Silent Jealousy 1

Desks are pushed together, and students organize themselves into their respective cliques as they prepare to stuff their faces. Sumi Ayaka is no different from her peers in this regard; members of the Bohemian Club gather around her along with other admirers, some of them not-so-subtly showing off the packaging of lunches. Sumi glances over them while unpacking her own and lets out a soft hum, causing the atmosphere to lighten a tad as the fear of reproach is removed.

It's not them she's focused on, however, but who isn't present.

A girl by the name of Miwaku Kochou—a frail brunette with her shoulder-length hair pulled to the side in a ponytail—glances around like a criminal as she slinks into the classroom and makes her way towards the group. She attempts to insert herself as if she's been there the whole time, but any hope of that crumbles when Sumi puts a hand over hers, a wry smile spread across her face.

"Nice of you to join us, Kochou. I was starting to worry something had happened."

Heat rises in her cheeks as her brain races against her mouth to put together a response. Fear of being found and panic from earning the attention of the person who is supposed to be her idol swell within Miwaku's chest in equal measure. Her mouth wins out, but offers little in terms of a response, a kind of whimper escaping that gives her brain time to catch up instead.

"R-Really? I mean, you didn't have to worry. I was just... in the bathroom."

"Mmm. Guess we should leave it at that. Just remember, you can tell me anything. I'd hate for a friend to struggle alone."

Her sharp eyes are intensely on Miwaku's as she brings her other hand forward to give the girl a reassuring squeeze. At least, that's how it would seem to an observer, and what makes sense in Miwaku's mind. Yet, the pressure is crushing on her hand and forces out another whimper before Sumi withdraws.

Then, lunch goes on as usual; there are no more questions or special attention. Still, Miwaku can't stop herself from feeling a little nervous because it feels like someone's watching her.

Haaaah... Haaaah... Haaaah.

Ai Suishi anxiously bites her nails, face contorted in anger and jealousy as she watches that whore slip a letter into Shu's shoe locker. Polluting it with her unworthy hands and leaving her trash behind. The scene is so revolting that she has to swallow back the bile that builds up in her throat as she breaks into a cold sweat. Her free hand is wrapped tightly around the blades of a pair of scissors, angled to send the edge into the temptress's jugular with a swift downward motion.

She wanted to do it the second she noticed that something was off.

The furtive glances.
The lingering contact.
The fact that she'd blatantly started wearing a new perfume after overhearing a comment from Shu like some desperate bitch in heat.

And now this? She didn't deserve to even think about Shu, let alone be with him.

But not here. Not yet. No matter how much every fiber of her being screams to put an end to the blasphemy playing out before her, it's too risky. As much as she hated it, it would be necessary to wait and strike when there was no chance of interruption, when she'd have time to teach her a lesson.

"Filthy... Filthy... Off... Cut them off...!"

"I said Off. All of it."

Miwaku nervously unclasps her bra, trembling beneath Sumi's icy gaze. She was to be both model and muse. An honor as much as a responsibility, and, in this instance especially, a trial. Despite the fury festering beneath the idol's detached facade, it isn't revenge. Not really. It would hurt, and that fact delighted her, but it was not the point. Correction is what this is.

Sumi circles Miwaku, her steps softened by the drop cloths spread across the floor. Other members surround them, brushes waiting to stain canvases and cameras hungry to immortalize every angle of the moment. With the model prepared, there's only one thing left before they can begin their work.

Tension hangs thick in the air— the crack of a whip slices through it.

From it, a cry of pain and spatters of crimson gush forth. Then another. And another. Amid the impacts are near misses and cracks, which cause no physical harm but heighten the anxiety of the exercise, eliciting whimpers all the same. Soon enough, the floor is covered in such a way that it gives the appearance of spider lilies in blossom. The lashes themselves are delicate, precise cuts spreading across Miwaku's flesh in a clear pattern. Even to the untrained eye, there could be no mistake that this was a signature being written into her.

Nothing that wouldn't fade with time, of course. Just enough to remind her who she belonged to. It wasn't some pretty little airhead who didn't even know she existed. Who would never give her this kind of attention. Who hadn't graciously taken her under their wing and molded her into something worth loving.

No, it was the girl who was now carefully tracing her wounds and rubbing circles into her back.

"Beautiful."

Who notices that the sharp breath she takes isn't a result of the pain, but an effect of that one little word. A title she spent the last couple of weeks imagining him bestowing upon her.

But it wasn't him.

It would never be him.

Ai's steps are slow and deliberate, but her mind runs about like a maddened dog chasing a scent that isn't there.

But it is.

She can practically feel her prey's flesh faltering beneath the force of her love, but the girl manages to remain just beyond her reach. It wasn't faulty planning on her part because she knew exactly what Miwaku's schedule should look like.

But her club activities dragged on longer than usual.
She'd spent hours out with friends instead of working her shift.
Instead of being home alone while her parents worked late, she was going to study at someone's house.

SHE SHOULD BE DEAD

Her constant company had saved her; even when she'd tried to make herself vulnerable, they pulled her back. No, not they. It was her. The way she wraps her arm around Miwaku's shoulders— it's like a shackle to keep her from slipping free, and if she knows she'll lose the girl for good if she does.

It doesn't matter. She'll get rid of both if she has to. They were taking the train, and it wouldn't arrive for at least another fifteen minutes, assuming there were no delays. If the platform is crowded, pushing them onto the tracks and slipping away in the chaos will be trivial.

And, if it isn't, they'll wish it had been.

Miwaku shifts uncomfortably, eyeing Sumi's arm like it's a snake. At the same time, she can't help but notice the way the idol looms over her as they descend into the metro. It couldn't just be her heels, but she knew better than to bring it up. Regardless, it only adds to the suffocating effect of her presence. That same overbearing weight that had made it impossible to reject the offer to join her after the club meeting was now leading her down the stairs to the metro.

Cafes and karaoke weren't exactly torture, though.
The pearl bracelet wrapped around her wrist didn't scream abuse.
Her body still stung from the club meeting, but that was... different. It was art.

Maybe it was fine to just listen to her.

"Kochou, what's your type?"

The question shatters the metro's relative quiet like a baseball through a window. Heat instantly rises in Miwaku's cheeks, and a wave of dizziness overcomes her; she's so disoriented that she doesn't notice herself tripping until Sumi catches her hand.

"My bad, I didn't mean to give you a scare. It just feels like you'd have an interesting answer. Most people are so... superficial, but I think you're the type who knows exactly what she wants."

"Me? Well, I..."

She twists a lock of hair around her finger as her mind drifts to thoughts of the future, and whether her feelings would reach Shu. For all the time she'd spent fantasizing, she wasn't sure how to begin describing him.

"I-I like sweet guys."

"Hmm. Is that all? A few honeyed words and you're under their spell?"

It's playful. Just a little teasing. But also dismissive, and for some reason, it feels like she's stepped on glass.

"It's not like that! I-I mean, he's always making time to help, and he's easy to talk to, too. He's just... good in a way that feels real. Being so h-handsome doesn't hurt either."

Before she even realizes her mistake, she's met with Sumi's judging gaze, carving away at her. Really? Him? they scream, in a voice more disappointed than surprised.

"So, you have someone specific in mind. Sounds swell. Not to my taste, but you could do worse. It's just that, if he really is that great... why would he notice someone like you? Don't get me wrong— I know how wonderful you are, but I doubt Mister Perfect sees you as any different from the rest.

"That's—"

"Face it. You're nothing special to him."

Miwaku's mouth opens and closes without uttering a sound, biting into her lip. The visceral desire to defend herself pales in comparison to the whiplash she's experiencing. This wasn't supposed to be an argument. It was just two friends having a chat. Still, she couldn't have just imagined the bitterness dripping from Sumi's words, and her disapproval came off as more than just unsolicited advice.

It feels crazy, but she can't help but think there's an almost defensive quality to the idol's sudden examination of her love life.

"I'll be right back!"

To buy herself time, or even sidestep the conversation entirely, Miwaku rushes off to the bathroom and leaves Sumi alone on the platform.

Sumi crosses her arms, her expression twisting into one that conveys overwhelming exasperation and dejection. All things considered, she wears jealousy well. Rather than an unsightly scowl, her emotions are softened into a pout that makes it seem more like her dinner plans were suddenly canceled than the truth that she was stewing in feelings of betrayal.

It's not fair.

It's the throughline that pervades her thoughts. She had done everything right, and for what? To listen to someone else's praises being sung? She bled to be where she is. She worked tirelessly to turn herself into a masterpiece, and these fickle little fools wanted to give their adoration to some gutter trash.

Love demands loyalty, and she would make Miwaku loyal if she would remain too ignorant to be won over. Once they were in her studio—

Her thoughts are cut off. Her pacing led her to bump into something. No, someone.

"Don't you have eyes?"

No response. The figure—a female, judging by the chest that can't be hidden even in the jumpsuit that makes the rest of their body into an ugly, shapeless blob—doesn't even look at Sumi. She just pulls her baseball cap lower and sidesteps the idol.

But her advance is blocked. Sumi audibly huffs, unable to believe that this... this creep skulking around thinks she can just ignore her. What's wrong with people? No, she wasn't going to be snubbed anymore today.

"Think you can just walk away? You're not going anywhere until I hear an apology."

Motionless. It's like she's talking to a mannequin. Fine, then she'd treat her like one.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

One hand goes for the brim of the cap as the other snakes behind the stranger's head, filling itself with the greasy, wiry locks hidden beneath. Disgusting. It almost makes her regret what she's doing, but it also makes her feel sick that someone like this thought they could act like she was beneath them. Just as well, she's already pulling the cap off and yanking those greasy locks so that they're forced to look up.

It doesn't come to be. The cap falls onto the dirty gray tiled floor as pain blooms in Sumi's forearm. Something struck her— a hammer, she catches it in the corner of her eye. From the duffle bag slung at her side?

She grits her teeth to keep from screaming, but more than fear or pain, her face displays pure disbelief. Fingers still entangled in the now clear mess of her attacker's hair, she instinctively tightens her grip to make sure they can't slip away. Then, after slightly tipping her head back, she smashes into them. There's a nauseating crunch, and she's certain that she must have broken their nose, even if not so much as a peep escapes from beneath their black medical mask. Frustrating, to say the least.

Things only get messier.

Their struggle lands them on the ground, and it quickly becomes painfully apparent to Sumi how much stronger the other girl is. Wresting the hammer from her attacker during the descent didn't amount to much with their arm pressing on her neck, steadily squeezing the life out of her, though it felt like the stench would get her first. Even as she sacrifices her recent manicure to claw deep scarlet lines into their arm, they don't budge. Her chances of dying in a subway at the hands of some unwashed psycho become more real by the second, the thought of such an anticlimactic end driving her to tears, and making her even more determined to win than any amount of indignation ever could.

One of Sumi's hands pulls away to grope for the stranger's bag aimlessly, and when it finds the unzipped mouth, grabs the first thing to grace the probing digits— a glass bottle of some sort. It shatters against the tiled floor, whatever liquid was swirling inside spilling out uselessly as she plunges the bottle's now jagged edge into the girl's thigh again and again.

Her hands are absolutely drenched in red. Her lips must be blue. Her efforts pay off, however, as she's eventually able to take in the musty subway air again.

But her victory is short-lived. The vise closes around her neck again, and a glint of metal distracts Sumi from resuming her assault. A lengthy needle wavers uncomfortably close to her eye, but what worries her more is its contents. What was inside didn't matter; it didn't take a genius to figure out it was bad news.

Worse than an unceremonious death, her body would be defiled.

Take a stab at their arm?
Try to snatch it from her?
Roll over and hope it breaks?

Something had to work. Anything. But her own effort wouldn't be enough. It was shameful to admit, but whatever she did would take at least a little bit of luck.

Miwaku slowly breathes in and out, taking one last glance at her reflection before she returns to the platform.

Nails. Hair. Lipstick. Bracelet. Earrings. Everything that made her stand out was something she had hand-picked. Not her. A cold, heavy feeling settles in her stomach like a stone. Why would he notice her?

She squeezes her eyes shut and clenches her fists, letting out a deep sigh. It was already done. The only thing left was to see what happened. If... If he wouldn't accept her like this, then maybe Sumi could help her? The thought of broaching the subject made her nearly as nervous as writing her confession letter had, but she couldn't just give up.

Rallied, she marches towards the door with a new determination.

"Ayaka-san, I thought about what you said. I-I want to ask—"

"Hush! Can't you see the poor thing's been through a lot tonight?"

And it's immediately tested by something she could never have predicted.

When the idol turns around to reprimand her, it's obvious that she's worse for wear, even if her hair and makeup have managed to stay in perfect condition. The second thing that draws Miwaku's attention is her new companion.

While Sumi sits on a bench, humming what sounds like a lullaby, a girl rests her head in her lap. Not just any girl, but Ai Suihsi, the weird girl from school. Even stranger is that Sumi is gently running her fingers through her tangled mess of hair, as if combing it out by hand.

That alone would be utterly bizarre, but the tears in the sleeping girl's clothes that she swears are tinged red are entirely beyond her comprehension. She wants to question what unfolded while she was in the bathroom, but she doesn't even know where to begin.

And before she can gather herself again, the sound of the train interrupts.