The Strange Fruit
Author: japancat
Content Rating: T-16
Published: 2012-10-11 01:51:02
Tags: Yuyu Hakusho, Mukuro, Chikou

A deconstruction of Mukuro's relationship with her father. Viewer discretion is advised.

Author´s Notes and Disclaimers:

So… Chikou and Mukuro. I would say I wonder why their relationship hasn't been fleshed out but that answer's pretty obvious. No one can sympathize with Chikou because of what he did- I definitely wouldn't, and if you know me personally you can see why this is thicker than paper alone. He was also a character created with absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever. In short, as far as the reader and the viewer is concerned, he is merely a complete monster. Now, as much as I hate this character and anyone like him, and can name a few contrapasso methods of punishment for the like, I still think it's unrealistic to just label him as evil. Even the most "evil" (an actually loosely used term as it is quite relative, as much as it sounds awful) of people have their good sides as well or have something that would have made a time bomb go off. Most serial killers have been abused or molested or have an issue with sexual identity and/or orientation- but none of them came out of the womb knowing what they wanted to do to other people, yet very rarely do you find one that is aware that they have done anything wrong at all. In fact, most rationalize it in a way that suits their own logic, which is of a stock that most of us don't understand nor would we want to. Charles Manson never said he wanted to do what he was because he was evil. There was a reason. A twisted one. One he thought was for the greater good. Looking back on Chikou, we can try and touch upon the twisted reasoning he had for using his daughter in that manner. So I wrote this with the intention of bring a breath into the relationship, just enough so it can speak to us- the simultaneous love and hatred for a parent who abuses you, the struggle between revenge and the need to move on in life, the twisted justification of cruelty, the ugly misrepresentation of love…
Also, if you can listen to Mukuro's theme while reading this, you'll get the full extent of this.

Disclaimer 1: This was written of my own volition. The characters are not mine, nor are they real. But the pain and situation is.
Disclaimer 2: Please be aware that because of the content matter of this story, this will be extremely uncomfortable to read since there is no delicate way of touching on this. If you feel you can't read it in its entirety, then I'll understand.

"Have you come to kill me today, then, my child?"

Mukuro had stepped in, listening to the greasy goblets of sound that was his voice asking the same question once again. Just once this time. An improvement. But as she came to the table it sounded again. She tilted her head at an angle to look up at him so as to not have direct contact with that being. He- or rather it as the form now stands- stood as a plant now. Fauna now flora. Roots buried in the ground as gradually thinning vein thick roots. The lines that trace all over his body as though reverse indentions of a tattoo, screaming for the medical minded eye to chance a bloodletting or an injection. The large pseudoman, the skin once pale, as pale as her own, now the shade of green more suited to the leaves just before they fall off the branch. A comical sight in some circles, but now symbolizing the trapping into this form. He is the fruit of myth, the reverse Nariphon, hanging without a tree yet still standing in the shape of a man with the mind of a monster.

They called him Chikou. The slave trader Chikou. The so-called "glorious" man who ran the largest underground business across three kingdoms, with a secondary achievement for his studies in genetics. Those were his younger days, of course, his less lucrative days before he was reintroduced to the services of women. That day, it clicked. Until that point, he was both intrigued by the female forms that he was unfamiliar with while simultaneously forbidden to touch them, tortured by the adolescent desire to rebel and do it anyway to see if women truly did feel different. Years had passed since his mother's decease, so he was allowed to have a prostitute to play with as a celebration of his achievements as a geneticist. The lessons he learned in childhood came back to life. The ones she taught him.

And yet, instead of continuing his research in the field of genetics, he continued his research in the keeping of women and the genes that would make the ideal female form. The curved hourglass figure. The full lips and rounded breasts. Wide hips and a small waist. The soft angular curves from neck to shoulder, shoulder to hip, hip to thigh, thigh to groin, and the backs of calves and arms, at just enough to keep from being too plump. He also found the perfect set-up for male gratification, or ones that were based upon his own interests, anyway. (His customers never seemed to mind.) Allowance for any long amount of desire- wide enough to allow any girth while simultaneously being tight enough. A deep throat with more of a resistance against the gag reflex. A strong sphincter to prevent any amount or kind of play causing a prolapse.

In short, his daughter. Mukuro. The woman born with a fully functioning reproductive system- save for the menstruations, which she never had in part because of malnutrition and partly because of the scar tissue inside her. Seven years old and already she had fully developed breasts. In summary- she was precocious, in body and in mind. She was a monster. A child in an adult's body.

Chikou, the strange fruit asked her again, "Have you come to kill me today, my daughter?" His voice once more growing more painful to the point of being a grater on the flesh and bone of the still living and conscious. He was no longer the baby that he was years prior, but now he was only wailing for the end of his punishment.

"Maybe. We'll see," Mukuro replied. She pulled a knife from her pocket, Hiei's blade still tucked in her belt.

"Please. Do it today!"

As soon as she glared at him, he was silent once more. "Tell me. Do you know how many seconds there are in seven years?"

He was silent. She went on. "Sixty seconds in sixty minutes is thirty-six hundred."

She took the knife and started picking under her nails. "Thirty six hundred in twenty-four hours is eighty-six thousand, four hundred."

She was at her cuticle now. "And that times three hundred sixty-five days is thirty-one million, five hundred thirty-six thousand."

And the knife was on the table now. "And that times seven years is thirteen billion, two hundred forty-five million, one hundred seventy-five thousand seconds. Now we add the two leap years, which adds on one hundred seventy-two seconds gives you the grand total of thirteen billion, two hundred forty-five million, two hundred ninety-two thousand. Now tell me, do you think you've experienced every last one of those seconds?"

"Yes, yes, yes, please do it, please…"

"Hm… Funny. I don't think you have. In fact, I feel as though we've only gone through five of those seconds. Of course, I might forget in a few moments and we'll go back to the start."

"But it's been ten years! Ten years!"

"And who told you that lie?" Of course, she knew that really was a lie. It's been at least twenty years. She made an agreement with Hiei that they would go in between each other and give him different time frames. With Hiei telling him the next meeting would be the last one. Just to keep him on his toes. She raised her face up to look in the general direction of his, but not enough so she would be able to focus on its fine details. "It's been only five seconds, remember? Or maybe I'm wrong and I've only just been made aware of your presence."

He started to sob, sap leaking for crocodile tears and snot, his inhalations and exhalations (inspirations and expirations) ballooning and deflating his gut. He lifted his arms and then dropped them so he would sob freely. So he could try for her sympathy. His thick arms, now as the texture of his body fluctuated, were covered with scars of her punishments, his groin, mouth and anus which if one were willing to inspect them further also showed signs of stretching and tearing. His scars matching hers… Yet she still found no kinship.

"I wish you could see how ugly you're being," Mukuro said.

Turn back hundreds of years ago when Chikou slapped her around when she started to cry even a little bit, even as an infant. He said to her, his face drawn close to hers, his breath sour, "I wish you knew how ugly you're being." Yet when he took her, he would make sure there was a mirror nearby and force her to look in and examine her fate. He would say to her then, face just as near and breath equally sour, "See how beautiful you are?"

"Why are you doing this to me?" the strange fruit asked.

"Why?" She picked the knife up again. "Those seven years you had me in your possession was seven years in hell and I intend to make sure you live that a thousand times over, which I think is too light a punishment for you, but I have lots of time I need to invest in things that aren't vile swine like yourself."

"Pain? You thought it was pain?"

"What, are you a fucking parrot now? You must have heard me unless you were too busy fucking yourself in the ear. What else would it be? You couldn't possibly believe that a child would enjoy any of that. Children have no use of what adults deal with for their pleasure. We have our joys and you have yours, and rarely do they intersect. You can't impose that on a child, or an toddler or an infant. What a child needs is those false memories you gave me. And for the record, you were wrong to have given me visions of what real parenting is. You put a slave in view of freedom, and he can and will find a way to escape."

"But you liked it. You know you did," the strange fruit said with a smile.

Mukuro swing her fist and the knife straight into his stomach. There was a sound of something popping like a balloon in between his apelike screeches. The sound of a toddler burning his hand on the stove he was told never to touch. She pulled back, thought of taking the knife out, but decided instead to leave so there would only be the wound hanging in a state of purgatorio. Nether healing nor wounding further. Neither growing nor remedying it. "What part of what happened made you think I liked it at all? What part of my struggles against you made you think that was so? Would I be here if I did? Would I have left you?"

"You ran away from me is what you did."

"Ran away? You can't possibly…"

"I was once like you, my child. I never knew my father. It was always just me and my mother. We were happy together. She held me close all the time, let me sit on her lap until I was almost thirteen. She even let me sleep in her bed the whole time I lived with her. I never had nightmares because I knew she was always there. It wasn't even that we only had one bedroom, we had enough for us both to have two, but she insisted that I always sleep in her bed. And she always kissed me on the mouth when we went to bed. And you know, when I was thirteen, she really took me to her bed and showed me all of what women wanted when having sex with men. After that night, I ran away while she was asleep. But when I was out there, I found I had nowhere to go. No one out there loved me or could love me. And even if they could, they couldn't love me like my mother did. So I came back, and my mother was angry with me for leaving, but she was glad to see me. And then we made love. It was great. Intense. We did everything we possibly could-"

"I don't want to hear this."

"-and I grew to use it one every woman I met. Especially you."

"I said-"

"All I wanted was for you to learn the things my mother taught me. In the case that I would have to die before you rather than us die together as I had planned. I have something no other man can give you and there's something horribly wrong with you being deprived of it."

"You have something no one else can give me, yes. But you never acted upon it. You were my father and you abused that privilege and my trust."

"No other man can have you. No other man should have you. You are my daughter and you belong to me and me alone! Don't you see?"

Mukuro removed the knife from his gut, swung her fist to his throat but stopped short of piercing the skin. She brought it down, scraping a thin line along the skin before she drove it back in his gut. She stepped back to admire her knife work. As the memory sank in she said, "You know, I really don't."

She was five or four years of age. Dressed in the same white lace dress with crème colored ribbons woven into a couple of strands of carefully made braids she always had to wear when the doctor came to her for her check up. It was the sort of dress that only covered what was necessary. It was more than likely not for convenience's sake for when the doctor asked her to disrobe, but also as a method for Chikou to really display and brag about what he had. She was placed on the table undressed. The doctor inspected everything without speaking as he normally did. He paused part of the way as he was focused on the focus of her existence.

"You know, child, you're old enough to know what you want. You have no name, you know that? What would you like to have for a name?" he asked. When she didn't answer, as she was under strict orders never to speak to a man that wasn't her father, he said, "How about Suki? It was the name of my first love, the first woman I was ever with. Suki… It suits you. You remind me of her so much. I couldn't be with her because her mother married her to another man, a family friend… Suki… My Suki…"

Mukuro just laid there, knowing that his eyes were still locked there. On every inch of her overdeveloped body but not on the face, never the face apart from the lips. She shut her eyes just as she tried to when under the advances of Chikou. She knew what was happening. She didn't find the power to stop him.

"Suki… You're a beautiful girl, Suki… I love you. You're just as I remember you… When your father dies, won't you marry me?" He was getting on the table, too. Here it comes… "Marry me. Please, Suki. Marry me."

She managed to break her vow and mumble out a weak, "No."

He threw something just as the door opened. He shouted, "Why not?! Why does everything have to stand between us?! Suki! You're mine! You hear me!"

She opened her eyes as his shouts turned to gurgles. She watched as Chikou drew the knife into the doctor's throat, blood dripping down her face. He took the knife and jabbed it in again and again in the same rhythm she was used to in his presence. Watching his motion over and over again, she realized that this would be what it'd be like if he was ever true to his word. The hand and blade serving as Chikou, the doctor's body serving as her own, and herself acting as her disembodied head watching what's expected of her. She knew then she wouldn't be any happier accepting that fate than she is in the here and now. She could only be happy to be in a life and afterlife in which she was not the embodiment of the vaginal. She never knew how to escape the world she was in.

Chikou managed to kill the doctor. No one pressed charges. No one gave a damn about a man obsessed with taking care of Chikou's little fleshlight. He took his daughter and put the white lace dress on.

He said, "Now your pretty dress is ruined." His voice suddenly started to grow more frantic. "I'll buy you a new one. As many as you want. I'll even buy you hundreds or thousands." He carried her out like she was a bride. A bride in a bloody gown, stained as she was. He sat her on a chair tall enough to be like a pedestal. Her kneeled at her feet and kissed them as one would do with a queen. "My princess, you belong to me and me alone. Never leave me. You're gonna marry daddy when you grow up, won't you?"

She said yes, as she always did when he proposed because she could never say no. It wasn't in her language when she spoke to him. Not yet.

The strange fruit was still ranting and raving when she realized where she was. He was still claiming ownership, despairing over the lack of their marriage.

"Will you… Shut the fuck up?" Mukuro said, adding a low growl at the end. And it was silent for a moment. Long enough for her to slip Hiei's blade from her belt.

"…That man who brought me here… What's he to you?" the strange fruit asked.

"What's it matter to you?"

"Have you slept with him yet?"

"What's it matter to you? I'm a grown woman. I can decide when and with whom I want to sleep with. You have no such authority. You never did."

"You can't! You belong to me!"

"I fucking don't!" She knew her voice was shrill. She suddenly noticed that her breathing had picked up, and her exhalations were turning towards a more animalistic sort of grunting and growling. She sat on the table, blade still held in her hands, ready to use it once she felt she had regained her composure.

It was silent for several minutes. Or maybe closer to a half hour. Or maybe an hour. "…You were wife and daughter to me both. When you got older, old enough to start bleeding, we were going to have a son. Or keep conceiving until we had a son. But you left me before we could. We could have run this empire together. You, me, and our son. He would have been Chikou, too."

"You would have had a son. I wouldn't."

"But you loved me enough to do it, right? You love me?"

No answer. Her hands grew clumsy and fumbled the blade's hilt. It caught on her belt and loosened it enough that it came undone and her pants slid slightly down her hips. She managed to catch it before it revealed anything to him. Her face flushed but not from embarrassment.

"You did, didn't you? Too bad no one really wants to see your ugly body."

"You go to hell." She threw the sheath and swung the blade in a half circle, aiming straight for his side, the wound leaking with a sort of sap or pus mixture that smelled like a half month's decomposed corpse. He shrieked at the sound of the fluids releasing themselves from him and he flailed his arms around as though ashamed to be caught with it happening. She rammed the blade deeper into his flesh, pulled out and stabbed it in once again over and over in a senseless cycle. His shouting for her to have mercy and leave him alone, and her grunts and growls with every blow. He wanted to attack but found he could not. He was trapped in the corner with no way to strike back. He was remem

At the end, she was on her knees the sword still in her hands, slick from the strange fruit's juices. Its wounds closed but left more scars on him.

"…Are you satisfied?" Chikou asked. Mukuro looked up at him and glared. Their eyes were locked. He finally broke his gaze. "Your eyes… They're so old. When you were a baby, even, you always looked so sad. I don't remember you ever smiling. And now you look so angry. So old. So tired. Where have I gone wrong?"

"You know damn well where you went wrong."

"No, I don't. This wasn't supposed to be this way."

"No. It wasn't. But not for the reasons you think it was."

"Really, child? Is it so wrong to love your father?"


"Then why?"

"You just don't get it. You just don't get it! Parents don't rape their children and children don't fuck their parents. That's not the order of things. You were supposed to love me, yes, as a child but not as your lover. You were supposed to protect me. You were supposed to work with my trust, worry about my well being. And you know what you did? You hurt me. Abused my trust. Treated my like your goddamn toy." He started to try to get a word in, but she would not have it. "Why couldn't you be the man I saw in those false memories. But no. You think I can pity you, understand you, just because your mother, my grandmother treated you the same way? That does not make it right. Ir doesn't change the fact that you betrayed my trust. It doesn't change the fact that you made me this way. It's all your fucking fault. Now do you see? Don't you see?"

Chikou was silent then. He watched. Waited. Wanted something to change. But her expression never did. Her demeanor never did. Nothing did. "…You are so like your mother."

"What about my mother?"

His eyes were glazing and her words and her voice was lost in that moment. He was remembering, lost in the past, which hadn't happened in the years and years passed. He was remembering her. Her face…. She had large eyes, which were the same shade of blue as his own. She had hair a red-blonde auburn in contrast to his golden hair, closer to a shade of white. (The angel halo, so his mother called it during their passionate affairs.) She was pale skinned, while his was closer to the tan of an egg, and she was small of frame and of stature. At the time, he was starting to grow as wide as he was squat. And no, she was not one of his whores. She was the daughter of his mother's only friends, a woman with some degree of royalty in the government.

By that time, he has long since made a name for himself as a geneticist. He was also by that time growing status in the world of slave trading, with an emphasis in mail order brides. (A popular euphemism for the buying and selling pf prostitutes for personal use.) He met with her again, looking vaguely as he remembered her, though he had very few memories of her. She told him she was to marry him as was promised early in their youth. It was a blessing. He found that he loved her.

It wasn't long before they conceived a child, as his new wife tended to wait upon their bed, anticipating the duties her mother had taught her. She never seemed to find much pleasure in it, nor did she seem to find pleasure in being married at all. He supposed there was a man she was involved with. But he never asked. But still, they had conceived a child soon into their marriage. They were told it was a girl, though. That day, Chikou lamented, desiring a boy to carry on the family name and take over the new business. But instead, he conceived a daughter he would have to toss away. His wife said that they would just have another.

But they couldn't. She died giving birth to their daughter. He knew it would happen as her health began to fail during the final trimester, and she took to staying in bed weeping, screaming out in her dreams of the endless misery she felt. He couldn't take her presence by that point and found a room in the house where he could be left to his thoughts. His idle hands took to constructing a string of surgeries which he was so fascinated with that he refused to allow even the servants to enter the room or heed his wife's rare cries for attention. He wanted to find a way to make his daughter an improvement. To recreate the woman he loved once again. A month before birth, he gave his plans to the doctor who would propose to the child. He went to work as soon as the daughter was out of the womb, his wife leaving him for widower with a gleeful smile on her face.

Out of surgery, Chikou held her for the first time. She had his face- the angled brows and rounded eye shape, the sharp, narrow nose- and his wife's frame. He knew that day, she would grow to become his wife reborn.

As her personality grew, he saw his wife's spirit in her. That broody attitude she had and the ever-changing moods…

He thought to himself, She was reborn! She is her mother's reincarnation! He knew that they were meant to be together forever- from this life to the next. And so at every coupling he would know his wife's spirit was fighting to come out, struggling in the child's body as she fought him.

And yet, when he looked down, he still saw his features in her face. He found he liked that a lot. He started a game with himself then: imagining he was simultaneously having sex with himself and his wife. He called it astral relations. An out of body sexual experience.

"What about my mother?" Mukuro asked.

"Why do you want to know?" Chikou, the strange fruit, asked. He raised his voice to overthrow her authoritarian tone, yet he still sounded slightly worn. "What good will it do you to know? You killed her. That day you ruined yourself, that day you were born, those days when you killed someone- don't think I never drew the connection when I came here, I'm not as stupid as you like to think I am- you killed her. I should have known what you would become that day you were born. I should have strangled you that day but I lied to myself that you were her. Now I know! Now I know!"

"No. You don't."

"Yes, I do! She was never yours to keep but you locked her up so you could kill her! It's all your fault she's dead. It's all your fault. Everything was! You bitch! You whore! You cunt! You should have died that day. If I knew, I would have killed you, I would have I would have I would have I would have-"

"…I said you don't know and you don't understand. You still fucking don't. You don't know what it was like. Don't you remember your childhood, Chikou? Did you really like it or do you force yourself to remember it that way? Go back to that day. Feel the pain that I felt." She was kneeling at his feet. She dropped her face down as the sap dripped in her hair. One of his teardrops hit the back of her hand. His sobs grew stronger. More shrill in register. More intense. More pained. It sounded as the same as the wind through a narrow passage of space in the middle of the night. She finally held out a hand and rested it on the trunk of the strange fruit's tree. She shook her head and put her hands in his large one. She opened her mind just as he opened his, his moment of pain seeping into her mind as hers seeped into his.

The face of his mother, the grandmother Mukuro never knew, hung overhead. Her face was long and contorted, stretched like canvas over angled poles and distorted as a reflection in rapids. Her hands were the talons found on birds of prey, grabbing on his shoulders, pinning his hands if need be, crooked nails digging into his flesh at his every twitch as punishment. Her torso sucked in like a wasps, and the extremities were sticklike, as his was at the time, and bent at angles like the limbs of a black widow. Looking upon her sucked in form, the fragment of a thought crossed his mind. The punishment for eating. The inability to eat more than what would keep him functioning so he wouldn't gain a single ounce of fat that she so despised. He was still hungry. So hungry. Another though: if he did this then maybe she'll feed him more. But he was drowning. Drowning in her breath that smelled so much like road kill. The very presence of her was drowning him. Why did it change today? Why couldn't she be his mother, the one who starved him instead of the one he had now?

And as she slept, he got out of bed and quickly dressed, rushing to the outside world, drowning in the fresh air outside and in the silence of everything. He rushed through road after road, only to find there was no one out there for him to hide with. They all knew him as the son of the Black Widow, the damned witch no one trusted with children, and a dealer in curses and talismans, friend of the Baron of Death, the poisoner of nobles, whose daughter was courting some off the wall man. But he wasn't aware of it. All he knew was he was left in the street. Not even the fellow beggar would spare him even the slightest scrap of food. He sat on a street corner, getting spar on by the passerby. Another thought came: his mother was the only one who loved him. The only one who will ever love him.

He was hungry. So hungry. She didn't feed him enough but still, he wanted the food. Besides, she was the only one who loved him in this ugly world. She loved him. She loved him.

A figure dipped in the reflection, a distortion in the storyline. Instead of the young boy and his mother, it was the boy who was now a man and his daughter, the tale told from the eyes of the child. The overwhelming pain and feeling of being ripped apart physically and mentally, the feeling of her throat tearing as she screamed. The feeling of being torn apart and sewn back together just to be torn apart again. The hope that this time will be the last though knowing all the while that it wasn't. That damn vicious cycle The face as wide as distorted as grandmother's was. Being forced to watch as the horrid meeting went on through the mirror. And after the memories of it over and over, the final pain of skin being seared off her face just so she could stop the cycle.

…Her face and clothes were soaked, tears and soap running off her face, but she didn't know whose tears they were. She wanted to stand, but suddenly everything down there was stinging in pain, reliving the cycle again. Her skin seemed to be bubbling as though she had poured the acid on herself once again. She felt it all over again all at once… She raised her face and looked into his, seeing the pain and shame she was sure only she knew.

"Tell me…" She said. "Tell me… Father. What would you have done if I was born a male?"

The strange fruit, the monster, the victim, the bio-engineering extraordinaire, Chikou, her father moaned to himself, lamenting the same way he did at her birth. He took his hand away from hers and moved it towards his genitalia and prodding here he perceived was welts and bleeding tears as though he was the one violated, forced open, pried to destruction. He moaned, "It hurts, it hurts, make it stop, it hurts…"

"No. I really want to know." Mukuro stood, feeling the same pain down below. She put a hand on his chest knowing his attention was back on her. "What would you do if I was your son? And my mother never lived passed my birth?"

"Easy. I would have trained you and we could run this empire together."

"And if she lived?"

"Still that."

"What if she never died giving birth to me as I am now?"

"You would have been her princess. She would have made you into the proper nobleman's daughter you should have been, She would have rather had a girl for that purpose. You would have been a beautiful doll like you were when you were my baby. And you would have married the best man around, I would have made sure of it. I would have seen you off. But… All I ever wanted was your mother… and our son."

"But you had me. You wanted to replace her. So I was wife and daughter to you at the same time."

There was a long silence.

"She would have been disappointed in you. How you turned out. You trying to be a man and still doing it when it's not needed of you anymore. Your gestures and language are rough. You even move like a man."

Mukuro stepped away, shaking her head. "She would have been disappointed in you. You for doing this to me, you for forcing me to have to live like this. You who took the one who she loved, and she didn't love you at all and never did, and turned me into an object. But… Even so, I have no doubt she would have hated me for being this way anyway, no matter the circumstances. But you know, I don't know what it's like to be a woman. I never did."

"Suki… She shouldn't have left us… But she died… laughing. Maybe she knew what we were going to become. Maybe she was glad to be apart from us…"

"You shouldn't have let her take over your life. You should have taken her place as my father and mother both, as it should have been. And then… I would have been what she wanted me to be. I would have been that woman…"

"It really would have been a beautiful life, wouldn't it?"

Mukuro shut her eyes and drew the memory of her mother's face for the first time. "Yeah. We would have been in better shape. Happier. Everyone." She turned around and walked behind him, the strange fruit. She stabbed him in the back of the head, watching as the sapling blood leaked out, deflating him completely. "But you know… I still can't forgive you. Twenty years was nowhere near enough for you."

The deflated body shriveled to nothing more than empty branches. She thought of tossing it right then and there, but she decided to let it rot as his would in hell.

She thought to herself, It would have been a beautiful life, yes. Easier. But… These things do happen for a reason right? Mother…

Mother, you were a bitch.

She shut her eyes and replayed the memory of her mother, Suki, dying at her birth, the laughter breaking her face into a wide smile. Over and over… In a senseless cycle.

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