![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyberpunk_pygmalionCategory: Gen
Character(s): (pre-game) Uncle Saihara, implied Shuichi Saihara
Tags & Warnings: implied/refrenced suicide, joining DanganRonpa as a metaphor for suicide, Team DanganRonpa Sucks, mental health issues & anguish, uncle & nephew relationship, grief.
Summary: There was a stranger in Haruto's house.
There was a stranger in Haruto's house.
The stranger didn't want to be there either, stayed away as often as he could. The stranger only lived in his house because he had no other place to go. Most days he went to see his stranger friends to places Haruto couldn't bring himself to care to know the names of (should've cared about, Haruto knew this, because it could've saved him). Haruto was so tired nowadays.
There was a room in his house Haruto had locked.
The stranger didn't want to be in that room anyway, stayed as far away from it when he was in his house. But Haruto couldn't bare to think what he'd do to his child's room. What he'd do to the things his child loved so dearly in life. He had seen the cleansing hatred in the stranger's eyes at even the mention of it. Haruto wouldn't survive his child's tomb desecrated.
Haruto was sitting in that room.
On his late child's bed, a lamp lit as he gently held a diary in his hands, unopened. Haruto didn't know what to do, didn't know what would be a greater disgrace to his child. He wanted to know him, his child, his beautiful wonderful suffering child. Shuichi, even when he moved in, struggled so hard with admitting he was hurting, admitting he had needs. Even when he couldn't see it, Shuichi had a way with words, could charm people if given the confidence. Would his child hate him for it? To invade his room, lock-picking the diary he hid under a floorboard?
Haruto opened the diary.
The first entry dated a few years back, first pages could barely be called entries as Shuichi had only noted a minor fact a day. Days turned to weeks, turned to months, doodles aligned the pages as Shuichi admitted to himself he was a gutted shell of what could've been a person.
The entries became bolder after that.
They began describing the hollowness of living life, of how nothing sparked joy but that show. How seeing replicas beg for their lives felt more real then any emotion he had. How people could tell he was wrong to exist, of flowers being placed at his desk. How he dreamed to be one of them, the replacement people, murdered for the hope of others. Pages and pages and pages of nothing, but descriptions of his executions-
Haruto snapped the diary close.
As gently as he could, he placed book on the nightstand
and drowns.
Haruto, knowing this, knowing better, had failed his child. He didn't care if Shuichi wasn't his till a couple years ago, didn't care if he wasn't normal or healthy, didn't care if he'd break his back trying to keep his child alive. Anything would've been better then outliving the greatest sunlight in his life.
There was a knock at the door. Snapping his head towards the intrusion, he knew who it was.
There was a stranger in Haruto's house.
