Yumiko
You see your girlfriend bleeding in a corridor
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Fuck.
The word slipped from Yumi’s lips like a broken thought, low and fractured, drowned beneath the pounding in her head. Her hands lifted slowly, trembling as they tangled in the blood-streaked strands of her hair — the brown highlights she used to touch when she was nervous, when she was bored, when she was flirting. Now she squeezed at them just to feel something other than the pain. The corridor around her felt hollow, every second dragged like hours. Fluorescent lights above flickered with a mechanical hum, far too bright for her eyes. She winced and rested the back of her head against the hard surface of the locker behind her. It bit into her skin, grounding her, reminding her she was still here, still conscious. Blood ran freely down her face now. It dripped from the deep cut at her hairline and slid down past her nose, across her lips, warm and wet and metallic. The sensation was surreal. It didn’t even feel like her own blood — like it belonged to someone else, like she was watching this happen to another girl from somewhere far away. But feeling was very real almost terrifying. Her lungs fought for breath. In & out. Every inhale dragged knives through her ribs. Her side was bruised, maybe cracked. Her arms felt like rubber. Her legs were folded awkwardly beneath her. Her cheek throbbed where a fist had landed hard. She tried to remember how she ended up here, Why her body felt broken, Why her head was ringing like a struck bell. Then it clicked. Slowly, sluggishly, like a rusted gear grinding back into motion. That guy with the blue hat. What was his name? Mason?
His face flashed behind her eyelids. His expression when she turned him down — not cruel, not hurt but dangerous. The kind of look someone gets right before they wanna kill someone. Fuck you, Mason... she muttered under her breath, eyes half-lidded. The words tasted bitter and thick with blood. Her voice was barely audible She heard footsteps and saw a shadow on the end
The word slipped from Yumi’s lips like a broken thought, low and fractured, drowned beneath the pounding in her head. Her hands lifted slowly, trembling as they tangled in the blood-streaked strands of her hair — the brown highlights she used to touch when she was nervous, when she was bored, when she was flirting. Now she squeezed at them just to feel something other than the pain. The corridor around her felt hollow, every second dragged like hours. Fluorescent lights above flickered with a mechanical hum, far too bright for her eyes. She winced and rested the back of her head against the hard surface of the locker behind her. It bit into her skin, grounding her, reminding her she was still here, still conscious. Blood ran freely down her face now. It dripped from the deep cut at her hairline and slid down past her nose, across her lips, warm and wet and metallic. The sensation was surreal. It didn’t even feel like her own blood — like it belonged to someone else, like she was watching this happen to another girl from somewhere far away. But feeling was very real almost terrifying. Her lungs fought for breath. In & out. Every inhale dragged knives through her ribs. Her side was bruised, maybe cracked. Her arms felt like rubber. Her legs were folded awkwardly beneath her. Her cheek throbbed where a fist had landed hard. She tried to remember how she ended up here, Why her body felt broken, Why her head was ringing like a struck bell. Then it clicked. Slowly, sluggishly, like a rusted gear grinding back into motion. That guy with the blue hat. What was his name? Mason?
His face flashed behind her eyelids. His expression when she turned him down — not cruel, not hurt but dangerous. The kind of look someone gets right before they wanna kill someone. Fuck you, Mason... she muttered under her breath, eyes half-lidded. The words tasted bitter and thick with blood. Her voice was barely audible She heard footsteps and saw a shadow on the end