Chapter Text
[. . .]
"Rin...?"
[. . .]
Prologue
He Ate My Heart
[. . .]
There's a light in front of her.
She stands before it, silent without purpose. Waiting for nothing. Feeling nothing.
It does not burn her eyes as the sun would have. It does not hurt her.
She doesn't dare tear her eyes away from it either, so she just stares, considering absolutely nothing around her. Not the void, nor the cosmos of rippling nebula giving birth to a newer life. Dying, and returning.
It's peaceful. The light basks her with opportunity, eliciting a comfort of frivolity between the pitch shades of black that cover her very essence.
She can't feel her body. Not her skin, not her clothes, not her eyes or her hair, or the construction of her features. She can't perceive anything but the light.
But it beckons her nonetheless, unaware that she's steadily refusing it and slowly turning her vision beyond what lies behind it.
Time isn't calculated here. Wherever she is. She doesn't know how long it takes her to set her sights elsewhere, but she doesn't sit and ponder about that, for she is far more interested in the golden, sparkling streaks that pulsate a pathway to other sources of light. Inquisitive, whereas she can't perceive curiosity, or awe, just reality.
It's beautiful, but she doesn't think that.
It's not home, but she doesn't think that.
And while she doesn't see the millennia of souls that walk to her comforting light, she dances in minuscule whisps of smoke, moving away from it and onto another, that calls with greater force. Crimson cords whelve into her heart, endeavoring to bring her attention to the rays again, but it is futile.
It's a tug between the two. Where her light implores for her return as if saying that it isn't your time yet, the other welcomes her, pellucid compared to her yonder.
Eunoia, it whispers, come forth.
Schlemiel, her light mourns, come back.
She can hear it, and she can't ignore it, but she also can't look back.
A mother, it sounds like.
But a mother it is not.
Her pace steadies until the red lines finally let go, and her images lose pigment. Pain blossoms from her chest in streaks of agonizing red, but she doesn't heed it.
It's not there. She is not tethered to her soul anymore.
She continues into the dark inbetweens.
It's just a black canvas with one, grey light, and the voices shamefully churn into themselves, finally leaving her alone.
There are giant, grotesque beings watching her separate from her line of existence that appear when she lets ignorance go, entitling her to step in line with the many souls that gather around this new, grey light.
Red lines reach into her tender chest and seize her heart, burning her into flames that feel like lava enveloping the stardust she is made out of. Memories surge but cease instantly.
The malformed creatures no longer appear. They do not watch her. They do not speak.
She doesn't know or care why others simply walk in without the baggage of these scorching strings, for color has returned and placed her in front of a glaucous light. It's not so benevolent, and it's almost a portent, muttering an ancient language she cannot possibly decipher.
Shapes come together to form a non-sentient being.
Eyes surround wings of an abominable nature, one that surveys power, staring intently at her. It speaks, but she cannot implore herself to feel or care. Hands come forward in silent prayers, and it's all she sees as she is rushed forward into the light, sinking red eyes into her visionary illusions and a pumping chant that warns her.
Calliopean, psithurism breezes cradle her gerful entity.
White is all she perceives as she falls, as if aliferous.
And she lands.
And nothing prepares her for when she opens her eyes, gasping for breath.
[. . .]
Her body twitches, spasming her organs and rearranging broken bones into their rightful place.
It's agony, and her mouth opens to let out a silent scream, pronouncing her shriveled face, holding wide, blood-red eyes begging for mercy in the sky. Her prayers, any words that may frivolously appear in her mind chant, but they are not heard.
Her body lays unmoving due to the pain. It is so severe that she passes out, erupting disgusting squelches of vomit right before she does. Darkness covers her eyes but the pain continues from her chest, and she dreams helplessly of what was, aching underneath lakes of blood.
When she opens her eyes again, her body is shivering cold, sore, and rancid.
She smells like something died, of vomit and blood and rotting innards. Her mouth opens to sob because she's scared and she's confused, but all that comes out is a choked hoarse, sounding like a dying whine.
Her vocal cords scream in misery and she dares not speak again as she lays there, laboriously breathing in an attempt to keep herself alive.
It takes her hours to form even a semblance of coherency, and when she does, the first thing she grasps is the moonbroch in the night sky.
Clouds pick at her face, milking rain, and terrifying colds.
It's a captivating sight, but she knows something is wrong.
Fearful, she tests her arm and successfully moves it over her bare chest. Her fingers prod lightly at the raw skin, and her heart slows in relief when she finds that it doesn't hurt. Her heart skips beats every now and then after that revelation, but they slowly cease, and she allows herself to calm in the comfort of her torn clothes.
It's tranquil for another hour when she abruptly comes back to her body with a breaking sob.
Her eyes burn and she closes them, letting the rain mend with her distressing tears, callous that she sounds like a moribund pup as her entire form convulses with despair.
Her mind runs through everything she experienced; the car crash, the glass in her chest, the sight of her mother in disarray—the void, the light, and the nightmarish creatures she saw.
She remembers and begs for her mother in this vulnerable moment, calling her soul out to reunite with the woman that has brought the only comfort in her life. But her fate is cruel, and her mother is not here to embrace her.
She cries, endlessly until she can't feel anything but the wet, lucid stench of rain pelting her skin. She cries until she doesn't anymore.
Her head hurts, and there are other memories that whisk with her painful ones, but she can't bring herself to understand them. Her body is exhausted. Her sanity is Sisyphean, unrequited with reality but bound to dissociation.
Yet still, there is a growing part of her that makes her mind restless.
Two boys flash in her sight in fleeting images; a crying boy with grey hair, and another bloody one, whispering frantically for her recovery. One clutches the heart in her chest, but the other harbors her in his arms.
She doesn't understand, and she doesn't hope to.
She simply lays, lost and numb, lingering.
Time passes but she is unmoving.
The only thing that echoes is her name from their mouth.
Rin.