Sequel of Snowflake

Wind

Killing someone changes a person. From mental to physical differentiations, the person they once were and the person that they had become were opposite. Absolute strangers.

Rising from bed, with sheets that bound him in a tangled and constricting mess of linen, he would go to the mirror and gaze upon his appearance. Just as all of the mornings before, he could see nothing but white and glittery frost. No rubbing of the eyes or blinking of lids would ever change that.

His showers, with water so hot that it left his skin in burns, always felt like ice. His shampoo smelled of blood and gunpowder and his soap scraped along his skin like tar.

The outside world, no matter his inner turmoil, would carry on as normal. The air was warm with a faint breeze that was ever-so pleasant to the pedestrians of Ikebukuro. But not to him. No, that breeze was as suffocating as a mouth full of cotton and it drove him insane.

On more occasions than not, he would still be seen running through the streets in a mad rage, screaming and hollering at the top of his lungs.

"Isn't Orihara Izaya dead?"

"What has him so worked up?"

"I think he's lost it."

And he had. He would visit the site where he had struck down said informant every evening, only to heave forward and wretchedly vomit at the visions that danced through his head like rotten sugarplums. The scent was foul, but it soothed him into a temporary, sober state of sanity.

Afterward, he would stagger back to his not-so-humble abode, slush back the bitter tastes of vodka and sake, and faint haphazardly along his bed, only to wake in the very same manner the next morning.

Every day was the always same.

Arising to snake-like sheets of compression, looking into the frost-coated mirror, soaking in his icy-blood shower, chasing at nothing for hours on end, spewing bile into the darkness of a hidden alley, and falling into the pit of unconsciousness only gifted to him by his hard liquor.

There was one day, however, in which he would not go outside. He would not rise from his bed, and he would not take his shower. He couldn't. It was windy that day.

He would stuff his face into the pillows and the sheets, hoping for some sort of release, some sort of moment's reprieve, oh, but none came.

He despised the wind so horridly, for it spoke to him. It spoke for hours and hours and simply would not shut up.

"What's the matter?" it would call; its voice eloquent and smooth.

"Shut up…" he would groan. His own voice would always have that faint crackle of a morning's hangover.

"Why did you do it?" it would say. The wind was never silent, always full of questions.

"Shut up," he would say again, this time more alert and more angered.

"Shizu-chan, why did you kill me?"

"Shut up!" he would scream, thrashing about and slamming his head against the backboard of his bed. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

However the wind did not cease. "Shizu-chan, there was blood. I felt my body as it grew cold. Shizu-chan, you killed me. Shizu-chan, Shizu-chan. Shizu-chan."

It was then that he would rip himself from his sheets, fumble around in the drawer of his bedside table and withdraw the small pistol that had killed Izaya Orihara himself.

The city people were right. He had lost it.

He would run into the streets wearing nothing but his undergarments and the wrinkled, vomit-stained dress shirt from the day prior. Citizens would gasp in fright when they caught a glimpse of what was in his hand, though they had no need to worry. The gun was only loaded with one bullet, a bullet with a purpose. It had originally been loaded with two, but we all know where the first one had gone.

He would rush toward the alley way, only to cough up a decent amount of last night's whiskey before holding the pistol to his temple.

"What do you think you're doing?" the wind would coo, wrapping its breeze tightly around his shoulders.

"This is what you want, right?" he would ask in a humored and psychotic tone. "It is, isn't it?! This is it, right?! Are you happy now, Izaya?! Are you happy now?!"

Before anyone would ever have the chance to stop him, Shizuo Heiwajima pulled the trigger and died immediately, falling forward in the absolute elegance and grace of his demise.

"I'll see you in Hell, Shizu-chan."

Hello everyone! Chappy here! :D

Yay for sequels! :D Angsty and scary sequels... XD

The theme for Day 14 was "wind," and I had absolutely no idea what to do with it. Then this was born. XD

I hope you enjoyed! As always, thank you for reading!

- Chappy