The sound of snoring reverberated through the room, pulling me from the depths of sleep and prompting me to locate the source. To my surprise, I found Shanks slouched in a chair beside my bed, arms crossed, his unruly hair cascading over his forehead. His head drooped low, and a massive snot bubble formed and shrank rhythmically with each deep breath, a comical yet somewhat disturbing sight.
As I pushed myself upright and surveyed the scene, I realized this was more than just a quiet night; it almost felt like a chaotic communal sleepover. Hongo was sitting with crossed legs on the floor, using the side of my bed as a makeshift backrest, looking utterly blissful as he snored like a snorting hog. Beckman had somehow managed to fall asleep while standing, leaning against the doorframe with the poise of one who could collapse at any moment.
On the floor, Yasopp lay sprawled beside Lucky, Yasopp's foot being dangerously close to Lucky's mouth. It was absurd how many bodies were crammed into my modest space. Gab and Punch had claimed the walls, their backs pressed against the dark wood, while even Snake, ever the stoic figure, lounged against another corner, his eyes firmly closed. The scene was a bizarre yet oddly comforting tableau of camaraderie, one that left me both amused and bewildered by the sheer chaos of it all.
Lifting my hand to scratch my head, I hesitated as my fingers brushed against the rough texture of bandages snugly wrapped around my forehead. A sudden jolt of recognition surged through me, igniting a cascade of memories. I found myself grappling with fragmented images, each vying for clarity amidst the chaos.
What stood out vividly was the promise of adventure: we were to sail to a distant kingdom celebrated for its enchanting music. In this land, melodies flowed like rivers and joyous celebrations filled the air. But that vision quickly morphed into a haunting nightmare. The echoes of destruction drowned out the harmonious tunes.
In the heart of this once-thriving realm, a colossal demonic figure loomed, its shadow casting despair over the land. The air was thick with panic and confusion as it wreaked havoc, leaving behind ruins where laughter had once flourished. The vibrant colors of the kingdom were muted, replaced by the stark contrast of crumbling edifices—once symbols of joy now reduced to memories of a peaceful, happy country torn apart by chaos.
Terror gripped my soul as I stood frozen in place. Was this truly the future unfolding before my eyes, or was it merely a grotesquely vivid nightmare from which I could not awaken? My mind raced, struggling to piece together the fragments of a reality I thought I knew. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was trapped in a surreal scenario, one that was starkly different from anything portrayed in the anime I had once cherished. Yet, as I tried to recall specific moments and characters, I found that many details eluded me, fading like echoes of a half-remembered dream. The weight of confusion and dread settled heavily on my chest, leaving me questioning the very nature of what was real and what was imagined. The problem was that, unlike before, where I saw the image of Shanks losing his arm to a Sea King while protecting Luffy, which combined both the anime and the actual image of how they looked; however, this time, there was no blending of reality and anime.
There likely wasn't a single reason that triggered it, yet as I sat there, tears began to stream silently down my cheeks. Perhaps it was the overwhelming realization that I was a fragmented person, a wandering spirit lost in the labyrinth of my own thoughts, choosing to flee from the core issue at hand: myself. The weight of my unresolved emotions pressed down on me, and in that moment of vulnerability, I confronted the truth of my existence—a truth I had long tried to ignore. It was as if the floodgates had opened, releasing a torrent of pain and regret that had been simmering beneath the surface, begging for acknowledgment.
The desperate despair of wanting to die echoed relentlessly in my mind, a haunting refrain that I couldn't silence. Even now, as I had been freed from the suffocating nightmare, a dark longing lingered within me—an unsettling urge to let it all end. I sat on my bed, blanket still covering my lap, the sound of snoring fading into a haunting ring, my gaze fixated on my bandaged hands. They were tightly wrapped, a harsh reminder of the painful outlet I had resorted to in a moment of uncontained anguish just hours before. Each gauze-wrapped finger expressed my internal chaos, a testament to my feverish struggle from my despair raging within. The weight of my emotions felt almost physical, pressing down on my chest as I confronted the aftermath of my actions, grappling with both shame and an undeniable sense of relief.
A firm hand pressed down on my shoulder, startling me and breaking through the haze of my internal turmoil. I jerked my head up, locking eyes with Shank, who was now awake, looking at me with an intensity that was both unfamiliar and unsettling. His gaze was unwavering, filled with a seriousness that hinted at a more profound concern. "I know you might not want to talk about it," he began, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of empathy. "But I don't think there's any way around it."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. "Last night, we were really worried about you. What happened?" His tone was calm and gentle, but there was a conviction beneath it that suggested this conversation wouldn't end soon. He wasn't going to accept a simple brush-off or a disingenuous "I'm fine." No, he needed a genuine answer, one that cut through the tension in the air and touched the heart of my struggle. It was clear he was determined to understand, to be there for me in a way that felt both comforting and daunting.
"I… don't… know." The words caught in my throat like a stubborn knot, refusing to be untied. Each time I summoned the courage to speak, it felt as if an invisible barrier held me captive, stifling my voice and drowning out my thoughts. The silence around me was deafening, yet the chaos within was even louder. It wasn't that I lacked words; instead, I was overwhelmed by them, as if a torrent of emotions and thoughts cascaded through my mind, too tumultuous to organize into coherent sentences. This internal struggle only magnified the deep-seated self-hatred I carried and the relentless shadow of my low self-esteem that loomed over me, making it impossible to articulate my feelings. Each attempt to express myself felt like a reminder of my inadequacies, reinforcing the fear that perhaps I didn't deserve to be heard at all.
"Take your time, sweetheart. Just tell me slowly," Shanks urged, his voice a soothing balm amidst my conflicted mind. He gently released my shoulder, releasing the tension I had felt from being unable to express myself, and then reached for my bandaged hand, holding it loosely in my lap. The warmth of his touch contrasted sharply with the dull sting I felt from the tips of my fingers, but it brought an unexplainable sense of gentleness that enveloped me. In that moment, it was as if the loudness of my inner world was silenced, leaving only the undeniable safety from the greatest demons, myself, that I felt in his presence, which grounded me and encouraged me to open up despite the turmoil swirling inside.