Kaneki's Room-Personal Narrative

Kaneki cracked his finger. He was hidden in a dark corner of an abandoned warehouse he had stumbled upon in earliest hours of the day, when he was utterly desperate for a sanctuary. Kaneki lay on the concrete, curled up between the intersection of the walls. Though the late night fog lay a tranquilizing layer over any sound that travelled the air, harsh, weary sobs of utter despair could be picked out from beneath formally white curls, now stained with crimson. The room, only defined by the rundown walls surrounding the space, was empty except for the mess of blood and bones on the floor and a sink topped with a dusty mirror.

The moon glistened down, lighting his face. Scratches inflicted by Kaneki's own dark nails littered his cheeks but healed as soon as they appeared; it was a fruitless attempt to peel off his facades. Yes..his mask-a black piece of plastic with a red lipped

Kaneki froze, fist positioned in front of his mouth, and frowned. Slowly relaxing his fingers, he lunged forward and tore viciously at the digits.

“986.”

Kaneki wondered what the liquid coming out of his eyes was. He lifted one of his fingers-now missing a joint-and smeared it against the salty fluid flowing down his marred cheeks. His breath caught, sharply, as a moment-just a second-of sharp clarity flashed into his eyes before his shoulders slumped as the light once again vanished from his iris'. One of his fingers twitched erratically.

“979.”

Kaneki remembered wisps of gold, as yellow as the bright, fading sunset he had watched as a child. He stared at his unblemished finger. He couldn't really attach the color to a memory-not that he had a lot of those-but that was okay; he had a feeling that he didn't want to remember anyways.

A sliver of pink drool slid out from the corner of his mouth as his mouth opened in an unfinished sob. It was all his fault in the end, wasn't it? He couldn't save anybody. He couldn't even remember who he was supposed to