danganronpa_alumni | [Fic] That's Just Life

That's Just Life (1312 words) by LockpickingLiar

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Characters: Ouma Kokichi
Additional Tags: Pre-Game Personalities, Character Study, Hurt No Comfort, Depression, Introspective, Suicidal Thoughts, Emotionally Repressed, Angst, Descriptions of Canon Typical Gore

He felt a lot, really. You wouldn't be able to tell by looking at him or talking to him or interacting with him in any way, but he did. Even if there was no reason for him to feel as much as he did. Even if he was left longing for something to happen to externalize how much he felt. Justify it. Make it make sense. He felt a lot. He did.

Honest.

It was a day like any other.

Which is to say, it was dreadfully dull. The train station was busy, and he faded into the masses like any other student on their way home. The yellow line on the platform barely grazed the toe of his shoe as he only half-listened to the boy prattling on beside him the way he always did. It was what—one, maybe two long strides to the edge from here? He wondered what kind of spectacle it would make to jump. Surely, the mere shock would cause a ruckus, what with the blood and viscera that would splatter everywhere...

But would anyone care beyond that?

The crowd pushed him forward, and it registered that the train had arrived with his thoughts a step or two behind. He wordlessly followed the flow of traffic, taking a seat beside the still-chattering boy—did he ever shut up?—and tucking his bag into his lap. Another dull commute, like any other. The train jolted as it pulled away. He faded into the compact mass of people in the car with him and his thoughts started to drift. He looked to his side, at the boy to his left.

What did he see in him? Did he even notice when he prattled on and on with no response? It was the same drudgery over and over again, some such nonsense about that show. Even when it had been nearly a week since the last episode, he still somehow found something to say. He didn't really bother thinking much into it. Why should he? It was all pretty straight-forward to him.

What good was any of this? What has he even doing? It's not as though it amounted to much. It didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, so why bother? Why was he trying? No one would look at him. No one would care. He was just as dull as anyone else. A splat on the pavement would incite some panic, but ultimately when the ugly mess was washed away, who would still be there to mourn him?

His stomach twisted at the thought of a death like that.

He was tired. It was one of those days, he decided, where he would take a nap and "miss" his stop. It was a valid excuse. It's not as though anyone at home would think much of it. He wondered if his chatterbox of a companion ever noticed when he did that. His stop was presumably much farther along, after all. No matter what stop he got off at, the other was still there. How far down the line did he live? He never really bothered to ask.

If he just stayed on the train, would the other as well? Was he following him? He was already weirdly fond of him, it seemed, likely because he was one of the only people who entertained his obsessive rambling. It wasn't unheard of for the more intense fans of that show to be absolute creeps. He wasn't sure how to feel about that. It certainly wouldn't be good, but...

His stop passed them by. The boy didn't seem to notice.

Something twisted in his stomach that he couldn't quite explain.

It was a sick sort of wishful thinking. Day after day after day, nothing amounted to much of anything in his life. It was hardly anything to complain about, so why did he feel like he wished he could? Why would he wish for something to complain about? A stalker? Was he nuts? It's not as if he wanted to die...

The image of blood and viscera spattered across the train tracks drifted back into his mind.

No, he didn't want to die, per se, but it would be nice if someone cared if he lived or died, wouldn't it? Who would be there to mourn a nobody like him, who simply did his schoolwork and kept his head down? More than anything, it would be nice to be special in some way. For someone to care about how he felt. How desperate did he have to be to fantasize about having a stalker? He glanced warily at the boy beside him, who paid him no mind in his own little world.

His skin crawled and he felt a burning behind his nose.

A second stop came and went, then a third. He sighed, leaning his head back against the window to rest his eyes. It would be a long walk home at this rate. It might get dark before he got there. He wondered what lurked in the alleys along the way. Maybe if he waited long enough, he'd be followed home, or jumped, or some myriad other horrible, horrible things.

He couldn't help it. The thought of something terrible happening enticed him in some messed up, cathartic way. Would it be worth it? To have an excuse to feel all the feelings he seemed to be harboring anyway? Maybe if a good reason knocked him down, it would knock his emotions back into place and he wouldn't feel so off-kilter all the time.

There was no reason to feel this seemingly endless pit in his chest, this nonexistent stutter in his lungs that felt like it should be there but wasn't. He was okay. He was fine. There wasn't any particularly awful thing going on in his life to warrant these sorts of feelings. He woke up, went to school, was ignored, went home, did his homework, and went to bed. His grades were all fine, so his parents didn't care much. The only thing to break up his days of monotony was the new episode of a particular show every Saturday.

A show he didn't even like all that much, truth be told.

Or more like, he didn't like the fans of it. Given the permanent nature of death, it frankly made him sick to his stomach to see the way people would objectify the contestants on the forums he moderated. He wondered absently if his companion was such a fan. He certainly talked like one at times, admiring the handiwork of the Blackened and the details of their inevitable execution. He wondered if he was the type to sign up just for the thrill of the game. He'd seen a few people like that online.

He banned one, once, for having the gall to think the antagonist this season was one-note.

It's not like it mattered much, but something about antagonist discourse just really got under his skin. There was a correct way to go about it, and he was confident in that, even if he couldn't care less about the rest of the show. They kept things interesting, often at their own expense, always leaving a lasting impression on their season. He often wondered what types of people must have signed up to become so memorable.

He wondered if he might be memorable like that, if he signed up. Would he leave an impression? Would the rest of the cast care if he died?

How many stops had it been now? He lost count. There was no way the other boy hadn't noticed, and yet he hadn't said a word about it. He couldn't explain why, but the realization made his nose burn every time. He tried not to think about it too much.

Now would be as good a time as any to depart. He stood when the train slowed at the next station, giving little more than a brief wave to his companion. It was a long walk ahead, only getting longer with each stop he missed. He could always just hop on the opposite train, but...

Maybe something would happen to him. Maybe if he came home ragged and exhausted, his parents might notice and say something. Maybe someone, anyone, might notice.

Who knows?