his skin was on fire, burning and decaying into ash. he smelled smoke in his room, and his eyes glanced to find the root but there was no fire to sweep him away. he was the debris of the inferno of his mind, and he wrapped his arms around himself as if he was still cold after everything that’s happened. he was still so so cold but he was fire and gasoline and the ashes of damnation.
nagito komaeda lit a fire, once. he watched it spread across an entire island; he laughed maniacally. fear tasted too rich to be enjoyable, like a salted caramel with a drizzle of poison. he stood in the hell he made and wondered if his insane thoughts were from the smoke in his brain or if he was always that way: a concoction of chaotic actions he never wanted and selfish thoughts he always desired. the thoughts that maybe he was not a villain, yet; there was still a prayer (somewhere) for nagito komaeda. the thoughts dripped from his lips and looked like blood splatter.
his cottage was made out of wood and blankets were made out of wool. a single fire could have set it ablaze. he let out a hacking cough every minute wondering if rose petals would fall onto the floor and slip through the cracks of the oak planks but no. all that came out was dust and the sick satisfaction (that was hardly satisfaction) at the reminder that the grim reaper clung to every shallow breath and sick wish.
despite his illness being out of his grasp, it felt like he finally had control over something.
he set a candle on fire and almost cried. the aroma is thick and if he desired death from a certain rule, he would throw it into the ocean that was faker than his breath
he crumbles to his own imprint in the mirror, scorched with bitter parallels. sometimes it looked like there was a lipstick mark from the devil’s mouth; sometimes he felt swallowed by it. his reflection was the wisp of a dragon and his soul thinned and wrapped like a tendril of a blaze around his wrist as he raised his hand to break the mirror and break a vase and grab a match and let it
one hundred milliseconds in a second. sixty seconds in a minute. sixty minutes in an hour. twenty four hours in a day. three hundred sixty five days in a year unless the one day joined the party. one hundred years in a century. ten centuries in a millennium. conversions were calming and soothing, and time flew by as time flew by.
his hair was pale like ice but was spread wildly in every direction, like
Don’t say it.
Nagito, seriously. Stop.
nagito stayed awake that night, thinking about all of the dead victims and culprits. it’s sad, it really was quite sad. the birds flickering outside was the only thing keeping him from slipping away to somewhere-- hahahah . he wanted it to stop, he really did. the traitor was an idiot to think they would prevail in the face of such hope. hope would always win, especially hope as strong as the hope of the ultimates combined. he wondered who the traitor is, but he’s sure hajime would figure it out soon. there wasn’t much to worry about in that regard: everything would return to normal tomorrow and the traitor would be found in less than 24 hours, if nagito had to guess. he was excited to see it, hope was so beautiful and the hope of the ultimates was so pure-- no, that was all his old thinking, and now he knows they are hopeless monsters like him, and he