Warning: sadeater, character death


Her tears bleed blue, pooling strangely in her hands, and as you peer at the unnatural saturation of color, you realize what's been done. She cries, fat tears rolling down cheeks that, in the real world, would be flushed brightly with red, but that color doesn't exist here anymore.

You're standing in the Room, an arm's length from her, and the ceiling breaks open. It's always been black up there— not really a ceiling so much as a hole, a window, a viewing port to the darkness of the universe where the stars have long since burned out, or perhaps had never been in the first place. Yet it cracks, long fissures running across what you'd always thought had been nothingness, down walls and through curtains like a photo slowly being torn, and you realize there had never been a ceiling or not-ceiling in this place, had never been curtains or tiles or pianos or gramophones, because it had always been an illusion of the mind, and blue washes away what doesn't belong.

Blue like the sky on hot summer days (sweltering days, filled with the drone of cicadas and the taut ringing of basketballs hitting melting asphalt), it peeks through the cracks in the ceiling. You wonder if this is the view from inside an egg, as birds and angels peck and claw from the outside to eat what's within. Shell fragments fly away from the room, discarded, dissolved, cleansed.

Far away, you hear screaming.

Black gives way to blue, her tear-filled eyes watching all that you are, pinstripes to scars, slowly dissolve. You reach out to touch her, because you know it will be your last chance to feel that powerful, too powerful wavelength thrumming under her familiar skin, but love pushes her another step back. To touch you is to hasten your end.

More of you is ripped away, giving in to blue skies. You wonder what your soul would have looked like, before the piano. You wonder if the sky outside the shreds of this illusion is part of what might have been, but you suppose you'll never find out.

The screaming is louder, and you realize it's yours, from your body that isn't and no longer will be, because you are leaving it. She touches you in that existence (or was that illusion, too?), screeching, pleading, because no, no, no, no, she loves you, come back. But you won't.

Her tears bleed blue, and it washes you away, too.

You smile with what's left of your face, hoping she knows you understand. "Game over, Maka," you quietly say.

Red and Black cease to exist. Your soul pulls apart and becomes nothing, as you become nothing.

You shouldn't have let her play so many notes.