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It's one of those days.
Nanachi knows it before she gets out of bed, before she even opens her eyes, really. It's evident in the way her body seems stuck to the bed, leaden and sluggish as though it weighs thousands of pounds; in how the little hut she calls home looks so much darker and gloomier than it should, even while bathed in the bright light of the morning sun.
These are the kinds of days where her last shreds of optimism fail her and everything becomes bleak and pointless; when she just wants to give in to the exhaustion once and for all, bury herself in her blankets and stay there until death finally claims her, without a care in the world about how Mitty would fare without her.
Heaving a deep sigh, she buries her face in the mattress. Oh, Mitty. Worst of all on these dismal days is the longing. That ever-present, familiar pain amplified tenfold, growing into something unbearable, like a physical hollow inside her chest, echoing with the vacancy of Mitty. Her one and only treasure, cruelly stolen away from her.
As if on cue, there comes the telltale sound of Mitty slowly making her way toward her, spewing those pitiful mewls that make Nanachi wince, stomach churning with something sick and rotten. Not now , she thinks, pulling the blankets over herself and pressing her deformed hands over her ears hard. Please not now.
Just like every other morning, Mitty begins her clumsy ascent onto the mattress. Nanachi doesn’t let her get far though; before she is even halfway up she nudges her off with her foot. Pretty heartless, but it's one of those days, what can she do?
Of course, this does nothing to deter the other; she gives off a squeak of distress, then starts back up. It’s really nothing out of the ordinary, yet it has Nanchi’s frustration mounting dangerously. “Mitty.. I’m not in the mood” Comes her reedy voice in complaint, muffled under all the blankets. An entirely pointless effort—of course there's no acknowledgement from Mitty. No surprise there, there never is. Nowadays, speaking is moreso something Nanachi does just so she won't forget how to, something to keep the silence at bay. Or perhaps a last ditch effort to cling onto her last shreds of humanity.
Again and again, Nanachi thwarts her continuous, spirited attempts at getting on the bed, and Mitty goes on and on. On and on. No matter how many times she is pushed off, she climbs back up, clambers over her, whining loudly in her face. By that time, Nanachi is hiding, really hiding from her, breathing hard and fast under the blankets as though the deformed creature on top of her is some sort of horrible monster. As though they aren't the same .
Mitty whines and whines and Nanachi is compulsorily reminded—not for the first time—of the desperate wailing she had heard on that day, as they ascended in those cursed elevators together, as she was forced to watch Mitty swell and bubble and melt into a mindless heap of flesh in front of her.
The real Mitty and this thing look nothing alike, but that horrible, cursed crying , it's the exact same. The choked, high pitched gurgle that haunts her every night, the sound she can’t seem to escape even in her dreams.
She can't bear it.
The next time Mitty squeaks she kicks her off with enough force to feel something in her soft body give way under her foot and break, and hears the hard thud of her landing on the floor beside the bed.
Even so, she doesn’t let up, continues to cry and squeak until Nanachi thinks she will go mad. ”Shut up . Be quiet ” She calls out desperately, with such poison in her voice that she would be ashamed if she wasn't already so used to it.
Another loud yip from Mitty and Nanachi is out of the bed and over her before she knows it, before she can stop herself. Not that she thinks she even would. It's one of those days.
Mitty lays in a sad heap on the floor as Nanachi straddles her disfigured form, pinning her down with her weight. “ Shut up.” She spits through gritted teeth, “Shut up ” between the heavy thuds of the punches now raining down on that malleable, pink body. Again and again, her misshapen fists collide with soft flesh, and Mitty only writhes helplessly below her, cries and cries in that voice that she thinks won’t ever leave her.
“Shu-” Nanachi breaks off in a string of hacky sobs that make her entire small frame shudder, wiping her face frantically. The tears are leaving dark streaks on her furry cheeks as they stream down her face, before dripping down her chin and into that familiar red eye below her. The eye that serves no purpose other than reminding her of what she had lost. The treasure that had been taken from her and that she would never get back.
It has her breaths coming in quick, shaky. “Stop–” She croaks despairingly, pleads , hiding her face behind her hands. “Stop staring at me like that” Any attempt to sound stern is rendered futile by the wavering in her voice, the way her words break pathetically into shuddering hiccups. She can't bear it. It's too much.
Nanachi is never proud of it, the things she does when she is like this. Everything about it is filthy. Ugly, monstrous, disgusting—the high pitched sound Mitty makes when Nanachi finally digs her fingers into her face, claws burying into the soft flesh around her lone eye; the feeling of the meat giving way under her fingers, of Mitty's body quaking below her; the sight of pink flesh being clawed into red, wet strips, of her eye being mushed into a disgusting goo.
It’s the kind of thing that requires no thought—her hands end up where they always do, that groove of flesh, the space on her deformed body that most resembles the twisted remnants of a neck. Trembling hands press down hard, as though she thinks it will accomplish anything, knowing full well that it won’t. Really, it's just routine at this point.
Through teary eyes, everything dissolves into an all too familiar blur of pink and red that she has come to despise so deeply. It's horrible how easy the words leave her mouth at this point, those ragged, torn up bits of speech, barely audible between her heaving sobs. “Why won't you just die already” Nanachi can't even pretend she's surprised by her own cruelty anymore. This is a regular occurrence after all, routine. She's long since grown used to the sour taste the words leave in her mouth.
It does nothing to actually make her feel better, taking her frustrations out on Mitty like this, never does.
But she will continue to do it regardless. Hit and hit until those high pitched yips and whimpers quiet down and she is certain that if Mitty was a regular being, she would be dead; claw at her until there's nothing recognizable left of her . Of the real Mitty. Because she doesn't want it anymore. Because it's no use.
And when she is done, wiping her bloodied hands on her clothes, already stained dark from all the uncountable times previous, she drags her heavy body back to bed and burrows deep. Nothing has changed. A few moments pass and eventually Mitty begins breathing again, in raspy, wet hacks.
Nanachi sighs wearily, pulls the blanket over her head once again. Yes, it's all the same. Just as usual, Mitty will heal up, eventually begin whining for her attention once again. The only evidence that anything had happened at all will be the wounds, which in time will heal as well.
Just as usual, Nanachi will calm back down, return to her studies, make a meal, eat it, go to sleep—silently resigning herself and returning to that endless cycle that she had long since given up the hope of ever leaving. At night she will dream of Mitty crying for her, and in the morning that crying will be what wakes her up. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. It’s routine.