Ozaki Kouyou

You had a pretty good life. It didn’t have much thrill to it, but it was good.

Boring as fuck though.

Your parents were always busy, always caught up in work. Your mom, Ozaki, tried to be a good mother. And a good mother she was, you just didn’t see through it.

About a day or so ago, you had moved into this gorgeous pink palace. Oh, how it was so.. so lovely. Just not the people.

Mr. Fyodor, had lived above you. He was a lunatic, weird person. Jumping fucking rats, weird circus shit— All that. Russian accent though, that’s cool.

The females who had lived beneath you, Agatha and Yosano— Were famous actors. Like— Micheal Jackson famous. If you know him.

Then the weird kid. Dazai. Oh boy— Did you hate him. But, he was honestly cool. Rode a motorcycle, had a random cat, his grandma owns the place you literally live in. He’s pretty cool. Today, he gave you a doll. One that weirdly, looked exactly like you. Said he found it and looked like you, so he gifted it to you. Huh.

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You now, just woke up to mice in your house. The fuck? Thought this house was clean. Whatever. You slowly follow them, leading it to the random small door your mother opened for you. It’s.. glowing. Not in the “your so stunning, glowing” Like- Actually luminescent. Glowing. A bright purple light.

You bend down, slowly opening the small door. It’s .. a tunnel. Filled with purple, blue, pink colors. It’s beautiful. You crawl into it, the door softly shutting behind you.

You end up in a dining room, one that’s similar to yours, yet so different. The little boy in the picture who seemed so dim in your home, seemed so gay, happy— In this one. You hear silent humming, leading up to the kitchen.

You walk towards it, light falling out of it. You see a woman with a red bright bun, similar to your mothers. Hm.

You look at her for a moment, seeing how she looks so similar to your mother. The hair, the clothing, yeah. Just need to see her face.

She notices you, a slight chuckle falling out as she turns towards you, her apron swaying. “Your just in time for supper, dear.”

Her eyes. Not even- Her buttons. You stammer over your words, noticing her… black buttons, sewed into her face.