rest in fucking pieces izaya
There is only red, red, RED.
Bullet wounds can be so troublesome, he observes, propped up against the wall of a dark alley. They won’t find him there—— not in time. Somehow, he prefers the slow, inexorable burn that comes with the pouring wound on his stomach rather than the multiple ways of torture that await him should that gang find him again.
It is difficult to remain conscious when his eyelids are so heavy, his limbs unresponding to his commands.
Nothing seems to work.
Ah, he could call someone. His phone is still in one of his pockets, and he doesn’t need to look to blindly type any number he desires. And yet his arms don’t move, his head just tilts, bending his neck at a painful, forced angle.
Perhaps the blow to his head has done more damage than he first thought.
He doesn’t want pity, nor mocking laughter at the other side of the line, and both seem to be his only alternatives. Pride and survival instinct collide, clashing and trying to send his brain mixed signals.
The informant has always feared death.
( he can feel her around him, caressing his face as if stating her CLAIM over him )
Not his soul. Sometimes he wonders if he has one.
Shaky bloody fingers move, slowly, excruciatingly so, and he can’t keep a wince to himself when reaching for his phone implies changing his current position slightly. The pain is expected—— not the intensity.
Digits that should be deft and agile clumsily manage to dial a number, one he knows by heart. He wants, he needs——
The informant coughs, trying to spit out the red liquid threatening to drown him.
"———Kishitani Shinra speaking! I am sorry, but I am not around at this precise moment. If this is an emergency, leave a message after the beep and I’ll get to it once me and my beloved finish—— ow, that hurt, Celty!”
The beep that follows rings in his ears like a death sentence.
It hurts too much to run. In all honesty, the panic that had clawed at him at first from the back of his mind has turned feral, allowing the cold to dig into his skin like needles, trying to TEAR him up from the outside. And it is so easy to stay there and look upwards, to give up in discouraged, bitter acceptance.
When he laughs, it’s hollow, forced——
No one is there to see his mask crumble at last.
Orihara Izaya doesn’t cry. He is a coward, not a fool; asking for forgiveness, for mercy, won’t do a thing. Who would listen to him begging other than thin air?
It’s so easy to r e p l a c e his existence. No one would notice. No one would care. Would his corpse be corrupted even after he has stopped struggling? Would it be recognizable…?
Heh. Such silly, naive questions.
The bleeding hasn’t stopped even once, and that light-headed feeling only increases with each second. It is almost hilarious, how subtly the point of no turning back comes over him, how unnoticeable to the naked eye it is——
When he closes his eyes, his mask falls and his smile evaporates.
The prodigy falls.
Nightmare Before Christmas - The Oogie Boogie Song
oh you’re watching durarara? I love that anime. The way they just [clenches fist] du all those fucking ras
"…Y-Yes, I’m sure.. Sometimes I just say things.." [[ why is mikado not dead is my major question for the whole series he opens his mouth and all I can ever think is "this time they kill him" ]]
“I’m aware of that fact.”
[[ :v his mun was just too sleepy to filter him ]] “N-NO…!”
”Are you completely sure?”