Summary: young little girls aren't supposed know so much of the wicked, and yet she was never a young little girl to begin with.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Yoshihiro Togashi except for my oc, Sakiko.
The rain dips in heavy droplets, soaking her small figure as she runs. Her shoes skid on the ground and she almost trips over her wet laces but continues onward relentlessly. The shabby buildings she passes without a second glance are empty and lifeless. Not a single window is illuminated with the yellowish light she has come to associate with cheap electrical bulbs. The street is deserted and a tiny sense of relief fills her at the discovery but it is all too soon blotted out by the familiar dread.
She sees the soft glow of old, yellowed bulbs reflected on the bricks at the end of the alleyway and her feet momentarily stutter in their rhythm, pausing. Much later she will curse her weakness, the hesitation in her mind that began at her first time and grows larger and larger with each bullet fired until eventually she really does pause at the trigger. Her doubt here and now will cost her life in some distant future but at four years old, running through the rain with soaking hair and a gun concealed in her pocket, she does not care. She does not realise the amount of pain her hesitation will cause.
She comes to halt at the end of the street, this time her stop decisive and planned rather than hesitant. It was decided long ago that she must pause here and watch from behind the safety of the thick stone wall, waiting for the moment of opportunity to present itself. Her mind travels back to an afternoon weeks ago in a hotel room filled with bright light and flowery curtains. It was Miss Abaki's and her somewhat secret hide-a-way, not much of a success seeing as the entire floor knew of their presence.
The important thing is that no one will disturb them there as they are too terrified.
But now her caregiver will not poke her pretty little head around the door and ask her what she is doing. She'll no longer hug her or tickle-rub her back when her father leaves for whoever knows how long. She's dead.
Now, standing in the dark street chilled to the bone as another icy gust of wind drives through her Sakiko is reminded of the question that led her to be here, huddling against a wall with fingers fumbling to open her jacket pocket and pull out the revolver.
"Stop being a brat," Hisoka's eyes are leaned away without empathy and remorse, "Don't you want to make me proud, Little Miss?"
Her answer is a moment too late in coming, her pause a little too long but her voice is strong and proud, "Yes." But she's trembling in fear of the outcome if she had said no.
His eyes glimmer in satisfaction but there is something more evil and corrupt behind the curve of his lips, and finally, he opens his mouth.
"Kill all the people who inhabit this town."
The voices from the pub drift over to her as the door is thrown open, a few drunks stumbling into the street. Their hunched figures are immediately blotted out by the blackness, the night claiming her prey all too easily. If only her own prey would hurry up, she cannot help but think as she nervously fingers the knife in her pocket.
Every moment longer she has to stand out here means one more moment in which she is caught; her dread-ridden brain manages to convince herself. Her jitters are from the cold, not the guilt she already feels weighing down on her. She wants to leave so that she will not be recognized, not because she doesn't want to do this. But she doesn't have a choice in the first place.
The rain is coming down ever harder and she wonders if he will ever show. As if drawn out by her futile, fervent wish a figure steps through the thick oak doors and out into the street. She glances around, checking one last time that everything is perfect. The street is just as empty as it was before, the drunks having all stumbled home to angry wives and dirty bedding. She can understand why they wash away their sorrows in cheap beer, but she also knows what kind of nasty bacteria can breed in a vat of alcohol. She wouldn't touch the stuff even if someone paid her.
The sharp knives her father gave her is tucked neatly in her pants, and she hates to touch it. But each of them fit perfectly into her hand and her finger falls, quite naturally, on the edge steel of the weapon. It is as if the instrument has been molded specifically for her usage.
She presses ever closer to the wall, the flap of her pocket pulled up as she removes the knife. Her subject is standing in just the right place, having come to stop a number of feet away from the noisy pub and light a cigarette.
The night has swallowed up half of his face, the other part illuminated by the glow spilling from inside the building. She raises the knife, quite proud that her fingers do not shake as she takes aim and flings it to his chest.
It completely misses him.
She can feel the doubt and panic building in the back of her mind, having grown stronger ever since she left over an hour ago. The man's gasp rings out and instinctively she whirls, clutching another knife to her chest and pressing her back against the wall in fear that someone might have seen her. She counts to ten and peers around the corner, not knowing what to expect.
The man is struggling to his feet—apparently her 'kill shot' was more of a 'scare away shot'. She strikes just as he had pulled himself up again, about to call for help. She cannot let others get involved – her aim is hardly perfect and she doesn't have the bullets to waste on a second or third person.
His shoulder is stained red and he swears and swears as he fingers the damage carefully. Her lips pull up into a grin as she recognizes a few of his more colorful words, storing them away for later use.
Another knife hits his leg, bringing him down again. At this point, she isn't trying to kill him, more experimenting.
Stepping out from behind the safety of her wall, she keeps her back pressed firmly against the stone as she inches forwards, eager to get a closer look. His eyes are shut and he is on his back, hyperventilating. He looks in her direction and her body freezes as he looks into her eyes. Unadulterated fear and agony surfaces from his blue eyes, and she chokes on what little confidence she has left.
He gurgles out incoherently with a slight raise of his voice, but Sakiko can make out the words, "You don't have to do this!"
She involuntarily shivers in shock as she heard Hisoka finish his sentence, and her heart hammers too slow and to hard to function properly. She breathes out in a shrill tone, "Don't say that, please don't make me do this. I don't want to do this."
He giggles—his face is contorted and his bloodshot eyes and twisted open mouth do nothing to hide the amount of insanity oozing from his body. She shrinks and places her head to the ground, frozen by the malevolent feeling he emits.
"Oh Little Miss, you know what'll happen if you refuse me~."
She lowers her knife momentarily, stunned by his words, as if she had a choice. She's never heard anyone speak to her like that since Miss Abaki, and for a split-second, she hesitates. Though not a second later does she yell hysterically, "You wouldn't understand, I have to kill you!"
Tears begin to drop from her lashes, and the man tries to crawl backwards, as if that would do him any good. Brokenly, she strangles out something, an explanation of sorts. She owes him that much. He's a dead man anyway, and she's sure he knows it too.
"Or he'll kill me."
The fourth hits his chest, the fifth following it almost immediately and this time she gets her desired 'kill shot'. He is dead before he can even scream.
She creeps closer with another still pointing at the corpse making sure he is dead. She stares at him, as if in a daze, and accidentally trips over him and her blade slides across from her. She yelps as fear enters her core and she jumps away as if it was scorching hot and grabs the fallen item. She sprints.
She turns around, and finally notices that there is blood streaking down the pavement, running in various lines down the cracks in the cobblestones. She never released that there is quite so much blood. It is a mistake she will not make again. That night, standing in the pouring rain over her first kill and staring into his strange, dim eyes, Sakiko learns many things that will prevent many possible mistakes.
She learns that killing a man isn't as difficult as people always make it out to be—really the act of pulling a knife is easy, almost childishly so. She learns that hiding in the shadows and playing it safe is a good option but when you want to truly scare someone, you have to be adventurous.
After all, it was the blades she flung before leaving into the safety of the darkness that killed him. She learns that intoxicated men never hear the cries and that you don't need to be quick if you're standing next to a pub late at night.
She learns not to be overconfident with her first shot and to always have extra firepower. She learns that water does not wash away blood, whatever anyone else may claim. And perhaps most importantly she learns that Miss Abaki isn't always right. She said that it would be the hardest, most difficult decision in her life, after all.
But she never tells anyone that her first real kill was at four, in her own home town wearing stolen shoes, hiding behind a wall in rain-soaked clothes. She never tells them that it took her four knives to kill her first man. Or that it was her father's fault that she's going to be a mass murderer. If Miss Abaki saw her now, she would be disgusted.
She runs far away as she possibly can so no one can suspect her but then the moon illuminates past her in a beautiful light, catching her eye in a window she stands next to. It sketches out her reflection, and she finally sees herself for what she really is.
She sits there in all her glory, covered in the blood of thousands, and she remembers she is nothing but a walking corpse now.
It hurts—this guilt in her chest and the inside of her head slowly melting away. The blazing heat in her eyes grow rapid and within seconds her frame drops in temperature, cold and empty like ice. And ice burns, and it's sucking her from within the caverns of hatred, seeding deeply in her core. It's not something new, but it's different now. it's greater and much more painful.
There is so much red—so much blood that dresses her body, so much blood that isn't even her own. It cakes her in a demonic appearance wrought and strung up with withered red, glowing eyes. This wasn't her. This wasn't Sakiko.
The eyes etched into the glass that bored into hers, those couldn't be her eyes. They were dark, wild and devilish, and burning her sins into her soul with a dreadful ache in her body. They sent shivers down her arms and pulled the air from her lungs to rapid breathing. It toppled her vision into dizziness and panic into her bones. And her mouth is curved upwards in a horrific grin. It feels good. Everything feels nice.
It's nothing personal, she whispers to herself, and suddenly she doesn't care anymore. It doesn't matter. Nobody in this life even exists. None of this matters. Her face splits open wide, showing all the pent up mania again and she's—I'm—we're laughing.
(Here, in this life, rules and justice do not exist. Magic and power do).
The person who left a review in all lowercase asking me to not stop updating this story with such a polite tone made me want to fucking cry. Thank you, and sorry to everyone who have been waiting literal MONTHS. Hope y'all have a good thanksgiving AND happy holidays- if you want, tell me what you're grateful for and what you got for your holiday. I'm thankful to have people actually want to read my story. :) AND I GOT A NEW LAPTOP SO I CAN ACTUALLY TYPE MY STORIES NOW AND NOT WRITE THEM ON MY PHONE PERIODICALLY AND GIVE UP!
I did place multiple hints indicating that she developed a type of schizoaffective disorder. If you don't know what that is symptoms usually include delusions, hallucinations, depressed episodes, and manic periods of high energy. The belief that an ordinary event has special and personal meaning, delusion, thought disorder, racing thoughts are also other characteristics involved with this disorder. (If you want to know more, look it up for yourself).
So I know it may seem confusing as to why Sakiko is reacting the way she is, but she's never known an environment of security except with Miss Abaki, but she hasn't seen her in several months. The sadomasochistic genes she gets from her father don't help her case AT ALL either. This and the fact that her father is threatening her loved ones also cause her to fully develop this disorder at such a young age.
Lowkey I pulled a Harry Potter quote on y'all. I cackled. You rolled your eyes.