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There had been a time (a long time) during which Kaneki slept. It wasn’t a true sleep (dreamless, deep, the way he wanted it to be). He dosed, finding himself kicked awake in restless fits.
He had been shards of glass. Things like that were not easily put back together. Broken things belonged to oblivion.
If he wasn’t there, was he not broken?
Kaneki wasn’t fond of that idea. It meant that he wasn’t finished yet. There were things…left to him…
They glimmered (faintly, barely existing) like fish in filthy water. He didn’t want them (a promise, his hands carding through short brown hair, blood, battles, the hopes of a thousand other people). His responsibilities had been laid to rest with his body.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, his bones a twisted metal cage, held together by grime and rust…
Each time he woke, he felt something bearing down on his shoulders. He tried to shift the weight (his hands pressing down on the shoulders of another), however it always returned. It grew heavier, agitating him into wakefulness, and driving him into memories (accompanied by printed words on paper...’your parents have failed in raising you’).
It irritated him.
Then, he had finally been prodded and choked (the overwhelming weight on his shoulders choosing instead to hang around his neck and chest) long enough. He was awake. He was awake, but he didn’t want to let go of the silence. If he couldn’t have peace, he would keep the empty stillness of death.
He did not think.
Awake or asleep: the only difference was the movement of his body. Kaneki moved only to chase away the words that had woken him. He’d cull the source of the crushing weight that kept him up and moving.
If there were no more mothers, perhaps he would never be born again.
He hoped that was true.
It was in this stillness, a hollow existence (…), that he gathered strength and forces. He had a partner. He had a squad. He had the scent of the one who hunted him and he was going to shut his jaws and make her…
Bleed…
Red (apples, kagune, gifts, his hand) blood dripping down his throat until he was finally sated enough to do what he was always meant to. He would finally set down this heavy burden.
Kaneki hunted day and night, gathering information and slinking through the streets. He garnered enough attention that other investigators whispered warnings to him. They said he was going to get hurt.
He never was.
He killed the people who came for him, however there were fewer than expected. He no longer wore the mask that should scare them all away. Unnatural (massive) shadows would flirt along his peripherals from time to time, accompanying the scent of blood, humans, and desperation.
Furuta would look at him expectantly, his fox-like face alight with an expression of,
“Now, isn’t that interesting? Shouldn’t we investigate?”
And Kaneki would simply…not. The figure in the shadows bore a weight of his own (his cross) and Kaneki would not carry it.
He had killed that man.
That was the only thing he was willing to believe.
He would not consider the alternative.
He would not be seen like this.
(Flickers in the muddy waters of his memories – the three fingered man rescuing the girl he had considered a daughter – names exchanged in the heat of battle – a shared mindset – hope for a future that would never be)
He didn’t want anything to wake him up.