Rhyme didn't know why she did it.
She was fifteen, impressionable, her mother had said. But then again, her mother didn't say a lot. She yelled.
She was fifteen, without a goal in life, and suffering through each and every day like she had to, not like she wanted to. She smiled to every passing person she saw, just to reassure herself that the world wasn't all bad.
Beat was seventeen and kicked out of highschool for misbehaviour. The faculty didn't ask questions, they didn't seek help, they just kicked him out. Now he worked 12 hours a day in a factory to keep from being kicked out of the house too, because his father was this close, Daisukenojo, god damn it.
Neku and Shiki still hung out with them once in a while, but it wasn't long before their parents forbade them. Rhyme had to focus on her school work, for christ's sake, or we'll never have any honor in this family. Beat was never around.
It wasn't that hard, really, to find a tattoo parlour that would ink her up. In the back streets of Tokyo? Please. She walked, not thinking, her stomach filmy from the lack of food. She wore the same loose shirt, the same goddamn shirt, take it off, girl, I can't see your tiny little tits, that she always wore. Some wondered if she had any others.
The needle digging into her skin was like searing her flesh, and tears welled in her eyes. For a moment her brain screamed Stop it, what are you doing, are you insane? but like and other time of intense physical pain, she just shut down her mind. Oh, baby girl, you feel so good.
The tribal wings spread across her back were inspired by but a faint memory by now, but she knew it must have meant something. Her shirt covered it when she returned home, hurrying up into her room and falling asleep. She did that a lot, lately.
It wasn't until late in the night when her clothes were wrenched from her that they were discovered. There was screaming, slapping, and rough, rough sex because how dare you, you little bitch, you insolent little bitch, you'll pay for what you've done. She takes it with a blank face because that's what she's always done.
When she's thrown out and told never to return, without even a sheet to cover herself, she thinks to herself, you must have known this would happen. But she didn't, really. She stopped thinking a long time ago.
When she closes her eyes and wonders what to do now, it's no question to herself, really. She heads to that same, same, very same spot, and when a car collides with her frail little body, there's no doubt, really.
When she wakes up in the crossing it's tight in the arms of a boy with ash-blond hair. His grip is as tight as death and she swear she can feel his tears through his shirt. His violet eyes are angry, angry slits, and really, he's never shown this much emotion but having watched her since that one fateful game... nothing he'd ever dealt with compared.
"This world didn't deserve an angel like, you, anyway."
She couldn't say she disagreed.