Work Text:
Fukawa could feel it, the uncomfortable feeling of someone else’s sheets under her, the uncomfortable feeling of someone else’s bed caressing her. She blinked her eyes open and her heart immediately picked up the pace. She knew right away what her eyes were graced with; she was in a stranger’s home again. She forced herself into a sitting position, feeling the sting on her thigh. Genocider Syo had killed another. Fukawa hated knowing such a thing. She wanted to run away as quickly as she could, not wanting to be pinned to such a crime.
She rushed out of the bed and scurried to find the exit to the household. She had found the body, and with all of her might fought her hemophobia a moment longer. She finally found the exit and slipped on her shoes before running away, as fast as her heavy feet would allow. She wanted to just disappear.
As soon as the writer was sure she was far enough away from the crime to be relatively safe, her pace slowed. She looked for her most recent home, not sure if she was going the right direction or not. She had only recently moved into this home, so she had yet to fully map out it’s location yet.
Once she finally found where she was going, she tried her best to get there quick. She walked in the door and immediately heard it again, “Oh, my poor Touko!” fake cries from a fake mother. Fake signs of worry enveloped her in a tight hug, causing her braids to get messed up. Fukawa’s apathetic eyes stared off behind her fake mother’s embrace. She didn’t reciprocate. “I just saw on the news that that crazy serial killer got to someone else. I was so worried!” Her step-mother’s words sounded hollow; it was very obvious to Fukawa that Ms. Fukawa didn’t care. When the embrace was loosened, Fukawa stumbled back a little, still without a word. She stepped up from the doorstep before starting to her room.
She locked the door behind her, feeling an immediate rush of anger whelming her. She could see by the way papers were thrown about that her step-mother had gone through her writings again. She was sure that that fake woman would come talking to her soon about how her vulgarity was one that a fourteen year old should be writing about. But that woman had no idea what she was talking about. What was putting food on her table? Who paid for her fancy diamond ring? Who paid for the fake red strands of hair attached to her scalp? That was the only reason she was nice to Fukawa.
Fukawa had been writing most of her life and that is all that these step-parents cared about. Fukawa had money but was only fourteen; she couldn’t touch a dime of it. It all belonged to whoever was her guardian. That was all anyone even cared for about her. She was their source of income. She hated it and even stopped writing for a while because of it, which was exactly why this bimbo woman was even going through her room. She wanted to steal a finished work and publish it behind Fukawa’s back, since the funds were becoming scarce, and the woman might actually have to give up on something of her flourish lifestyle.
Fukawa began working to organise the mess that had been made from her step-parent. She read through her handwriting and sorted the stories as they were supposed to be organised. She really hoped that everything was there. She could never tell with all the stories that she left just sitting about.
Right when she thought that she was going to relax, she turned on the telly just to hear it all over again, “The intercity killer, Genocider Syo, kills again. With the same tricks, he brutally murdered 25 year old—” Fukawa turned the television off, her head beginning to hurt. She knew exactly what Genocider Syo had done, she needn’t the telly to tell her. She bit her thumb, mad at herself for letting that happen again. The last thing she remembered was walking on her normal path to go home from school… Then waking in that strange house.
Fukawa had tried everything to stop Genocider Syo from killing. She tried leaving home without the killer’s weapons, which did nothing but cause Fukawa quite some suffering that made her regret trying that and she never tried that again. She tried taking different routes home, that changed nothing. She tried writing out her emotions… Nothing helped her issue. Sometimes she thought about turnin herself into the police and just telling them the predicament she was dealing with, but then she just considered the fact that she would really be the only punished one there.
The writer fell onto her bed and immediately hiked up her skirt to get the garter from her thigh. She took it off and put it in the drawer of her side table. She had a glance at the tallies on her other thigh that Syo had done to her. She quickly fixed her skirt so she wouldn’t have to look at it any more. She picked up one of her long braids and let out a sigh as she took the rubber band off of the end. She began carefully unbraiding it. She finished that and started on the other braid. All she could ask herself as she did this was “What are you doing, Touko?”
She sat up after finishing on her braids, letting her curly hair fall to her sides. She brushed the stray strand of her bangs out of her face and then looked at the mirror that was pinned up on her closet door. She studied her reflection. Who was she? The name Fukawa Touko didn’t fit her. She felt rather like an enigma. She stood up and walked closer to the mirror. She smiled for a moment, but quickly let it fall, seeing how awkward her face looked when she did such a thing. She took her glasses off and studied her face closely for a moment. Who was this person in front of her?
Fukawa let out a sigh before putting her glasses back on. She sat back down on her bed and watched the floor. Normally she would have been writing by this point, but her mind was in a blunder. The hands that were sitting innocently in her lap had killed someone today. The very mind she was thinking with thought that it was okay to kill another being. The body that she hosted had mercilessly murdered someone. Fukawa had to live with this confusion and guilt, all because Genocider Syo wanted to off someone.
"Touko! Dinner time!" She heard her fake mother call to her. She let out a sigh before quickly parting her hair and braiding it again. This step-mother had yet to see her with her hair down; Fukawa planned to keep it that way.
She came from her room and to the dining room. For the first time since she had moved into this home, her father was at the kitchen table, arms crossed. He didn’t look very happy to see her. Of course he didn’t; he hated her about as much as she hated him. The fake mother pulled out Fukawa’s chair, gesturing for her to take a seat. Fukawa brush one of her braids behind her shoulder and sat down slowly, watching his gaze. Right before she had a moment to open her mouth, her father began speaking. “Touko, your mother and I have decided that it would be in your best interest if we put you through therapy.”
Once again, before Fukawa had a moment to open her mouth, Ms. Fukawa decided to speak up. “I just happened to notice that you are always late coming home and then you disappear into your room without a word… And those stories you write…!”
Fukawa interrupted her, “M-my writings should be a part of this.” she said, her voice low. In fact, that woman shouldn’t even be reading what she is writing. That was none of her business.
"But they are, Touko!" Her father’s bellowing voice took over the room. "What fourteen year old child writes about romance and God forbid, sex!? You stay out late, doing who the hell knows what! You go straight to your room without a word, like you are scared of your mother findin out what you are doing!" Her father had stood up doing some point and was staring straight down at her.
Fukawa was silent for a moment before saying, “I… I write whatever subject make me feel more comfortable…! A-and I stay out….” Fukawa’s voice hung. She couldn’t actually tell them where she was. She thought quick before answering, “I stay out b-because I hate it here. A-all she does is spend the money I earn a-a-and act like I don’t know! I’m tired of i-it!” Fukawa’s hands were shaking. Her father didn’t stand backtalk. She was pretty much ready to be hit; there had never been a time that she talked back where she didn’t get hit.
Her father took a step forward, before grabbing her shoulders, forcing her to stand, and getting in her face. “And what the hell do you do around here to ‘earn’ that money? All you do is write your erotic books, waste space, eat our food, use our utilities, our resources!” he pushed her back, making her stumble back into the chair. “This is settled, Touko, you are going to therapy!” He didn’t allow for any more argument.
Fukawa watched him for a moment before mumbling, “I would like to go back to my room, I’m not hungry.” She started to get up, just to have her father push her down.
"You are not going to waste your mother’s hard work by not eating. You will eat all of your serving. Don’t make me repeat myself." He said, glaring down at her.
Fukawa looked away for a moment before giving up. While she was not hungry, there was no arguing with her father. If she did, she would just get hurt.
The ‘family’ sat around the table, silently eating the meal that Fukawa was sure the fake mother had cooked out of a box. Fukawa hated this facade that they had, implying that they were a good family. She ate all of her food as fast as she could before excusing herself from the table. Her father scoffed but let her by.
Fukawa went back to her room, more upset with her father then she ever had been before. Therapy? What the hell was therapy going to do for her? She understood that she was crazy. She understood that she had a serial killer living inside of her — not like the therapist was going to find out about that. She understood that her stories were too mature for her age. But none of this was going to change, no matter the therapy she had.
Fukawa went to bed that night, fathoming up ideas of how to lie to the therapist and weave her way through the system. She wanted no one to find about Genocider Syo. She wanted no one to know about the way her mind worked. She would rather stay sick forever. She would rather wear someone else’s blood on her hands.