EXUVIATE

　Akira finds herself in a familiar forest, the sun beating down relentlessly from high in the summer sky. She doesn't remember how she came here this time or why, but the questions lack priority; For the time being, the girl's only concern is finding her way out. It isn't entirely clear to her how long she'd been wandering, but Akira had begun to grow tired. As if willing it into existence, she steps out from between the trees into a small clearing— A place to rest, if even for a moment. She stands beneath the shade of a large tree, smoothing the back of her skirt and preparing to sit, when something catches her eye.

　A caramel-colored shell clings to the tree bark, empty, and at the tree’s roots rests a cicada. Its legs are curled inward over its body, lying motionless in a spotlight cast by the dappled sun through the leaves. It’s dead— As if the pitiful thing had given up and died the second it molted and crawled out of its old skin. Akira always found those discarded shells to be somewhat sad and unnerving, but she remains transfixed observing the scene.

　“What’s so interesting?”

　She recognizes that voice.

　The source reveals himself, coming from the opposite end of the clearing— The boy she and Shiina had met on a similarly scorchingly hot day in these same woods, the boy she had seen impaled on a sharp length of scrap metal, his blood dying the grass a dark, vibrant red.

　Akira's legs leave her fixed in place, still as a statue. She becomes aware of the lack of weight in her backpack— En Sof isn't here, and neither are Shiina and Hoshimaru. She's found herself alone, completely defenseless.

　"Cat's got your tongue again?" Komori advances towards her, circles her like a predator closing in on its prey. "Man, I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever get a word out of you…"

　There’s open space all around the pair, but Akira feels like she’s been backed against a wall. She stares in disbelief at Komori, desperately trying to make sense of how he was here, trying to find an escape route through the trees— But her mind draws nothing but blanks, too terrified to form any coherent thoughts. Her body betrays her, unable to move a muscle— When suddenly—

　An uncomfortable presence materializes instantaneously in the previously empty cavity of Akira’s mouth.

　Some strange intuition immediately informs her, and she promptly sticks out her tongue— She can’t see it but she knows what is stuck at the back of it. The cicada. Akira’s blood runs cold, her hands and forearms filling with pins-and-needles, television snow. The insect being deceased comforts her not in the slightest; In fact it makes it all the more repulsive. Get it out, get it out, get it out, get it out— A frantic refrain overwrites all previous thoughts. Hunched over, she tries peeling parts of the desiccated husk off of her parched tongue— Cellophane wings stick to the pink muscle, dislocated segments crumble into even smaller pieces every time they’re touched. Akira gags, reflexive tears stinging her eyes. The grassy, acrid taste of hemolymph, having dried into powder and dissolved in her saliva, spreads throughout her mouth. No matter how she tries to pick out the pieces or spit them out, they only seem to further break apart, or to multiply, or—

　At some point, Akira must’ve fallen to her knees. The grass beneath her leaves chartreuse stains on the bare skin of her legs. She coughs and sputters helplessly, the sensation at the back of her throat overwhelming, smothering her, dizzying. Don’t swallow, please don’t let me swallow it… Something so filthy shouldn’t be in her mouth. Something so filthy shouldn’t be in her stomach. Dead insects carry pathogens and parasites, just like any other deceased, decaying organism; Akira pictures microscopic black worms swimming in her gastric acid. She pictures herself full to the brim with them, a breeding ground for their disgusting spawn, making her ill, crawling through her veins and behind her eyes and out of her mouth and ears and every one of her orifices. Her screams are hysterical, but won’t come out. Trapped in her own head.

　Komori approaches, orange sneakers coming into view. She had almost forgotten his presence in her terror; He must’ve been enjoying the show up until now, watching her face and body contort with panicked revulsion. He crouches beside Akira— She sees he’s wearing the same bored smirk he always wears. His eyes narrow a bit.

　“What’s wrong?” A question flat and mocking. “You getting heat stroke or something?”

　Akira likely would’ve failed to form the words to answer him even if her mouth wasn’t full of insect parts.

　“Ahh.” He makes a noise of understanding despite receiving no response. “I get it.”

　Komori shuffles to the side of, then behind Akira. She feels his weight press down on her back. Freezes.

　“Let me help you out.”

　Akira’s mind races— What is he about to do? She half wishes he’d leave her to suffer, whatever he had in store was somehow surely worse. The way this boy makes her feel without fail— Deer in the headlights, complete paralysis, like she’s about to be killed and devoured. She knows she’s right to be afraid of him, when he’s given her every reason; Even still, she can't ever resist. Heart pounding in her ears, she feels her entire head is close to bursting. Her eyes squint shut— Komori isn’t as heavy as she had anticipated.

　“Open your mouth.” Rather than hearing them, Komori’s words seem to appear in Akira’s mind.

　A familiar phrase, though not one she’d heard from him. In any case, it already hung open from her ragged breathing and attempts to expel the cicada’s corpse. Komori’s fingers slither past Akira’s parted lips and into her cramped mouth. Filthy. They taste of sweat-salt and loose change, metallic, dirty. Dirt-under-the-fingernails. His digits prod around the orifice, pushing past the dead, dry parts; Broken bits of chitin stick between her gums and lips and end up lodged beneath her tongue. She can see it all in her mind’s eye clear as day, as if she were suddenly cursed with X-ray vision; Crushed shell, wings, little legs, head, thorax, abdomen. It’s all so horrible. Akira feels her eyes rolling into the back of her skull. She’s hardly here.

　She doesn’t want to see the brown-green body parts against the damp red flesh of her mouth anymore, doesn’t want to feel the crunch of another living being’s exoskeleton against her teeth. Her mind wanders. It reeks of sweat, likely her own. The skin of Komori’s wrist sticks where it meets Akira’s soft cheek; He’s got more color than her. The warmth between their bodies is beyond stifling; It was already too hot a day for long sleeves and dark colors, but she had to cover up. The scars were so embarrassing. He had made her feel so stupid about them, those shallow little scratches. She wasn’t doing it for attention, but she’d never been serious, lacked the resolve to earnestly attempt to take her own life. She couldn’t even do that right. She was serious now; Dying seemed like a mercy more than ever.

　Komori retracts his fingers, leaving Akira spitting between heaving breaths. Whatever he was trying to do wasn't working. The bugs felt so heavy in her mouth.

　"I'll get it for sure this time." His reassurance is wasted. "Just hang in there for me."

　There was nothing left to hang onto, no anchor— Akira was floating away in a sea of unbearable stimulation.

　"Here, I'll even hold your hair for you. Don't want it getting dirty."

　"Aaa… aaahhh…" A single broken vowel escapes Akira's lips; a wavering moan of abject misery, helplessness in the face of some unknowable, cruel, awful, terrible force.

　Everything was dirty already. There wasn't a single part of her that hadn't been sullied and contaminated beyond the point of no return. It didn't matter. Why did he care so much about her hair? She hates it. She hates the long, smooth, black locks that catch the rays of the sun and hold their heat. Komori's fingers knot into them, forming a fist and pulling back with just barely enough force to further compound Akira's discomfort. She wishes she could cut herself free, dropping limp and unfeeling to the ground like a puppet loosed from its strings.

　Komori's fingers find their way back into Akira's mouth, forcing her to once again focus on the feeling of the insect parts partially crushed inside. A new wave of nausea surges over her; She can feel the hot bile roiling in her gut, rising to the top— Her diaphragm contracts, but it still won’t come up. As tears roll down her face, Akira finds herself begging in her heart for God or Komori or Shiina, or her mother or whoever, anyone, to save her, to get the filth out of her, to make it stop…

　A fingertip brushes against her uvula and she retches, a deep, ugly noise unbecoming of a girl as frail and beautiful as she was. The muscles in her abdomen clench inwards, her entire body tensing… Her jaw is growing sore; Komori has his hand shoved far enough back that Akira's teeth scrape against the knuckles. He pushes a little further.

　Vomit erupts from her mouth like a fountain. The heat-acidity of the muddy fluid sears her throat and lips. The noise of surprise or disgust or amusement that Komori makes is all but drowned out by Akira's guttural howling as she empties the contents of her stomach onto the forest floor. Komori had already removed his hand, but Akira couldn't control herself. Again and again she ejected whatever was left inside her, as her body was trying to hollow itself out completely. Her trembling body was wracked with sobs and whimpers in the few intermittent moments between expulsions.

　"Good, there you go. Let it all out! You'll feel better." Komori's arms are wrapped around Akira's waist, his head resting on her back, listening closely.

　She hadn't wanted to do this in front of him. It was somehow more humiliating, debasing, than those times she had lost her lunch in front of her classmates. Failed flights. Dreams of falling. She didn't want to show Komori how weak she was. How dirty. He'd use it against her. He'd find a reason to like her even more. Akira no longer had enough energy to hold herself up— Utterly sapped of strength, her aching body goes slack, folding forward from where Komori embraces her. Black hair cascades over her face, creating a cage of darkness.

　Akira gazes blankly through the translucent veil of her hair. An arthropod in disparate parts floats in the puddle of sick. Akira's head buzzes, her ears ringing; Vibration spreads through her teeth and down her spine, growing louder and louder as the dead cicada fills her vision— The hum intensifies and peaks into a deafening cacophony, she can't think, she can't understand anything anymore, she's frozen in time at this horrifying, inexplicable moment— And Komori is smiling.

　Akira wakes with a start, drenched in cold sweat. Pajama fabric clinging to her clammy skin, her comforter had been cast aside in her sleep, only partially covering her legs. It takes a moment lying there panting before she realizes she’s woken up. Another night’s sleep ruined and restless.

　These days, he haunts her dreams more often than not.