one of a kind

[Maraoone]

((Erika.))

"Where are—"

Yuka opened her eyes, gasped, the air stabbed from within.

She was laid on the floor, face-first, the hallway ahead of her was choked with sawdust, shards of wood displaced from gashes in the wall. It had been so loud earlier, so chaotic. There had been people, and now there weren't.

There had been Erika, and now there wasn't.

Her arms, tremulous, tried pushing up, but she fell; the floor beneath was slippery, cold, even though the air itself felt feverish. Everything was coated in this hellish orange glow, as if the world itself was burning up. She tried pushing herself up again, succeeded. She stood slowly, hesitantly, and looked down.

Even in this burnt light, the crimson red that soaked through her shirt, skirt, was unmistakable. Every time she inhaled, every time her stomach drew in a little, waves of pain went through her, she almost collapsed.

But, Erika had been here just earlier, so she had to be near. She had been here one second, and she was gone the next, so she had to be close by, right?

"Come on, you fucker, where are you?" she said to herself. The words came out hoarse, half-voiced, they were unrecognizable.

With effort, she removed the bag slung across her shoulder, and it fell to the floor with a hollow thud.

"E-Erika."

And she moved towards the hallways, each shaky step marked by more than a few drops of blood.

"Where are you?"

The walls went past her, inch by inch, mile by mile, and her voice, weak and ragged, somehow projected along these miles.

"Erika, you fucker, come out now."

As the living room came into view, she recognized a few white squares on the floor, her teeth, but no knife, no weapon.

"I-it's not fair, you do- you don't get to take so much from me—"

She doubled over and coughed, braced herself against the wall. The world went black for a few seconds, there were red spatters on the floor when it came back.

"You don't get to- get to fucking do that and leave without a fucking word. Where are you, Erika?"

Her steps went slower as she went into the living room, without a wall to lean on. She could see out the door, and she saw the cul-de-sac the house was in abandoned, ruined, coated too in the burnt light. Quiet, empty.

"Come on, we can just, we can just talk this out, eh? Just- just have some words, as long as you come out."

Among the sun-dried dirt paths that intertwined between these houses, there were trails of footsteps sourced from this place, settled, established. Yuka made an attempt to follow, but she bent wrong, somehow, the pain became debilitating.

"Or, you don't even have to speak, Erika. You don't have to speak, we can settle this."

She held onto the doorframe with her good hand, now, relied on it. She leaned out and swung left, right, eyes flitting wildly, trying but failing to gain another glimpse of Erika. She had to be here, she had to be, because if she wasn't, if she'd disappeared, slipped from her grasp again, then—

"We can settle this, as long as you give me back my sister."

Her nails curled into the wood.

"Give me back my sister, Erika. Give her back, please."

Her fist slammed against the doorframe.

"Where the fuck are you, Erika? Just GIVE ME—"

thud

"—BACK—"

thud

"—MY SISTER. GIVE HER—"

thud

"—BACK, GIVE HER BACK GIVE HER BACK GIVE HER BACK—"

thudthudthudthudthud




Yuka remained doubled over for a while, barely hanging onto the frame, panting, weeping, bleeding. Wasted air, wasted water, wasted blood.

She was gone. And, that was, that was— well, it wasn't okay, not at all, but, there'd be another time, right? There had to be another time.

She was just slightly wounded, Yuka told herself as she walked back those long, stretched-out miles, she would be fine. She just had to patch herself up, recuperate a bit, and then she would find Erika again. She would find Erika again, she would find Katrina again, she would find Michael and Nick and his friend again, and she would pay them back doubly, and there would be an 'again' to speak of.

The bed creaked as Yuka lowered herself gingerly onto it. She wanted to throw herself onto the bed, grant herself rest as soon as possible, but it felt dangerous doing that. After a few seconds spent summoning willpower, she bent over, pushed through the pain, and lifted her bag. It felt both heavier and lighter, somehow. She guided her hand towards the zipper, and

The bag was open already, she realized.

She blinked a few times. Guided her hand into the box. There were water bottles, round tins, stale loaves of bread, clothes, the salt gun, her makeup bag. But, nothing square and metal.

Huh.

She brought the bag onto her lap, ran her hand through it one more time. This happened sometimes, usually when she was looking for her lipstick or mascara, she'd feel for it, there'd be no sign of it, but it'd be there, hiding in some corner, and that was what was happening now, right? Water bottles, cracker tins, bread, makeup bag, clothes, water bottles, cracker tins, bread, makeup bag, clothes, the salt gun, where is it?

The contents were dumped out onto the bed, the bag shook upside-down until there was not a single speck of matter left. And, no green metal box.

No first-aid kit.

She left her with food, water, but no medical supplies.

Erika had taken so much from her so mindlessly, so carelessly. And now, now, she'd take her life, and she wouldn't even be there for it.

Yuka leaned back into the bed and made a scratchy, high-pitched noise, haltingly, in fits. Laughter, sobbing, somewhere in between.



I'm gonna die here.



She allowed herself a minute alone with that thought. Let it echo, reverberate.

When that had passed, she pushed herself up from the bed, arms trembling, noises occasionally escaping from her throat. It took seconds longer than usual, she felt so depleted. But she managed. She stayed upright, swaying even while sitting.

Everything she had left was scattered on the bed before her, among her. There was the beginning of something resembling panic when she didn't immediately spot the chartreuse bag, but she recognized the lump under Yuko's pastel shirt. She laid the damp shirt down on a side table, careful to hold it with clean, bloodless fingers. That still felt important, after all this time. Yuki's necklace went on top of the shirt, placed there with the same fingers.

Under the shirt was the bag. And, after a few seconds of digging around the bag, she found a mirror. She let out a small puff of air, mild surprise. She thought she'd left it behind at the hotel. She held the mirror between her left thumb and palm, leaning it back against the stumps of her fingers. It hurt, but so did everything, it was hard to distinguish from the baseline of hurt that had been established. The glass surface of the mirror was cracked, for the most part, but, despite the dimming twilight, she saw enough of herself in the multiple angled reflections that she could work with it.

Her cheeks jutted slightly more than they had before, her round face gaining edges. Her eyes were puffy, bloodshot. Her hair was frizzy, unkempt, strands poking out from the French braid, black roots peeking out from beneath the chartreuse. There was a trail of blood from between her lips, where Garnet had hit her. There was a brief flare of anger, she saw her nostrils flare, but it dissipated. There was no point anymore. She bared her teeth, there were gaps near the middle. She'd keep the blood. It added to her look. The make-up, the chartreuse eyeshadow, the mascara, black lipstick, foundation, had long ago been washed off by the rain and sweat. Before she'd started using it, people had mixed up her and Yuki daily.

Even in the mirror, she couldn't escape her sister.

Usually, the first thing she reached for was the primer, so the makeup wouldn't melt within the hour, but she didn't have that much time or energy. So, she retrieved her brush and applied a healthy layer of foundation. That was, well, the foundation of any good pastel look. It provided a nice pale canvas to make colors pop, made her skin look smooth, unblemished, Porcelain-like. It was good practice to apply powder after, but that had been in her luggage, probably locked away in some storage facility now. She wondered if they just threw it away, or if they used it themselves. She hoped it was infected, somehow, if they did. Applying the foundation was easy enough, she just needed to apply it evenly all over her face, there was not much care needed. Her unsteady hand could do the job. Avoiding the trail of blood below her mouth would be awkward, but it also added to the look, so it would be fine.

Next came the eyes. The primer was needed more here, to help smooth things out. She applied that over an area that stretched from her eyelids to her eyebrows. And then the part she'd been looking forward to, the eye shadow. The previous days of rain had soaked through all her belongings, she'd been worried that her eyeliner wouldn't be the only casualty, but the palette appeared to be fine. It was a bit damp, sure, but it was one of those palettes that worked better with water. Small blessings. From the brow bone to the eyebrow itself, she went from white to light green to grass to forest green, blending as she went. This, too, didn't require precision, another blessing. The only significant hindrance so far was the mirror and how it was awkwardly positioned in her hand, how she had to tilt her face to meet her own reflection.

She drew over the eyelids themselves with black eye pencil, blended it with her finger to soften it up. Over that, she added a layer of black eye shadow, softened the edges with her fingers to allow for a nice transition. It was always the striking contrast between dark and neon colors that had allured Yuka to this kind of look. It was striking, attention-grabbing, unique.

It was her.

Between the black and the light green, she added some dark green eye shadow, a transitional color. And then that was that for the eyelids. A beautiful, vibrant ombre that framed her eyes, made her look wide-eyed. Alive. It could've used some retouching, some more blending to make the transitions between colors less abrupt, but it was good enough. It served its purpose.

And then there was the eyeliner and mascara. Difficult even in the best of times. But, having a sharp, well-defined border between her eyes and the eye shadow really brought out the look. The chartreuse eyeliner had been wasted days ago. She still saw its stains in the makeup bag. So, she had to use her black liner instead. Unscrewing the sharp-tipped brush from its container had been an ordeal that required positioning the container between her legs and the bed, twisting it with one hand. It felt tight, oddly. Like unscrewing a jar. It had always been so easy before. But, she got it out anyways. She brought it to the edge of her eyelid to waterline and

"Fuck!"

She jerked the brush away from her face, her right eye squeezed shut. Tears leaked, bringing some of the eye shadow and eye liner with them. Her left eye saw a dark, muddy streak form across her cheek, marring her work.

Her chest shook. She curled her fingers inward, the nails indenting. In her hand, the brush snapped in two.

Deep breaths, deep breaths.

It was fine, it was fine. Nothing a little foundation couldn't fix. The liner was a goner, but who needed it anyways? She didn't need to make a Youtube-ready look like Roxie, she just needed a look. Any look.

She dabbed the tears away with a pillow cover, put some foundation over the streak. The eyes would be incomplete, the brows would be left blank, but the ombre was there already, it was mostly okay. And, with the lips, she'd been hoping for some green-black gradient there anyways, but maybe that was too much, yeah? A simple application of chartreuse would be enough.

And, when it was done, it was done. The sun was mostly down already, she was left with only the last few rays of sunlight, but they were enough to see her reflection. The foundation gave off an eerie glow in the semidarkness. There was an awkward portion below her lips that was less pale than the rest of her face, where the blood streak was, but that was for the best, she didn't want blood smeared all over her face. It looked oddly cakey, as in she could scrape off an inch of cosmetics with her fingernail if she tried, but that was fine. It would've looked better with blush, highlight, general contouring, but who needed that? Her eyes, despite the five different colors she'd applied there, still looked oddly subdued without the eyeliner and mascara. The lips were plain.

It was an approximation, in short. An approximation of her usual look, usual self. But that was fine. An approximation was the best she could ask for. The only thing she could ask for.

She still looked like herself, in the end. That was the goal.

The barest victory, the hollowest victory.

She'd still expected more the first time she planned her death.

Her sisters were her happiness. They were gone now. Her friends were her happiness. They were gone too, or going. Before all this, life without her sisters had been unimaginable, as in, something she was unable to imagine. It was still unimaginable now, as in, something she refused to imagine.

Her sisters were inescapable now. The thought of them made her sick. There was a constant slime clogging the back of her throat, a constant film of saliva coating the back of her teeth. She hadn't felt the urge to eat ever since Yuki died, despite the constant hole inside her, figurative and literal. They made her sick, and yet she couldn't stop thinking of them.

She remembered she had a mom and dad at home, a mom and dad who loved her a lot, she supposed. Their final child was dying, and she felt bad for inflicting that sort of pain onto them. But, her happiness had been her everything, and now it was gone. Her sisters would never, ever leave her. The first night she'd slept alone had been painful. The thought of getting home to two beds that would never be occupied killed her. There was no point in continuing.

She'd planned on dying, but, she'd just hoped to bring a few others with her. Ensure that those that had taken away Yuki and Yuko from her wouldn't make it out of here too. It was what Yuki and Yuko deserved, she guessed. But she hadn't managed that. She hadn't managed to avenge her sisters, she hadn't managed to protect her sisters, she hadn't even managed to meet Yuko.

She thought, briefly, of shattering the mirror, cutting her wrist open with the shards. Taking the kill away from Erika, managing at least that. She even tried bouncing the mirror against the table next to her. Once, twice-

Her grip slipped, it fell on the floor, meters away. Out of reach.

Figures.

But, hey, she had some make-up on, so everything was alright, right? At least she had that? At least she looked like herself?

The transformative power of make-up.

Roxie had always talked about that. It was funny that, after taking her life, she only thought of her again when she too was dying. Rhyming, she guessed.

She wondered if she'd see her after this, if there was an afterlife. Probably not. Putting a person and their killer in the same place seemed cruel. She'd probably go to hell for what she'd done. Whatever.

Yuki and Yuko wouldn't be there too, the thought was crushing. But, they'd died good people, it was what they deserved. She'd always wanted the best for them.

She laid back in the bed now, finally. Reached over to the table. Her arm felt so, so heavy now. She felt glued to the bed. But, she was able to retrieve the shirt and necklace.

She closed her eyes. She held them to her chest.

G013: YUKA HAYASHIBARA: ELIMINATED

47 STUDENTS REMAIN