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Entry tags:
[19-Jul-2021] [Ayatsuri Sakon] Sepia
Title: Sepia
Day/Prompt: 19-July-2021
Fandom: Ayatsuri Sakon
Character/Pairing: Zenkichi, no pairing.
Rating/Warning(s): Mature, mentions of various (probably very triggering) explicit crimes.
Lies and secrets. For the past few years, he hadn't known much else but documenting fibs and self-preservation in ink— some kind of 'noble' journalism, but it's what Zenkichi breathed for. He lived it, and he'd always chased his legacy, eager to carry his father's profession: photography.
It started out innocent: a politician betraying their word, a discrepancy in company statements. But as he delved into a world of paper and bureaucratic red tape, things dropped hot to dead-cold. Babyfaced girls with skirts hiked up with their garish heels, men pedaling in shop corners segwaying to murder, rape, revenge; Zenkichi remembered heading out with a hoodie on, cold rain dripping down his face, yellow streetlight pouring pissed sepia golden across broken roads. He could still remember the smell of bleach and ammonia through blurred vision.
As a kid in an overgrown body, they didn't see him; they saw a buyer. He was absentminded and cocky, then. So young and proud.
By then, Zenkichi wasn't sure how to stop, if he really wanted to, to begin with. Zenkichi couldn't remember the last time he slept through the night without waking up to cold, dead eyes playing inside his head. Still, he remembered the last time he took a true picture: a family saved by a close puppeteer friend, not a picture of the latest gore fiesta. When Zenkichi could no longer tell which side was up or down, he whipped the polaroid out, staring at who they assisted. not burned.
Zenkichi wondered when that stopped being enough. Regardless, that electricity, that junkie jolt from breaking the news — it wasn't like he'd leave. The powers that be of his head won't let him. Then again, there was something sorta wrong about settling for happiness with anything less than a dream, wasn't there?
Pen to sheet lines, Zenkichi frowned to himself, rolling a pair of reading glasses further up onto his forehead, reaching for a smoke. Lighting it, he felt the thoughts inside him wither and die, minds easing into the comforting darkness.
White smoke plumed.
Zenkichi crushed the cigarette in his ashtray, dug the nib of the utensil in hard enough to dent, and began writing.
Day/Prompt: 19-July-2021
Fandom: Ayatsuri Sakon
Character/Pairing: Zenkichi, no pairing.
Rating/Warning(s): Mature, mentions of various (probably very triggering) explicit crimes.
Lies and secrets. For the past few years, he hadn't known much else but documenting fibs and self-preservation in ink— some kind of 'noble' journalism, but it's what Zenkichi breathed for. He lived it, and he'd always chased his legacy, eager to carry his father's profession: photography.
It started out innocent: a politician betraying their word, a discrepancy in company statements. But as he delved into a world of paper and bureaucratic red tape, things dropped hot to dead-cold. Babyfaced girls with skirts hiked up with their garish heels, men pedaling in shop corners segwaying to murder, rape, revenge; Zenkichi remembered heading out with a hoodie on, cold rain dripping down his face, yellow streetlight pouring pissed sepia golden across broken roads. He could still remember the smell of bleach and ammonia through blurred vision.
As a kid in an overgrown body, they didn't see him; they saw a buyer. He was absentminded and cocky, then. So young and proud.
By then, Zenkichi wasn't sure how to stop, if he really wanted to, to begin with. Zenkichi couldn't remember the last time he slept through the night without waking up to cold, dead eyes playing inside his head. Still, he remembered the last time he took a true picture: a family saved by a close puppeteer friend, not a picture of the latest gore fiesta. When Zenkichi could no longer tell which side was up or down, he whipped the polaroid out, staring at who they assisted. not burned.
Zenkichi wondered when that stopped being enough. Regardless, that electricity, that junkie jolt from breaking the news — it wasn't like he'd leave. The powers that be of his head won't let him. Then again, there was something sorta wrong about settling for happiness with anything less than a dream, wasn't there?
Pen to sheet lines, Zenkichi frowned to himself, rolling a pair of reading glasses further up onto his forehead, reaching for a smoke. Lighting it, he felt the thoughts inside him wither and die, minds easing into the comforting darkness.
White smoke plumed.
Zenkichi crushed the cigarette in his ashtray, dug the nib of the utensil in hard enough to dent, and began writing.