I DON'T KNOW WHY I RUN AWAY

I'LL MAKE YOU CRY WHEN I RUN AWAY

save your tears,

The truth is burdensome and complex, laced with veils of lies and struggles and the blemishes of reality. It is the noose that deities sling about human throats to watch rope graze skin and layers wither away like wilting flowers crushed under autumn winds.

And what was the truth? You're not too sure. It was a thin layer of dust billowing and jutting to look at, shrouded behind too many words.

Part of you feels silhouetted in the palm of fate, suspended for all to see as the gods play with the loose strings of your bones. You've been swayed by the stream of water that curses and the world of sorcery reside in; wherever this life went, you would soon follow.

Fushiguro meets you outside the hospital; perhaps he was being treated there. He looks the same except for the plasters and bandages littered across his ivory face.

You look at him breathless, having forgotten how rich the darkness in his hair seemed to be. Black like a raven haunting a full moon, when midnight skies peel back to taunt oblivion and remember the gleam of the old universe.

It's a celestial forlorn that most humans, more often than not, crave to feel whole again.

"Fushiguro!" You hurry over, a wide grin on your face. "You're looking good!"

He narrows his eyes in his unwavering expression, pointing to the bandage wrapped around his head, "You think so after seeing this?"

You stifle a laugh, a weak smile worn on your face.

He deadpans, hands on hip rather comically. "You know that you are going to transfer to the same school for jujutsu sorcerers that I attend, right?"

Your jaw drops, "Huh?! But... I don't... I don't understand anything from this world... and it scares me."

And it scared my mother too.

"But I saw that shield you made against the cursed spirit," He tilts his head in confusion; in his eyes there are splitting stars and ephemeral wondering.

"Cursed spirit?" You murmur, feeling a swell of something unpleasant digest your bones; just even such words evokes a dark stain over your aura.

Fushiguro nods bluntly, "They're a race of spiritual beings born from aggregated Cursed Energy that flows into particular notions, sentiments and things of that nature. They're basically corrupt spirits with supernatural abilities that exist to haunt humanity. Sometimes... to end it."

You feel a shiver dance down the ridge of your spine, "Can everyone see them?"

"No," He shakes his head, "'Cuz their bodies are made of Cursed Energy, Cursed Spirits can't be seen by normal humans. They can only be seen under special conditions by regular humans, such as a life or death situation. For us, however, the amount of Cursed Energy coming from our bodies lets us see them at all times."

"Where do I come into this?" You frown, a thin-lipped downwards curve resting on your face. "I didn't know shit compared to everyone else."

Fushiguro's light green eyes bore into yours, like chartreuse leaves dangling with dew following a morning rain in spring. The colour of grass in prairies you would run through to feel free.

"Your ancestors were likely Jujutsu Sorcerers, or you were imbued with cursed energy through a series of coincidences. Or even both." His words have such a grave emphasis to them; you don't like it at all.

Was this some incredibly crude nightmare you had riddled yourself with, born from the plaguing memories of your mother and her tales of sorcery? Gojo's words haunt the caverns of your heart; ancestry...descendants...

You turn away, half-shaking as you put your palm over your mouth, "I think I might throw up."

"Well," Fushiguro sighs plainly, "Just don't throw up on me."

"Duly noted," You muster a response, gathering the courage to look around. "So... who I do go to in order to cancel my admission?"

"You want to cancel it?" He arches in eyebrow, taking a step closer. "You know your Reversed Cursed Energy is incredibly powerful? I could tell from the moment I saw you."

You bite your lip, starting to feel uneasy again. You can't drag your head across mud just to try to follow a lost dream. A dream that wasn't even yours, just bits of a lullaby that your mother used to sing to you.

And what about your father? Could you just leave him? But then again, it already seemed he had left you years ago.

"Look," Your head pounds as you clutch it, feeling the ground shake. "I - I don't know about doing this. The truth isn't... isn't something I want to face right now."

Fushiguro inhales, stepping closer towards you. The hue of his eyes dwell on the window to your soul, like a looking glass that seems elysian and riveting to admire.

He puts his hand on your shoulder, "The truth is burdensome and complex, but that is the truth. And the truth is that you have power to help people and make a difference in the world. The choice rests with you, [Last Name]."

The choice rests with you.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Tokyo Metropolitan Jujutsu Technical High School was a place of education hidden by the arcadian air, rendering many in the city guileless to it's existence. It was stunning, reminiscent of a breath of fresh air, as crisp as the autumn leaves trodden on the dirt in the season.

Something about the architecture made it luminous; it was elegant but only in a faraway manner, restrained by the endowed beauty of magic. You are reminded of conked crowns spilling gold from the zealous beauty of it all. A devotion entrenched with curses and spirits and sorcery.

Those words rarely crossed your mind in the disillusioned universe, but such supernatural occurrences were spun to life before your own vision, befitting of a girl who had suffered hallucinations in the sixteen years of living.

"By the way," Gojo smiles widely, holding up four fingers, "You guys are the third and fourth first years!"

Itadori's mouth form an 'O', "Only four?!"

You shiver, looking around even more. Sunlight fell between the gaps in the trees, slipping amongst turgid leaves and serpentine branches. The wind was cold, brushing your cheeks brazenly and it leaves a trail of red across your skin.

"This is really deep in the mountains," You murmur, struggling to stay warm. Perhaps you should have worn something more cosier. "Is this really Tokyo?"

Gojo shrugs, silent for a moment when the sound of tranquility disturbs the plane; water trickles lightly from a nearby stream. Such a soothing sound, you think.

"Even Tokyo's like this on the outskirts," He says, sticking his hands in his pocket.

"Where's Fushiguro?" Itadori asks, looking around.

"He was treated by a sorcerer and now he's fast asleep," Gojo replies smoothly.

You lift your head, meeting the light warmth of the sky. "So... is this the only jujutsu magic school?"

"It's one of only two jujutsu educational facilities," Gojo explains as the three of you continue walking up a cobbled pathway. "On the surface, it's known as a private religious school. Many jujutsu sorcerers continue to use it as a base after graduation so it's a pillar of the jujutsu community not just in education, but for support and mediation in missions."

Most of what he was saying seemed to echo out from your head, because well, despite the fact he seemed like a good teacher, it wasn't like you were by any means a good student anyway.

So, of course, as Gojo drones on, you and Itadori smile weakly at each other. He's quiet calm, with both his hands behind his neck.

"Anyway," it seems he was finally finishing up what he was saying, "Both of you have interviews with the principal."

"Principal?" You arch an eyebrow, rather curious.

Gojo nods, "Screw it up and he could reject your admission, so go all-out."

Both you and Itadori seem to have largely different reactions to that.

"Yosh!" You punch the air, "A loophole! Maybe I can get myself expelled."

Itadori's face pales and his hands claps his face, "Expelled?! And then what?! Immediate execution?!"

Suddenly, a voice fills the void between all spaces on the earth. A voice that is layered with a darkness too pulverising to contemplate, depth to growls that linger. Trying to tune out this voice was like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.

Sukuna's words web into the air around him.

You stop in your steps, finding your body completely paralysed from the fear.

He smirks; it was a serpentine smile, spitting venom just from speaking. It makes you wonder if he could kill just by uttering a syllable.

Itadori slaps his cheek, "Gomen, Sensei, [L/n]-kun." He look dolefully around, "He pops out sometimes."

Gojo rests his chin on his fingers, as if he is thinking. "What an amusing vessel."

The voice returns in the form of a mouth prodding out of Itadori's palm.

"Not again!" Itadori whines.

His words leave you reeling in terror, but Gojo-sensei remains so placid in the presence of something so overwhelming demonic.

"It's an honour to be targeted by Sukuna," He smiles.

"No, it's most certainly not!" You splutter, eyes widened.

Sukuna-sama won't kill you quickly. It will be a death glorified by others, a demise that marches to the beat of hell, refining what it is to be dead because your soul will have shrivelled a million times over. He'll etch the scars into your head and let you howl in agony when you claw your way to salvation.

You stop in your tracks. That thought.

It was yours, yet it seemed to not have belonged to you at all, just attached to the web of your thoughts in a minuscule manner. It felt sorrowful and full if spite, almost as if it was your mother's voice.

"This guy's really that famous?" Itadori asks mindlessly.

Gojo's expression remains the same, unreadable and oddly calm. "Ryoumen Sukuna is a fierce imaginary god with four arms and two faces. But he's actually a human that really existed, though it was over a thousand years ago-"

"In the golden age of jujutsu, sorcerers gather up all their might to challenge him and failed. Crowned with the title of Sukuna, they couldn't even destroy his grave wax as he traversed the ages after death as a cursed object. Without a doubt, he is the king of curses," You finish, words seething from your tongue like you have recited it off by heart.

When done, your dry lips curl in fright at what just happened. How... how do you know that?

Gojo stifles a smile, "Looks like [F/n]-kun here finally decided to read about her ancestry."

My what?!

Itadori tilts his head, curiosity painted on his delicate expression. "Who's stronger, you or him?" He asks.

"Well..." Gojo begins, eerily calm. "If Sukuna regained all of his power, it might be a little draining."

You blink in wonder, drawn to him in awe at the confidence in his power.

"Would you lose?" You ask with intrigue.

Gojo is silent for a moment before he walks ahead of the two of you. But you catch what he says before it is lost in the influx of cold breezes. It was the remnant of a lake brimming with illusionists' power and grins born from confidence in conflict.

"I'd win."

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

The candles sitting in carved out place holders on the poles flicker with an ominous feeling. It felt suspiciously like a wave of curses had drenched the wood on the walls and the marble on the floor. Every hair on your skin stands straight at the thought of merciless torture.

Nectar drips like petals on a wilting flower inside your eyes; the colour of gold before it becomes lost. The flame of the candle reflects a gleam on your hues, a delicate ambrosia sweetened to the appetite of the gods.

You're standing inside the principal's office, next to Gojo-sensei while Itadori waits outside for his own interview.

Meanwhile, your stomach is doing a million backflip that you might be left nauseous forever.

"You're late, Satoru," Someone says icily. His voice sends the most cut-throat and jarring shiver down the back of your spine, like he's close to unstitching the essence of your soul in an instant. "Eight minutes late."

A gasp leaves your throat, which has since clamped up, when you look around fearfully and seeing the source of the sound sitting at the opposite end of the room.

"Not enough to chastise you for, but I know I told you to fix your habit of being late."

You stammer, eyes widened at the number of plush dolls everywhere, sat upright and courteously. Each are beaded with black eyes that gleam murderously under the illumination of a candle.

Said candle drips with melted wax in a solemn manner, feverishly fighting to stay alive but it will eventually die. Like all things in this world.

Lightning flashes behind the back of your head. That old dude's making cute things!

The man has a thin metal needle in his hand, diligently sewing the back of a mint green plushie; the nature of his handiwork is undeniably soothing and meticulous.

"If it's not enough to chastise me for, then don't chastise me," Gojo sighs, "You're just making dolls, anyway. What's a measly eight minutes?"

He turns and with a grin, says to you, "That's Principal Yaga Masamichi."

"That's her?" He asks idly, almost as if he is unamused.

You bow your head, "[Last Name] [First Name], sir!"

"Do you know the weight of your name?"

A surprised expression is etched on your face. Blinking, you lift your head. "S - Sorry?"

"I said," He repeats, "Do you know the weight of your name?"

"I know it is a sacred name but what for, I do not know," You gulp, choking back your fear and the urge to find the nearest toilet and throw up.

You struggle to meet his eyes when he speaks; they seem to burn directly through everything and everyone, an unwavering, blemishing strength. "I will not conduct the normal interview I do with my students on you, because you are not a normal student, [Last Name]."

His words echo in the back of your head, tightly wound like a noose eliciting terror. The truth.

Feeling the world start to spin, you look to Gojo-sensei for comfort as Masamichi-sensei continues to speak.

"You are the only known descendant of the [Last Name] clan to control their Reverse Cursed Energy and live to tell the tale."

Rather unexpectedly, he stands up, still holding the plush doll in his hands. "Your mother tried the same thing, to repeat history and it failed. But, I'm curious to see how adeptly trained you are."

"Sir," You reply blankly, "I'm not trained at all."

Gojo tuts, wagging his finger, "Nonsense! She's a prodigy."

Liar! You haughtily laugh. Why do you have it out for me?

"People you never know will die everyday in accidents, and diseases in the natural course of life."

Gojo sighs deeply, "There he goes again."

"But do you think that these deaths cannot be overlooked when they are caused by a curse?"

You frown, "I - I just want... to save people."

To save them, because I couldn't save my mother.

Masamichi holds out his hand and summons one of the dolls by his side. Like it is webbed to him as if he is the puppet master, it bounces and grins wickedly in the taste of being alive, or mimicking the act of living. The expression on it's face is ever so fake; he cannot truly let them live but he gives them the facade of it in order to fill a carapace of a man.

The doll stands and rather horrifyingly it starts sprinting towards you.

"Those weren't dolls?!" You yell, feeling your face pale as you wonder what to do. You never did work best in a stressful situation.

It lunges at you and you dive in the opposite direction, narrowly avoiding a powerful punch from it's skinny arm.

"Cursed corpses. They are dolls. Dolls infused with my curse," Masamichi explains idly, watching the fight unfold.

Is that really a doll?! You think, seeing how it moves so humanly, almost as if it is sentient.

Masamichi remains unfazed at your predicament, "A person's true nature reveals itself during a crisis. I'll keep attacking you until I get an acceptable answer."

You hurry and cover your chest with your school bag in an effort to lessen the impact of the punch. Although, such efforts are futile when the doll's fist ignores the bag entirely and sends you flying across the room. You slump against the wall, feeling air stuck in your throat as you struggle to get up. "Look... it's not like I wanted curses to exist! It was a family member's tragedy!"

"A family member is still 'someone else,'" He replies idly. "A jujutsu sorcerer is constantly facing death. And not just their own death."

You wipe the blood trickling from the edge of your twitching lips, listening to his words as you try to summon cursed energy. But summoning it was like grasping at the darkness of a shadow inside your own soul, desperation hanging in the veins of clawing hands and eyes searching in vain for puddles of power that get lost.

"Sometimes you must ignore those murdered by a curse to rend the flesh from it. It's an unpleasant job. You have to be a little crazy and highly motivated to handle it. So you would do that because someone else told you to? That's pathetic."

"Screw off! You're-" You shout, feeling anger surge inside you. Your heart rattles against your rib cage; if it was made of paper you would have folded it and thrown it out of the window.

"Are you going to blame your mother when you meet the same fate as her?"

Silence.

The question takes you back; it crumbles the thinned out silhouettes of shields you have measly conjured up until now. A paper heart that you hold, but it is far too burdensome to contain the sorrows it wants to convey.

You fall to your knees, hands on your lap as your knuckles tighten. You grip the corners of your skirt with frustration; his words cut down into the veins of the universe, salvaging the old truths and polishing the words and values few want to accept. Every atom in your body screams in grief, as if the dust burying all your old memories and nightmares is brushed off by an angel's breath.

The world seems to collapse within itself, porcelain and fragile faces fading in and out of existence; amid the chaos of your head, you clear it with a single thought. A command dug deep into the mind, hanging by a thread after a thousand years, ingrained to become instinct.

.

A wave of cursed energy floods the room, an aura so destructive it leaves it's victims reeling in paralysis. It did not walk between the thin line separating cosmos entities like life and death; it obliterated them with a single touch, redefining the nature of murder. If God had power, then he had nothing compared to he had given to his own creation.

The cursed doll that had previously battered you, singing with insults, was now a pile of dust. The ashes of it's form fall to the ground like snowflakes in winter, delicate and small; it would be beautiful if it was not a mournful shade of grey.