Week 16: Kako No Ashioto
Dec. 1st, 2025 03:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
inkstainedfingertipsI vowed to never come back.
I was free.
And yet, here I am. Drawn back by the echo of footsteps from my past. Now I’m surrounded by old ghosts. Old memories. Old pain. The death of my parents pulled a chain I thought I’d broken long ago. The house, a time capsule filled with suffering and despair.
Nothing’s changed.
The muzzle sits on my old bed, dredging up long buried nightmares. Rust-colored stains mar the worn leather straps. I can still feel them cinched tight across my face. Can still recall the taste of old pennies in my mouth. Both a testament to the torment of being made to wear it when I was “bad.” I was bad a lot. Leaving it for me to find like this is their final fuck you.
For escaping.
For surviving.
I reach under the bed and pull out the small cigar box and blow off the thick layer of dust. Sir Michael waits inside — his toy armor cracked, paint flaking, sword broken. Many nights I huddled beneath this bed, clutching him to my chest. He protected me from the tempest of rage that was my childhood home. He kept me safe when no one else would.
In time, I learned to forge my own blade and armor from scars and anger. I grew strong. Brave enough to run. Brave enough to live.
I strike a match. A sword of fire in my hands. Standing outside, I watch the flames crawl up the walls that once held my nightmares. Fire devours the past. The house collapses on itself with the roar of a dying beast. Glowing embers rise into the night like a maelstrom of fireflies.
I am free.
Everything’s changed. But part of me will burn here forever.
I was free.
And yet, here I am. Drawn back by the echo of footsteps from my past. Now I’m surrounded by old ghosts. Old memories. Old pain. The death of my parents pulled a chain I thought I’d broken long ago. The house, a time capsule filled with suffering and despair.
Nothing’s changed.
The muzzle sits on my old bed, dredging up long buried nightmares. Rust-colored stains mar the worn leather straps. I can still feel them cinched tight across my face. Can still recall the taste of old pennies in my mouth. Both a testament to the torment of being made to wear it when I was “bad.” I was bad a lot. Leaving it for me to find like this is their final fuck you.
For escaping.
For surviving.
I reach under the bed and pull out the small cigar box and blow off the thick layer of dust. Sir Michael waits inside — his toy armor cracked, paint flaking, sword broken. Many nights I huddled beneath this bed, clutching him to my chest. He protected me from the tempest of rage that was my childhood home. He kept me safe when no one else would.
In time, I learned to forge my own blade and armor from scars and anger. I grew strong. Brave enough to run. Brave enough to live.
I strike a match. A sword of fire in my hands. Standing outside, I watch the flames crawl up the walls that once held my nightmares. Fire devours the past. The house collapses on itself with the roar of a dying beast. Glowing embers rise into the night like a maelstrom of fireflies.
I am free.
Everything’s changed. But part of me will burn here forever.