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Take your cigarette from its holder
and burn your initials in my shoulder
—
Beautiful.
That was what Junko was.
The opposite of Mikan, who was ugly and whorish and oh-so-unforgivable. She was awful, it was clear to everyone, and everyone hated her for it. Hated that horrible part of her. But Junko hadn’t. Junko loved that part of her. Encouraged it, even. She knew how terribly unforgivable Mikan was, and she forgave that. Mikan would forever be in her debt for that.
Junko was beautiful even when she was smoking, which, Mikan had told her once, was horrible for her health. Junko had replied (after delivering a swift backhand across her face) that that was precisely why she did it. It was such a despairful thing, she said, knowing that she was slowly killing herself.
She was smoking again now, and even as Mikan choked on the smoke she exhaled, coughing and sputtering, feeling like battery acid was being forced down her throat, there was no one and nothing that could possibly be more beautiful than Junko.
Her beloved stared down at her with a glint in her eye; although the emotion her face was conveying was hard to decipher. Junko was like that. Mikan was skilled at reading people, but she found Junko was one of the few that she couldn’t. She was unpredictable and wild, and perhaps that was what was so alluring about her.
“Mikan, come here.” Junko raised a perfectly manicured hand and beckoned for her to come closer.
Of course she did, (because she would do anything Junko asked her to, anything at all, ANYTHING). “Y-yes, Beloved?”
“Take off your shirt.”
Before she even realized she was doing it, Mikan began to feverishly unbutton her uniform shirt, revealing the pale, almost sickly looking skin that hid underneath.
“Turn around.”
Although she was confused (and perhaps a tad bit terrified), she did what she was told. After all, that was her purpose—to do whatever her Beloved wanted. (It must have been, because what other purpose did she have in life?)
Mikan shuddered and a chill ran down her spine as Junko traced the scars on her back with one of those claw-like, bloodred nails. Souvenirs of past incidents.
And then the pain came; a burning sensation that only got worse. Junko was dragging the cigarette along Mikan’s skin, assumingly writing something. Tears sprung to her eyes, but she didn’t dare to cry. The most she let slip out was a small, barely audible whimper.
She’d been burnt before, by her parents, by kids at school, but this was different. This was her Beloved, and her Beloved didn’t hurt her out of malice, not like everyone before her. No, that was simply how she showed love. There was always a reason for the pain, always a good reason too, and that was why she always complied.
(She would comply with anything Junko commanded, oh yes she would, because she owed everything to Junko, to the one who had forgiven her)
It had only lasted for a few seconds, but the agony seemed to have dragged on for so much longer. (Mikan would’ve liked it to have lasted even longer.)
Mikan couldn’t see it (oh, but she could feel it, the throbbing pain, and it felt so good) but Junko had branded her initials into her back, like Mikan was her property, like she owned her—because she did.
The letters seared into her back were proof that Mikan Tsumiki belonged, heart, body and soul, to Junko Enoshima.
And that was how it would be until the day she drew her last, pathetic breath.