Maybe it was the mild, sweet smell of flowers, the earthy scent of the dirt, running your hand over the patches of moss that grew on the walls. Viane would tell you about each flower and their properties, pale fingers entwined with branches and string, making little flower crowns for everyone. How Viane smiled and her cheeks would flush, the very definition of innocence, her entire demeanor from her large, teal eyes to how small and delicate she was, fragile, limps lithe and unscathed due to the seclusion of her early years. She’d rescue those poor wounded animals on the side of roads and nurse them back to health. She’d stand on her tiptoes, ever hopeful, like a bird, ready to take flight. (And like a bird she was shot down, her body collapsing onto the rickety pavement as shrill shrieks echoed in the air.

The smell of blood hitting your nose as her face contorted into a look of pain, horror, and the life left her eyes leaving the rest of you will a weak, child’s corpse. She looked like a dying doe, curled in on herself, hand clasping the bullet wound in her chest. It seemed so sudden, so quick, and you watched her beloved plants dry out and die despite all the times you tried to water them and keep them alive.) Maybe it was the sound of rustling paper, the familiarity of it all, the smell of domestic homelife to give them the illusion of normality, to pretend like the world wasn’t the twisted mess it was. Evergen, the girl with the most simple habits like playing with her red hair and tapping her foot when inpatient, the little satisfactory hum of approval whenever you made a logical plan for an attack. She’d slash her blade through her enemies’ neck with her knife, or deliver the killing blow with a gun, depending on how much she deemed them worthy of a painless death.

She’d come back from her meeting with a packet of mints she stole from the reception desks office, a small smile on her usually monotoned, aloof face. Despite it all, she was strong, no doubt, and the pillar and leader among them. (Funny how the strongest was the second one to be taken down, dying an honorable way, shoving her friend out of the way as the bullet lodged itself in her forehead, and if that wasn’t horrible enough, having to live another 2 days, the hospital filled with the sound of wheezy breaths and sobs. She seemed so blank and pale on that white bedsheet, her bright red hair turning dull and dusty, eyes cloudy and red. The sound of the monitor beeping, announcing her death like a school bell.)

Maybe it was the drawings strung up, how they fluttered in the breeze, like colors dancing in the wind. The rapid flicking of Coral’s wrist as she sat and quickly sketched whatever she found interesting, or at least not “mundane”. How she’d visit her sister’s grave every week with a small bouquet of buttercup flowers. The little condescending sigh and her pragmatic, unenthusiastic and teasing personality that seemed to be a genetic lottery win against the direct opposite personalities of the 3 idiots. She seemed to live life quickly, finish a drawing, string it up, repeat. Yet every one seemed to be different. (Quickly she was killed, the crunch of her bones as the car rammed into her side, no scream, nothing to even prove she was the same girl who ran up a hill only to find her sister’s grave destroyed.

The zombie, lifeless walk down the hill, eyes transfixed on the distance as she stepped directly out onto the road, gave you one last empty glance as the car killed her, splattering the bright red blood onto the road. When you walked by it, you still saw the patches of dried up blood nobody bothered to clean up.) Maybe it was the smell of homemade cooking, the gentle clatter of a knife running through some leftovers and the sizzle of a stove. How she’d sometimes slip and refer to herself as Sukichi 23 accidentally. Or maybe it was the swing of a blade and the way the cloth dummy split in half during training. Such delicate hands made for both swinging a katana and brushing away dust on windowsills, it seemed so like her. Dusk’s eyes were set on the horizon, and how she balanced her workload with looking after them with her school life was a mystery to you. She was the next in line, if Evergen were to leave, she’d be the leader. She’d take over the role. Dusk has such a bright future ahead of her.

(The bright light in her eyes dimmed as the metal pole entered her chest, sticking out of her back in such a gruesome way you heard the people around her scream, retch, and gasp. You hate it. The slinking shadows of the walls curl in as if to take Dusk’s frail, cold, dead body into the abyss. And the only thing keeping them from doing so is Hazel’s flung out arms, his wails as he hugs her body to his chest. It’s almost comical how small he is compared to her, and almost upsetting how many times you’ve seen this.) Maybe it was the color of cedarwood, scraps of it flying away in the breeze as Hazel tries to carve something out of the bright red block. The smell of rain and burnt coal that followed behind him like a cape. The way he impulsively tapped his fingers on the table or maybe the way he’d stare at blank space for hours on end. He’d climb up trees and spend hours explaining the properties of each type of wood, and you’d lay there and watch because seeing him happy made everyone else happy.

Maybe it was how his cowardly, self-deprecating, yet emotional personality that was his main defining trait. How, despite being the most cowardly, he also seemed to be the bravest. (Yet he said he took the cowards way out, the sight of his friend’s corpses becoming too much for him, on the day you walked into his room to the smell of chemicals, blood, and the sickly medicinal scent of pills. Pills scattered across the floor like teal and pink petals on a grassy lawn, but instead of lawn, was a painfully white bathroom tile floor. He was splayed there, a mixture of teal and neon red dripping out of his slightly agape mouth with dried tears on his stained cheeks. You didn’t notice how he’d changed, how would you have noticed? You never notice anything nowadays.)

Maybe it was the excited chatter that came out of Breeze’s mouth as he explained every star in the sky. The mishmash of purple he wore like a badge, the constant ache in your muscles after every training session. How he refused to actually wear the faded blue jacket around his waist and how he insisted it stay there for the “aesthetic”, Breeze would fish things out of the drain and make tiny, miniature models of space crafts, decorating his walls with stars and how he’d motivate others and believe in anything, urban legends of the zodiac, ghosts, others, maybe it was how much he trusted others and believed in them that made him such a passionate, wonderful person. (Alas, his downfall, stabbed in the back by the woman he despises the most. The blade sticking out of him, staining his shirt a dirty red, and he spent the last hour of his life struggling for air and coughing up blood in a dirty alleyway. There wasn’t anything you two could do.

Maybe you wished he died quickly, you wouldn’t have to see the boy cry and give one last motivational speech as the life bled out of him. When they mourned the previous 6, he spoke about how they’d turned into stars in the night sky. When you looked up on the night of his death, nothing was there. Nothing but inky darkness.) Maybe it was the constant laugher and “I’m kidding! It was just a joke!” that came out of Lance’s mouth. How childish and immature he was, that when you took a deeper look maybe meant something more. Maybe it was the array of colorful bandaids that dotted his arms and bruised legs, the absurd things he did and the risks he took just for fun. Constant recklessness which you’ve come to associate with the smell of coke, fast-food grease, and cinnamon. He came home every day with a different bruise on his arms or face and none of you really knew how they got there, all you knew that is he would whine, scream, and complain every time Dusk tried to clean his wounds.

(Wounded he was, bleeding out on a bathroom floor, barely gasping for breath. A letter, that for some reason, had a message for every single member of the group despite the fact only you were left. When you carried his limp, broken body to the hospital, he looked so small on that hospital bed, he looked 10, or maybe 11. He was just a child. There were signs, cracks in the wall, bloody knuckles, the sound of wheezy breathing and angry screams at night, when you wandered around the broken alleyway in a sleepy insomniac haze you’d see his shadow hunched over. He was lonely, wasn’t he? He was alone and now so are you.) Your name is Paradox, this is the 13th time you’ve seen their deaths. And when you fell into that deep sleep and heard the echo of that despicable mastermind’s voice, you swore to god it would be the last. You slam the reset button down and wake up in your bed on November 18th for the 14th time.

IM CRYGHGRHVHJBFING I LOVE U I SPENT SO LONG ON THIS ANHCNDFHI THINK IT TURNED OUT OK????? IDK I WANTED TO WRITE ANGST GAHSGHEGHAG IM SO GLAD U LIKE IT I LOVE U

AGVHFEHBDFBHFGVHFJTHANKS IHVFJ💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙