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It’s warm.
Everything around him felt too loud, too far, too much; a pang of heat wavered in this gut.
Its humiliating.
Flashing between a distant memory and the present; trying so hard to grasp— to gnaw on his own humanity. It’s not enough.
He falls aimlessly, like a discarded toy, like a forgotten item. Maybe, just maybe this is how will life will forever be. Faces, dust and rubble float by him— too far for him to reach, too far for him to focus on.
Slamming against the cold concrete floor, rock bottom again. Hes reminded of the cold feeling of the well— the well he’d swore to never go back to. The well he thought was a distant past.
Nobody was there to save him in the moment.
It's harsh— it's cruel to say but maybe this was because of his own doing— maybe if he was less him someone would've liked him enough to save him.
Memories drift beside him, caressing his face— clawing at his body.
Yet an empty feeling rises in him— a distant echo of his name.
— “ZANKA!”
Too far from him— yet it sounds familiar.
It was only a flick, a cruel, powerful flick. Somebody other than Zanka could’ve withstood it. Yet he’s just, himself. Never a genius, never a brother, never a son.
Just someone.
A name etched out in stone, a body torn and shredded like paper, a hope blasted away by a flick. Just like everyone else, he’ll eventually be forgotten like a desolate statue standing tall amongst the vines and rubble.
Will his life always remain this way? A constant cycle of pain and misery— a constant cycle reminding him of his true worth. Will all his hard work go to waste? Maybe it will, maybe it won’t.
Its blinding— the overarching beast stood over him; unmoving, flaunting his strength over him.
Strength that he himself could never truly beat.
Maybe in a far distant star could his fate be different; maybe he would’ve been born a true genius or maybe strength and power wouldn’t have mattered to his family.
Maybe then he’d be a true son of the Nijiku family.
Too far away from the stars his body ached. Maybe this was his karma for never truly blooming.
Ironic, isn’t it?
His name had always been sentimental to him— the last flower to bloom, the very last one to hold onto its potential. Even when other doubted or looked down upon it; it still stood tall. Yet here, here in this exact moment, at this exact time; he never truly showed his potential.
He’ll never get to pick up his lovely assistaff again, he’ll never get to work alongside the others again.
He’s pathetic, a pathetic, idiotic loser. He hasn’t changed a single bit since his first encounter with the cleaners.
Wind, cold and gentle, slightly brushes against the boy’s face. Reminding him of the short time he had spent making bonds; yet it never really felt like enough time.
Cold, numb, humiliated.
Cold, numb, humiliated.
What did it mean to be human? Was it the memories you make? Is it the bonds and hardships you face in life? Or is it the nights where you so desperately want to die; to get rid of your skin, to claw at yourself?
Zanka is not a bitter boy; he understands the indifference to him and his family, he understands that he'll never be a true genius.
All of his unanswered questions float alongside him a pitiful reminder of his eventful life.
Barged from heavens locked away from hell, silently drifting between reality and death.
Nothing felt real— yet it in another twisted and sick way, nothing felt fake either; an endless drift between living and his own hell.
His past is riddled with bumps and scars— but now rather than seeing the cruel and hateful ground, surrounding him are flowers.
Flowers of all kind, flourishing. A field of all of them; suddenly it makes him feel tranquil, the kind of feeling that tells you that it’s okay to rest.
Gleaming on his tense back— ripping at his skin; the sudden blinding sun rising. Bringing all the flowers into a gentle hug. Till his eyes land on a small pale-blue flower.
Tucked away in the field, unbloomed, shadowed by the boy’s figure; untouched standing alone.
A forget-me-not— its petals haven’t fully bloomed yet, a stark contrast to the other flowers amongst the field, flowing effortlessly along the wind like a sacred dance; a field Zanka would have never been able to experience in the underground.
Often when bloomed, symbolically, these flowers are used to signify eternal love and devotion; akin to the boys unwavering devotion to the cleaners— the result of the parting between his siblings.
Standing alone in the field; the only flower being notably unbloomed, much like him— maybe he’ll never bloom, maybe he’ll always be shadowed by those who adorn powers greater than his own.
Sealed away from the world, distant from a closest star— he finds himself relaxed. No fighting, no sleepless nights, no doubts about his past. Just the gentle wind, whispering in his ear.
An author once said that the beauty of the world was created due to its shadows— areas where light couldn’t reach, yet why. Why was everything so cruel; why couldn’t he be a genius.
Maybe— just maybe, for a little while he can rest.
Closing his eyes, he imagines a new world— a world that never expected too high for him, a world just made for him, a world where he can die happy of his past actions.
Slight padding of rain dropped, creating freckles on the concrete floor, distorted, fake freckles.
Staring at the slightly warm body— holding onto the last remains of what was once his baby brother.
Maybe, if God had truely loved and honoured him, he would allow for another blessing— the blessing of his brothers survival.
Maybe God would be on his side once more.
Clutching onto the last remains of the body— he feels it, a pulse. A sign of life. A twitch. His body reworking itself— never made to give up.
He hasn't proved himself yet.
Zanka's not a fool, he may not be a genius but in the end, its hard work that wins in the long run.
Holding onto the supposed remains of his brother, he finds himself tearing up.
Only a few moments ago, he had sworn to never end up like his baby brother; yet now he finds him cradling him— not wanting to let go of him.