meet again, someday.

(They meet again in their next life, in a not-so pleasant way.)

+28,342

He hears the metal door in his cell open, for the first time in what felt like a millenium of waiting. Waiting for something that was never there, and if it was there, it simply vanished because worthless fucks decided to forget they have left something lying upside down, all worn out from years of torment and torture.

He doesn’t bother turning around, but the open door finally gives him a glimpse of his small and cramped cell, always covered in the darkness, and he sees a stone wall in front of him, feeling someone in front of him, hesitating to move and confront the man in the darkness.

“Hello, Japan”, the newcomer softly says, his voice familiar but nothing comes across the prisoner’s mind, lost in the darkness. But he can feel anger rising in him, the same reaction whenever he thinks of Teikoku’s name in his mind, but weaker and lackluster. “Anata wa seichō shimashita.”

The chained man lifts his head, but still not facing him, his eyes up the ceiling now, full of obsolete stone. He tries to find something, anything, a voice or word to respond to this newcomer that finally made him see light again.

“That’s my name?”, he finally asks, softly and surely, his voice too quiet to even be heard in this closed cell. “‘Japan?’”

The newcomer hesitates a little, “Hai, that is your name, since birth.” His voice softens even more, to something more fatherly and regretful. “Oh Japan, I’m sorry we did that to you.”

He immediately whirls to face him, surprising the man in front of him a little as he staggers back, meeting the prisoner’s messy hair and blood-shot grey eyes wanting nothing but to murder, his lips pressed to a thin line, his body thin and gaunt, skin pale from the lack of sunlight that they supposedly need to survive. The prisoner tries long and hard to recall this pathetic man’s name, the way his lips would curl in disgust in his first few years inside that damned cell, rotting.

“Bastard”, he hisses, letting out a shaky breath. “What are you doing here? To come laugh at me? To taunt me? To make fun of me? Spill!” His body was shaking, finally showing emotion after all these years of showing nothing but emptiness.

The man shifts uncomfortably, his eyes never leaving Japan. “I’m not here to taunt taunt nor insult you. I’m here to visit you.”

Japan’s growing anger is about to reach new heights, as he whirls around to see the last face he saw before he is locked up in this cell like a bird. He changed a lot from the years that he could not count with his fingers, with his short-cropped hair and violet eyes now withholding regret, his glasses glinting in the dim lights.

“Why now?”, he asks, softly, feeling tired and weary after shouting at the man who turned his life upside down, left and right, stopping him from an eternity of happiness. “Why did you do this to me? Did I do something wrong that made you imprison me in the darkness?”

He slowly raises his eyes, his body still shaking with such intensity that would put even the earthquakes he had witnessed to shame. “Sometimes I’d think long and hard about what happens to people who put children in jail.”

A few seconds later, he is now alone again in his cell, the darkness welcoming him back with open arms, and instead of screaming and crying and wanting to see the real sun, he welcomes Her with open arms.

-69

It was a stormy day, meaning he would not be able to play in the gardens today, as he stares sadly at the downpour, longingly waiting for it to go away. He is no stranger to the rain, but sometimes his mood dampens with the weather, as if it controls his emotions and feelings to the winds, as the dark grey clouds shower the entire world with drops of liquid in various shapes and sizes.

He inches away from the window as he sees a streak of lightning from a distance, shivering a little from the cold gusts of wind that keeps blowing in his direction, as if he was just a simple obstacle to be knocked off. Lightning streaks were a sign a rumble of thunder is coming, slowly but surely, and it does; like a demon trying to say he is here and he should marvel in his presence.

Japan shrieks as another flash of lightning, this time nearer to his place, sends him tumbling down from his bed, and into the floors.

He starts to cry from the sheer harshness of his fall, as if this was the most painful thing life had done to him, the pain like a hundred men falling down on him. From the midst of his crying, he hears the sliding door open and a soft gasp before two arms start cradling him softly, feeling someone’s hair touch his skin, comforting him, calming the boy down, telling him it is all right.

“Oh, Japan”, his mother coos, voice soft and rich with caring and love, something he had loved in her from the very beginning. “Subete ga seijōdearu.”

+20,129

He grapples at his overgrown hair as if it was his enemy, tearing strands of his hair down in small clumps, falling to the ground like rain he never saw again after he was locked in this now tight and suffocating cell, as he screams. His scream was not from the fact the cell is slowly killing him with its lack of air nor the voices in his mind replacing the serene nothingness, but simply at the fact that he wants to hear himself, he wants to hear the walls echo his own voice, but all he could hear was his bones cracking to the sounds of his scream as his hands try pulling more of his hair out.

He closes his eyes in on the walls, locking him in limbo, forever and ever.

As if his fingers were claws, as if they were sharp and can tears this wall, down, his madness still building up from all these years of inglorious rage and desperation to get out of this damned cell, he turns on to the walls that had took him in as a friend and a foe, his screams becoming more and more agitated as time goes on and on and on.

He starts to create his masterpiece, fingers scraping on the hard walls that torment him every single day, the scraping of his fingers on the olden concrete singing a high-pitched and off-tune music, chanting for disarray. He howls in pain as he feels one of his fingernails break and drop to the floors, hearing its clink, but his work is not done, knowing that he is far from done, knowing he still have not left his mark, as he keeps on scraping and vandalising this damned walls for sheer entertainment, because if no one can do it he had to do this to himself; he does not care if he will break or dislocate any of his fingers, or some of his fingernails break from the intensity of his vandalism, nor does he care if his hands are mangled or bleeding.

A few hours (minutes? days? seconds?) he stops, feeling the numbing of his own pain, panting and trying to breath through, his grey eyes trying to make sure he remembered those words, remember the way they were structured, remember everything. Even from the darkness of the cell, he knew what he spelt out,

“Watashi wa sonzai shimasu.”

-192939488

Is this the past?

Is this the present?

He can’t remember anymore.

He can only remember what’s After now.

+21,456

He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out an annoyed sigh as the metal doors open once again, revealing Tokyo, with a bandage on his left hand. Honestly, his visits are making Japan miss the darkness and the close walls tormenting him slowly but surely. He did not want the man who partnered with Teikoku to visit him, over and over again, every week, every month, every year. Let him be at peace.

“What do you want now?”, he asks curtly, glaring up at Tokyo, who was awkwardly biting his lip.

“How much do you remember about your mother?”

Japan stiffens, his thought process stopping, his grey eyes widening, as he turns to stare at Tokyo in anger and fury. He stands, his body shaking with pure rage; before Tokyo could look back, he had cornered his half-brother inside of his own cell, knowing the two of them both won’t have any room to breathe. He grits his teeth as he digs his fingernails into Tokyo’s recent injury, and he screams out loud in pain.

Japan huffs out a laugh as he punctured injured skin, making Tokyo wish for death with his own voice. “Your pain today isn’t measurable compared to mine.”

All of a sudden, he lets his older brother go, as Japan stalks back to the furthest corners of his cell, back turned from his brother, who was swearing and crying like the bastard he was, as he fumbles around to fix his bandage, an injury topped by another injury, both made by Japan himself.

He lets out a bitter laugh while Tokyo continues whining, before he starts to cry. “I wish I had saved her, you know. The only light in my life destroyed by you.”

+28,299

Grey eyes stare into Tokyo’s brown ones, unable to conceal his bitterness and anger for both the brothers. “You both know that I’m the rightful heir.”

He does not respond, knowing he cannot explain himself to a lonely and bitter man, deprived of beautiful youth, and can only nod shakily, his eyes full of fear. Then he feels hands on his neck, slowly suffocating him, making him gasp as the fingers tighten their grip around his windpipe.

“Say it”, Japan hisses out in the softest voice he can muster, and with surprising strength he lifts Tokyo up until his head hits the ceiling, the man writhing in the cuckold. “Say that I’m the real heir and that Teikoku is the fake.”

His captive lets out a choked response, trying to answer.

“Say it”, Japan says with more force in his voice now, the intent to murder hidden. “SAY THAT I’M THE REAL HEIR!”

“You are”, Tokyo finally chokes out, “you are you are you are.”

+28,323

Tokyo looks back over his shoulder to find Japan still standing, in the centre, his eyes on the shadow casted by the sunlight above him. He raises a brow and tilts his head, “Japan, come on, we’re running late! I’m running late!”

His younger half-brother ignores him, his eyes still on the shadow, his grey eyes brimming with fascination- the shadow mimics his movements, as if it was a darker version of him, attached to his feet. His skin feels like it was being caressed by generous and warm hands, the sun that is said to be burning him like he was in hell a friend, giving him the warmth he never received in the cell, the open space giving him enough air to breathe.

“Japan!”, he hears his brother call out to him, and he slowly walks towards Tokyo, watching his legs move in the sunlight, the corners of his lips moving upward, trying to form a smile.

After all these years, longing and wanting to see the damned light, he can finally gaze at the sun again; he can finally be free to walk; free from the darkness. Free from his life as a vessel of the unknown. Free from being non-existent, because he finally exists.

Finally.

+28,360

Tokyo was out for the day, meaning that Japan has the apartment all by himself. He stares at the dozen books scattered on the table, the abandoned coffee cup by the window sill, and the general lack of someone looming all over him, he decides the best way to keep him entertained is to read a few books Tokyo had left hanging around. He picks one up from the pile that was enough to fascinate him, as he sits down on a chair, his fingers studying the texture of the paper, as he flips from page after page, skimming from paragraph to paragraph.

A few hours after, he finishes the book, and now he feels bored, so he goes to Tokyo’s room, promising to himself that he will leave soon after. He knows he is invading his brother’s privacy, but he too had been invading his cell for the past few years, so might as well do it to him as payback. He opens the lights in Tokyo’s room, to find the entire place - frustratingly - messy. He groans to himself as he takes a step in, cautiously avoiding stepping on the things cluttered around the floor.

Japan stares at Tokyo’s wardrobe, before opening it and taking out a uniform that was old and dusty, knowing that he doesn’t use this anymore. Entertained at the fact he can mock Tokyo once he finally gets home, Japan starts to put the uniform on him, a childish spirit rekindled inside of him, as he slowly but surely buttons his shirt on, looking for a mirror that can let him see his entire body.

(He had only looked in a mirror now, as he sees appearances a waste of time- well, fairly because he is hidden from everyone else.)

He finds a full-length mirror near Tokyo’s study, and he rushes to it to see how he looks- and then stops abruptly, finally getting a taste of his reflection for what felt like a long time. Despite the fact he has been tearing at his hair in mad fits for what felt like forever, his dark hair was a mess, strands reaching far and wide. His grey eyes were shining with emptiness, and his frame thin but tall, skin as pale as the ice that covers the country in winter.

He recalls the times when his mother would say that he had his father’s most beautiful eyes, and how she would make him feel important by saying that; it worked, for a long, long time. And today, he realises that he would have wanted his mother’s beautiful brown eyes; they were the ones that had guided him into the world where everything was cherry blossoms falling down in his face until the tree trunks came to topple him down.

Gingerly, he touches his reflection, his body once again shaking, his mind racing with thoughts about how this was wrong, how his mother should have been alive and him dead, ceasing to exist in this world, but instead it was in reverse. His lip was quivering, as he tries remembering what his mother looked like… her red lips smiling down at him with love and warmth… her brown eyes mature but caring… her arms like a nest to nurture him with… her voice the most melodious thing he has ever heard… her dark hair smooth and silky soft.

None of which he had gotten from his mother, as he looks in the mirror.

“Haha”, he whispers, as he drops to his knees, no longer able to support himself once again, as he now unleashes a stream of tears, dripping down his face. “I’m… sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be.” A voice snaps him out of his breakdown, as he looks up in the mirror to find his mother, smiling at him, as if she were alive.

“Mama?”, he asks softly, his voice merely a whisper in this room. “B-but you’re dead!”

She chuckles a little, as she drapes her arms around Japan; he should not be feeling anything, but he felt warmth embrace him once again. “I may be dead in the real world, but I will always live in your mind.”

Japan shakes his head, still sniffling and sobbing. “You must be disappointed in me, mama.”

She shakes her head, putting her lips to his forehead, “I am not disappointed, my son. I will forever be proud of you. I will be by your side as you finally finish your quest for glory.”

Japan blinks, confused. “‘Quest for glory?’”

There was something in her dark brown eyes now; vengeance and revenge. “Kill the one who decided to rewrite our fates like this. And then, you will have peace, now and forever.”

“But Mother… killing is wrong…!”

“But Teikoku killed me, and he has killed thousands of innocent lives too. Do you think murdering the bastard will have an equal effect on what he did to the entire world? No.”

Japan’s mind goes back and forth, in circles and then forming more and more shapes, as he tries to formulate a response against this ghost (hallucination? curse?). Murder is wrong, his mind supplies, but his heart tells him it is time for Teikoku to get what he deserved, to make him beg for death and he giving it to the suffering man with no conscience whatsoever.

He smiles, turning to grin at his mother.

“Perhaps I let that old bastard live long enough.”

+28,365

Two brothers are caught in a dance, a dance that decides one another’s fate, as they kick and punch and shoot with all of their might and strength, giving each other sensitive vocabulary as they chase and catch. The grey-eyed brother tackles his elder brother, making him cough up blood as Teikoku kicks at Japan’s ribcage, and he howls in pain, as Teikoku uses it as a distraction and kicks Japan off of him. He topples over, as now Teikoku has the upper hand, looking down at him with anger and madness.

It scared him a long time ago, but now it doesn’t- not anymore.

“You think I will spare you once again after you did this to me?!”, he bellows, “I showed you leniency once upon a dream! A chance to rot in the cells, but you decide to waste it after assaulting me.”

Japan spits on his face, and he uses that as an advantage as he kicks at Teikoku’s legs and shoots a bullet, which lodges on Teikoku’s shoulder. He gasps in pain as blood drips over his mouth once again, but before he could move Japan kicks him on the skull, the floors breaking his fall in a hard manner. Teikoku screams, both in pain and in anger, but now Japan has a firm grip on Teikoku’s injured shoulder, pulling it as hard as he can until he can hear joints cracking.

“You… meiwaku”, Teikoku hisses and he gasps, Japan stepping on his ribcage as if it were a toy, his step becoming harder, harder, harder. “You will die an inglorious death.”

Japan cackles, a sneer on his face, as his grey eyes shine throughout the light, exchanging his gun for a dagger. “I’d find pleasure ripping out your heart.” Teikoku pants, his hands discreetly reaching for a pole, closer and closer, as Japan busies himself with his knife.

“So, sayonara, Teikoku.” Japan lunges for Teikoku, eyes wide, full of undefinable insanity.

Teikoku meets his eyes, as he finally reaches the pole and plunges it deep into Japan’s heart just as he lunges. His brother halts, time standing still, but before he processes what had just happened, his grey eyes become blank with death. He breathes hard, as blood drips from Japan’s mouth and into Teikoku’s clothes, his brother staring at Teikoku, before his eyes go listless, dropping the dagger to the ground, as it makes a little noise.

There was silence in the halls for a moment, Teikoku looking everywhere other than the corpse of his older brother, as his eye colour slowly went back to its crimson red, while Teikoku’s red eyes were being replaced by grey, as if the blood had been drained from his body.

Japan crawls away from Teikoku’s corpse, as his body swiftly slides down the pole, the silver graces of the weapon tinged with blood and all things holy.

When the day has come where he have died.

Only to come alive.

0It happened so fast; the guards coming into his and his mother’s home, disturbing the peace that his mother have created in their own terrain, mother and son minding their own business when all of a sudden, as if his years of life are cut short by someone shooting their gun his way, Teikoku’s guards raid their home, holding him and his mother captive, who were both so busy living, breathing, being alive.

“Haha!”, the young boy says, as two guards hoists his mother up, who in turn was too weak to stand, too weak to do anything except look at Japan with her deep brown eyes, wanting him to go, run away as fast as he can. But he knows that he should never leave the source of his happiness behind. Before he could move, however, two more guards hold him back, him and his mother a safe distance from each other, tormenting them. He struggles against his captors, his grey eyes threatening to wage war. “Let me and my mother go!”

“You struggling against my guards is quite… hilarious.” A cold, calm, and frigid voice settles among the people in the room, as Japan hears the steps of the man who has orchestrated this ambush, this sabotage.

Teikoku comes in all his glory, wearing a clean and tidy uniform, his dark hair smooth and cropped, but his eyes still full of madness and ambition, laughing silently at his younger half-brother and his mother, a big smirk on his face. He is here to laugh at them for his entertainment; here to earn pleasure from their pain as he sits on his throne of gold, superior to all, controlling each and everyone of the people’s lives.

Japan meets his eyes, pleading and scared out of his wit, wanting nothing more to escape. “Please, Teikoku… let me and my mother go.”

Teikoku’s smirk grows wider, not really a smirk anymore but a sadistic smile creeping upon his face, his eyes staring down at Japan, huge with fascination and amusement. “But you and your mother stand in the way of the glory of my empire”, he smiles once again, a glint of intent now visible, “I have to take you traitors down.”

He shouts an order to the guards, who immediately obey as they drop his mother down to the floors; she gasps in pain, and Japan writhes underneath the men’s grasp, wanting to be with his mother, wanting Teikoku to leave the both of them alone. Teikoku approaches Kyoto step by step, as the latter was recovering from the assault, before he swiftly tilts her chin up, her deep brown eyes which were full of hope, now replaced with fear.

Teikoku smiles as he points his gun at her, and Japan screams, his mother shooting him one last look-

Everything goes red.

-

Watashi no musuko- my son

Shinai’na- dear

Baishunpu- whore

Taiyō- sun

Aisare shi-sha- beloved

Watashi no tame ni utaemasu ka- can you sing for me Mochiron watashi no musuko- of course, my son

Yukkuri o yasumi- sleep tight

Kaibutsu- monster

Shinpaishinaide, watashi no ko- don’t worry, my child

Watashi wa tsuyoidesu- i am strong Musuko- son

Anata wa seichō shimashita- you’ve grown

Subete ga seijōdearu- everything is alright/fine

Watashi wa sonzai shimasu- I exist

The lullaby that Kyoto sung was Edo Komoriuta or Edo Lullaby