hiroshima, 1945

His eyes close as a warm, autumn breeze rustle through the trees over-top, lips parted to suck in a welcome breath of toxic air that never quite makes it to his lungs. Tapping his index finger over the flimsy steel banister, cigarette hanging from one curled finger, he breathes out what's left of the smoke, bored eyes strained on the horizon. 

                                 Such a nice day. 

His upper lip twitches upwards at the thought, head titled back as he throws his entire weight onto his polished heels. 

                                                                      "Such a lovely day."                                                          (He doesn't fall like he should have.)

His index finger relaxes, the remainder of the cigarette spiraling over the rail as it burns down a trail of chemical smoke until it lands (beautifully, beautifully) onto splattered concrete. It takes no less than two seconds before hurried feet stamp out what was left of the fire and he pauses, eyes narrowed as he stares between the sea of unknowing faces until they begin to bleed together. He whistles at their ignorance (half in admiration but mostly in spite) before disappearing from sight.

Long legs resurfaces downstairs at the lobby, unruly hair combed back with water, a stethoscope hanging from the corner of his mouth, and some poor patient's folder tucked carelessly under one arm as he rushes to greet the director. He only manages two steps out of the building, palms cupped over his eyes as he spares a glance upwards —— before he finds himself blinded by light.

Both arms open instinctively, relishing the sudden harsh winter that crawls into his bones with the darkening sky. Dust spirals up from the ground, carried by motionless wind and scattered alarm and oh...

                                                                     "What a beautiful da—" 

There's not enough air in his lungs to finish the sentence as not-quite-there fingers dig into the mangled wound in his stomach until he uprights himself with a bark of laughter holding a wooden splinter in his hand. Something warm seeps into his mouth and he moves his lips to loosen locked jaws. His skin is blackened by burns, hair previously combed back now all but gone. 

It takes longer than he'd like to admit for his legs to move from their spot, spitting out blood as he crosses down the road with his mouth stretched from ear to ear. Through the dim light, the hazy outlines of demolished spirits shift into focus before scattering out of his line of sight. Much like walking ghosts, their movements are gritted through pain with entire bodies that hung forward and blackened by what was left on their bodies. Yet, as he breathes in their suffering, silence protrudes into his throat and he chokes on the jagged air that enveloped the city. Fire licks at the corner of his eyes as suffering ceases to exist when he hears no sound of pain. His lips crack with her skull as he walks over a collapsed mother.

The child is still inside what remains of her house, eyes blinded in soot and blood. He kneels in front of her, his hand clasped over her head, sliding down until the palm is pressed against the nape of her neck, "will you scream for me?"

His eyes close as a cold, ashen breeze rustle through rubble and grime, lips parted to suck in a welcome breath of toxic air that never quite makes it to his lungs. Smoothing away the wisp of hair marring the child's face with his free hand, he breathes out what's left of the smoke, greedy eyes strained on her neck. 

                                 What a beautiful day. 

His finger slips under her chin, thrusting it upwards as dry lips curve into a smile. Her neck breaks easily under the weight of his hand and he pushes her back into the rubble to bury her tears. 

                                                                    "I suppose not."                                                            (But he feels much better.)