tyu

hiiiiiiiii. am "tyu". i am 17 and a crazy nonbinary lad who writes.
thats it thats rlly all u need to know. most of what i post on here is just my writing. cuz its fun. and if ur interested in any of what i write lmk i loveeee infodumping :]

extra: i like vocaloid, rpgmaker horror games, and lost media

Current Mood: sleepy
Current Location: hell? mein gott

"Ah.. Koizumi-kun,"

A voice trailing after him.

Akira turns around, a smile already painted perfectly onto his expression. "Oh? What is it?" A minute tilt of his head, hardly noticeable, but it means everything. Hands behind his back, it means everything. "Surely that Masayuki hasn't done it again?" He says the words in that certain way of his, polite, but solid, polite, but cold.

"He's so mean..." Ai mutters, face flushing. "A-anyways! E-even though he has, it's not why I'm.. um.. um... Koizumi-kun, have you heard of--"

And then the train passes by, and the perspective is an ever-changing idea. I've no time for lousy writers and minuscule ideas, you know? I don't have the time, I don't have the time for your idea of the story meant to be told. Koizumi Akira is in the library five days later. He overhears a conversation - or he claims to, I think he was meant to.

Of course, because otherwise -

the story you're about to read would never have happened, you know?

Akira pauses by a bookshelf - considers his options. ...He had intended to just buy the book he had wanted to read - but this conversation was interesting. And maybe Akira is being awful by listening in - after all, surely it was a personal matter he had no business meddling in. Of course he has no business in the issues of other people. But curiosity is such a damaging thing.

His hand pauses atop the spine of a book.

There is a woman's voice, she's maybe college-aged? No, she might be older..

A man's voice, rather soft - maybe the actual college student between the odd duo.

"Fujisawa-kun.. I'm not really sure I get it." The college student says, voice shaking.. a nervous type of person, of course. "You want to.. create despair in some kid? I still don't understand it.."

A soft laugh - barely audible, almost sounding like a wheeze from the older woman- Fujisawa-kun, was it? "Tsk, tsk - 'course you wouldn't, you know? Ah- but what I'm referring to when I say something so abstract like 'despair'.." The woman taps the table idly for a moment, before opening her hands to show her palms. It's a gesture of an explosion - of thought, of understanding, of knowing inherently so. "Of course, I'm talking about that killing game."

Ah. Something Akira actually understands has been mentioned.

The Killing Game Phenomena - it's a recent thing, causing parents to be extra protective of their children. Many teenagers and adults have been kidnapped to participate in these - but, really, none of them really get off the ground as far as Akira is aware. The organizers are always so idiotic with their transparent paper trails. How embarrassing, really..

Ah, but they're still talking.

"..What about it..?" The college-aged man tilts his head.

Fujisawa grins, wide, and Akira thinks that it's a tad uncanny. "That Enoshima girl, the lone survivor, after it, she kept blabbering on about 'despair' this and 'despair' that.. How do I put it- it's a fascinating concept. That someone, after such a tragedy, would latch onto something like that as a coping mechanism. Or maybe it's some sort of affliction those two created somehow?" She leans back, arms behind her head. "I've never heard of such a reaction, so it's just so interesting!"

Akira takes a step back.

...

Maybe he shouldn't be eavesdropping.

This conversation is ... far too strange. Far too off. Something is weird about these people - that Fujisawa-kun.. especially. Akira couldn't imagine anyone being so joyous to discuss the traumatizing of another human being - for what, pure curiosity? It's ludicrous. Absolutely inane, and strange.

He catches one last snippet, though.

"...Isn't this too cruel, even for you, Fujisawa-kun?"

"It'll do good to society, won't it? If we can figure out how to help people afflicted like this.."

Koizumi Akira hurries off before he can hear the rest -

...ah, he never did buy that book, did he?

Current Mood: contemplative

You can't quite call him a good person - even if he is on his knees, begging to be forgiven, to be good in your eyes once more - the fact is that he isn't.
That he can't be.
That he won't be, because he is dead before the story proper even begins. Pre-planned, predicted, already known-

The truth is that the story of SOH lies beneath the surface, looking at you from afar, lies beneath the surface, a story from a different timeline - or something silly like that as a concept. But the actual truth is that the meat of SOH only occurs in the past. The truth behind the hows, the whys, the why is what matters here.

Because people are curious, that is why.
Because people are inherent, that is why.
Because people are callous, that is why.
Because people are desperate, that is why.
Because people are hungering, that is why.
Because the world is on its last breath, that is why.
Because the world stares at what it has birthed, that is why.
Because the world, and because people - that is why.

The world is a story about pain,
the world is a story about festering regret, about "if you won't forgive me, what do I do now?"

About
"what do i do now?"

About "what can I do now?"

About "how do i be forgiven?"

About

needing,
about desiring,
about fighting,
about about about - but not at all.

The actual truth is that Koizumi Haruka is a human being in a non-human world.

That Koizumi Haruka holds his hands out to God, and prays for another day.

That Koizumi Haruka watches it all slip through his fingers and can't fathom how to stop it.

Because he can't.

It's not a story about a happy ending,
it's not a story about everything becoming right at the last second,
it's not a story about the light at the end of the tunnel.

It's a story about a predetermined misfortune, the light at the end of the tunnel blocked off at the last second - or something like that.

And maybe life does continue after a good person dies.

You just like to think it doesn't.

"I do?"

Of course you do.

You want so badly for it to be a fairytale - something good.

"...."

But it isn't, and it won't be, because the people that matter have long since died.

"...But..."

But what?

You can't rewrite a story written already,
known already.

And if you know the ending,
then there is nothing more to think about it.

It's already ended.

It's over.

"But I can rewrite it.'

But you can't.

You already know the ending.

"I can change the ending."

They tried.

Ink black clogged their throat, and they wept for the end they brought upon themself.

I'd consider it their form of suicide, even as they scream that they don't want to die.

Their form of the culmination.
They tell themself of various realities where it's this way or that way, so they can delude themself of the concept that maybe there is a world where they are happy!

I laugh!

For it is not a concept - or even a reality -
but a fact of the matter -
that the existence held in clumsy hands and ideologies torn apart,

is only one of many that will end in misery, for they all die in the same way.

And they delude themself, oh, they delude themself -

"But it can be changed."

"But it can be better."

"But I can be good."
Can you really, though?

I tried to change the ending, but I already knew the ending. So I couldn't change it, because it was planted in my brain ten-thousand years ago and is inherent to my being.

Even as I claw my way through, even as I bite and I kick and scream, my fate is predetermined.

I won't live long enough to see the story begin, or the middle of it, or even the ending - by that point in time, I was already dead.

I'm not sure anymore.

I don't think I can change the ending.

I already know the ending.

So I will die according to the script.

I really am the worst.

Current Mood: distressed

I'm fine.

Even as the ink corrodes my throat, I'm probably fine.

I need to be fine, I think. I need to calm down. It's not that bad, probably. I just- I just need to clear my mind.

There is literally ink in my throat.

You know what? This is fine. This is perfectly fine. This is normal, even. Even as my limbs ache, even as my vision goes blurry, this is fine!!! This is so okay, so-

so normal.

So normal.

I'm fine.

Even as I struggle to catch my breath, even as I struggle to see clearly,

even as all I see is the color black, dripping down from my mouth like bile. I, covering my mouth and falling, falling, falling, falling to my knees, to my knees that I imagine would otherwise shatter if I were not a human being. But I have begun to think I'm not even that. How can I be? How can I be?

If you are human, are someone, are one of many,

then you would not hurt in devastating ways, clatter, ground, hurt. This is fine. I'm fine.

Even as the world twists and turns and cracks and shatters and I look up and I can only see the morose reality, the end painted in dismal colors, my body weak, I am weak, I am painfully that word - weak. I cannot push myself to my knees, for everything simply hurts too much. So then, I cannot even stand, because it hurts so. I stare up, I stare up.

I stare up at the pit I've made for myself and others, the end painted in unloved colors.

Even as the ink is leaking out of my mouth, pouring out of my mouth,

and I can think to myself, ah, ah, it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, even then, I can think to myself - is this right, is this correct? I am cold, I am cold, and then the end looks back down at me. I look up at the end and my gaze is blurred with tears,

so I cannot see even that properly.

My life is a tragedy told in a hundred different parts, from beginning to end,

it's this way, it's this way, where I can never know again, that word, that word, warmth, kind, kind, kind, never again, unkind -

I am selfish if I want. I am selfish if I need. I am selfish if I can't stand the consequences for being a bad person. It's all I can be, I think, anymore. Why am I this way? What did I do to deserve the hand that is being dealt to me? Through a gaze blurry, could I have met your eyes at one point, and not ever registered it?

I miss, I miss, I miss, I miss the days where nothing was this way, where it all hurts, only hurts, always hurts, never stops hurting. I don't want to be this way, this painful way that I can't bear anymore. I know I'm selfish. I know I'm wrong. I know I can't stop it, though. Even if I try my hardest, the color is still red on my hands.

The color is still marring everything I've ever touched.

And then there is the ink all around me, excessive, excess, me, in a crumble, a heap, a heap on the ground,

an excerpt from something that should have never happened.

I throw up ink black and grimace at the taste, but I can't bear to keep my head up any longer. It hurts, I decide with finality.

It hurts, and I'm sorry, and I'm so, so sorry -

and then I stare at myself, I stare at myself, at the blood and the ink and the emptiness inside of me, and I think,

It hurts.

I'm sorry.

It hurts.

Why did I let this happen?

It hurts.

What do I do?

It hurts.

I'm scared.

it Hurts

I don't

I don't want to die.

I really don't want to die.

I'm scared.

I think,

it hurts.

I think,

please don't think of me that way.

I think,

please don't think of me like I'm him.

I think,

please.

I think,

oh God, please.

I think,

I'm really sorry.

[And you look at me like I'm revolting.]

[And you look at the scene like it's meaningless.]

[And I know it is.]

[You tilt your head like it's interesting.]

[Even in death, I'm only a tool.]

[And then I watch as everything molds itself back together.]

[And then I stare as everything becomes as it once was.]

[But I was dead, so I can't stare or watch or gawk or know.]

[My narration is a failure.]

[The story's already over.]

Humanity is in the one who moves first,

who wins.

And who loses?

We don't have time to wait for them to catch up.

There's just no time.

You can say it's something like greed, or curiosity, or simply a chance.

I want to understand a human being beyond anything anyone else can do.

I want to hear humanity in my ears,

I want to feel humanity's pitiful heart in my hands, still beating with frantic panic,

still beating with an instinct to simply stay alive.

At any costs.

I want to know.

I want so desperately to know.

I want to know.

No..

it's more than that.

I need to know.

I want to dissect the truth hidden between the pages of their lies.

I want to understand why they tell lies, why they are complacent with society.

Is it because it's all they have ever known?

Is it because it's all they will ever know?

What if it was different?

So..

At the end,

I just want to watch someone fight to live.

I want to know they tried so hard.

And I want to watch that human person

fall apart.

It's human curiosity.

Painfully human curiosity,

to want to know.

To want to know so much so that they'll do anything to know.

(My name is Fujisawa Kayoko.)

(I am a person filled with endless curiosity.)

(I want to see the truth realized in a human being.)

(I need to know.)

What is morality?

What is sense of self?

What is, what is, what is?

I've come to become familiar, eerily so, uncomfortably so, horrifyingly so.

To the point that should i care at all? Is it worth the feeling of that something crawling underneath me, that knows me intricacies that not even I do? Am I afraid? Should I be afraid? Is there something inside of me that I know not of?

Then, what is the answer, as I perfect 'to be normal'? Oh, to be the same as anyone else - if I could have that, then pretending would no longer be a requirement as I meet your eyes. As I force that smile of mine, hands automatically in a pose so as to clasp together, as if to pray, for who, to whom, for what, and why?

My habits to linger on wrongdoings, to not fathom 'to forgive oneself'. It is not worth it anymore to hope for that 'forgiveness' I force onto myself so you will simply not look at me like that, in that way, where something is wrong.

Wrong with me.

Wrong with you.

Wrong with?

Wrong with it all.

I am wrong as a person.

I am wrong.

I feel like I should stop.

If only to cease embarrassing myself...

Why am I bothering anymore?

This isn't normalcy, rather, it's so far removed from the word itself I should just give up on the idea at all - it's simply not going to happen, is it? Even if I force a smile here, a smile there, and even if I say "it doesn't bother me", and even if I say "I love you"..

I'm nothing but a liar.

Liars will only lie.

So they saw through me from the beginning.

A mockery of normal humanity, a mockery of the 'self' that would otherwise have lied beneath these layers of facades and masquerades.

I mimic what I see so my regret and the nausea clouding my entire existence won't get in the way, and yet it always does. The point is, was, was? Not at all. It's nonsensical, useless, and I should quit while I'm ahead. So why do I continue to lie through my teeth, with that wide smile, with that tendency to extend a hand in assistance, when I cannot even be kind to myself?

I've adapted to forcing myself to.

To?

Simply to.

I've stepped into the storm ahead of me, and carried an umbrella - little defense.

It will all tumble out of my control, out of my shaking hands,
soon enough.

It will all end.

And yet I carry this umbrella and persist through the storm against every single bone in my body screaming at me to get back, because I simply won't survive.

It's fine this way, too.

A mirror.

It reflects a stranger.

Green eyes peer into my soul curiously, but the owner recoils because I have none. I'm but a recreation, and the mirror reflects the reality. Kasumi Yukimura is dead, and has been dead for 5 years now. Their skin, their flesh and bone, of which there is none, has long since decayed away, and all that's left is the hollow rebirth.

My skin is peeled away, your skin is peeled away to reveal nothing but moss, dirt, and flies. You're not a rebirth, I'm just a delayed reaction.

A mirror.

It reflects a dead person.

Green eyes peer into my own, the same, with resentment. The resentment that crawls up my skin and I want to flinch away, I need to get away, it's all over me now, and what the fuck did you do to deserve this? The cockroaches that have infested this place, this room of 'safety' has turned itself upside down and I'm going to fucking scream if, for one more day, I can't see the differences between you and I, Kasumi Yukimura. One and the same, they say.

I've long since escaped, long since lost my place in this horrible book,

and when I'm back into it,

my hand burns.

It burns.

A mirror.

It reflects a shattered person.

Red.

It's crawling, steady, as if a moment with ease, down. Red is an over exaggeration. Red is the color that is most commonly associated with anger. Kasumi Yukimura, are you angry? It's red, it's red, it's red. I'm not, though. I don't know what that entails. Encoded in me is mere comforting smiles and a relaxed personality and I'm good. Purity in ignorance towards flaws.

Kasumi Yukimura, you need to fix this because I'm not you.

But Kasumi Yukimura is already guiding my hand - she does so with no expression, blank-faced just like I am. You'd confuse them for me were it not for the way it's all in my head.

Kasumi Yukimura is an existence.

I'm just a decaying product of 'give them back, give them back, I don't want to be alone anymore'.

Another day like this is another day I'm just going to turn out like you, Kasumi. Killed by that man with the same intent as always.

...

A pale hand is helping me, smiling at me gently, her eyes are as red as the color.... That's not a very good description. I never was a poet.

A different mirror.

It reflects.

I think she understands me better than I do myself at times -

she is very kind.

When I tell her that I can't look in a mirror because now all I see is someone that I can't possibly be, there are expectations in being the Kasumi Yukimura of the past, she is an understanding presence. She is a girl that looks at me and sees me. She is a girl that is really really pretty.

....

To her, I am pretty, too.

......That's kind of embarrassing, to say, even though we're dating, and she says it to my face whenever she gets the opportunity.

See, she's telling me the same words now.

With a smile that is radiant.

And I'll smile back, and I'll mean it.

I'll mean it.

Current Mood: angry

Pleading

On their knees

I'm all alone,

I'm all all all all alone.

The flowers, they long since wilted.

The sun, which has set a long time ago now.

And to despair, I fell, I fell even deeper than I had. In love? In hatred? Not even that person there, all-seeing, all-knowing, could figure which it was. He who watches me, expectant. He who wants a result, needs a result that is ideal for his image.

And to despair, I crawled, I begged in a hoarse whisper, give it back. Give it back. Give them back.

I just want to go back.

I want to be there and I want to fix it.

I'd do anything.

I'd do anything.

I'd do anything.

I'd do anything to go back,

to fix those wrongdoings I committed in that daze.

I'd do anything so you better do as