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Mikan Tsumiki dies in the spring, just as the cherry blossoms start to bloom.
Junko wanted to take her to them. She did, she really did; she knew she could be cruel, but she was trying to be better. They had made plans to meet there, and Mikan had smiled shy and sweet, and Junko really thought—really, truly thought—that she had been forgiven.
She wanted to bottle that smile. Mikan hardly smiled honestly; always nervously, instead. But there was red bleeding onto her face, seeping from her cheeks to her ears to her nose, Junko remembers, her hair blowing very gently in the wind. Her head was tilted down, like she wanted to hide her smile; she tucked her hair behind her ears and gave a small laugh.
Did she not look happy? Did she not look in love?
Despite this, the bruise Junko left on her collarbone was creeping up just past her shirt; Junko could see that, too, and it made her bitter. Ruined the fantasy. In a moment of insecurity, she had asked, do you love me?
Mikan had blinked. Of course I do. That's what she had said, wasn't it? That's what she had said.
Even when I do such awful things to you? Junko had added, looking at the bruise pointedly.
Even then. Mikan had said, but it was pointless; she had lost her pretty smile, and the moment was forever ruined. I promise, Junko. I know you're trying to get better.
….You won't leave me, will you?
You're being silly. She had laughed again. She always did have such a beautiful laugh. My silly, silly Junko.
(Not a no. Junko should have realized it was not a no.)
Mukuro holds her, in the aftermath. She doesn't say anything, because there's nothing to say. Junko let's her hold her; but it feels like bugs are crawling on her skin the whole time.
Yasuke dies in the fall, before Mikan did, just as the leaves start to grow again; in a month, it will be the start of spring.
It's a miracle the school doesn't shut down, with all the rioting. It's a miracle that the world doesn't fall into chaos, into despair. Amidst all the mayhem, no one truly misses Yasuke.
No one except Junko.
Laughing; crying; kicking; tearing her hair out in clumps as she sobbed. The despair of losing Yasuke was loud and messy. It was indescribable .
Mukuro looked upon this with a look on her face that she had never seen before, like this, truly, was the first time she too experienced despair; she ripped off her wig, and gathered Junko in her arms.
You can't keep doing this . Mukuro whispered. You can't keep destroying what you love.
Junko had thrashed in her arms, her own pinned to her side. Let go of me.
No. She had said. I never… I never want to see you in so much despair ever again.
Junko just laughed. Do you think you could ever stop my despair? She whispered. Ever since I was born, I felt the despair of being alive. If you want me to stop despairing, you'd have to kill me first.
Never. Mukuro said. Never. There is another way.
Not for me, Junko swore.
It is the first time she is wrong.
I'm pulling us out of Hope's Peak. Mukuro finally spoke into the silence, Yasuke's body growing cold between them.
Do I get a choice in this? Junko scoffed.
…It is for you. For the best.
How much longer do I have? Junko asked.
A month. Mukuro responded.
Not enough to finish her plan, then. Especially with Mukuro not only not helping her, but actively trying to stop her.
Junko comforts herself with the despair of giving up, sagging into Mukuro's arms; an acceptance, perhaps, but more of an admittance of defeat.
The hair falls messily. Hacked with little care, in contrast with her usual perfection regarding her appearance. It falls, and she has the strange thought she should be crying; but she's not.
Junko Enoshima is completely blank faced as the hair falls to her feet; her beautiful hair she once adored.
Dye it, she demands of Mukuro. Dye my hair purple.
…
Don't you owe me at least this much?
…I'll dye it, Junko-chan.
(A little bit of Mikan is always with her, with the color; a beautiful purple, painted onto her head.
Sometimes, she catches a look in her mirror and her heart stops, transported back to that day, her last day alive, that smile she had as if she had no worries about anything, and Junko Enoshima cannot look at cherry blossoms. She hates cherry blossoms. She hates that smile; that awe-inspiring smile she sees in her dreams, that relieved one, that smile Mikan smiled at her just hours before she threw herself off of the roof, and she can't help but wonder was she thinking about doing it then? Did she already plan it out? Is that why she truly smiled like that, without any worries, without any doubts, without her typical concern and worry and fears, that beautiful smile, was it never because of me?
When did she decide to leave me?
—But more than that, more than that, Junko hated the hair that framed her face, hated the smile she'd give in the mirror as it framed it, trying, trying, trying so hard to imitate yet it always turns out wrong. Junko cannot wear the same smile Mikan did; desperately, she wishes she could. Just one last glimpse of her— please, just one more time—
The photos aren't enough; Mikan always hid her face in her hands when the camera went off, laughing with joy and red faced, embarrassed at the lense, and Junko is forgetting that smile. She is forgetting her face. She is forgetting her, every day, every hour, and she does not want to .
Was this the right shade of purple? She questions herself. It looks off, wrong, just a shade off, but she can never get it right. Mikan Tsumiki is disappearing; vanishing from her view like a ghost, always running when she tries to give chase.
The less said about Yasuke, the better—the less she remembered him, the better. Because it is too painful to even think of him, even now; it is so painful, that whenever she does, she bursts into tears.
I'm sorry, Yasuke, she thinks. I'm breaking our promise; I'm forgetting you.
And this time, I'm doing it on purpose. )
Tomohisa is gentle with her.
Of course, Junko knows that this is because he doesn't know what she is; that he doesn't know that she's a monster wearing human skin. Sometimes, she wants to warn him, when he whispers words of love above her skin, pressing kisses to her flesh between it; she wants to scream, what are you doing, you fool?
Don't you know I killed my last two lovers?
But of course he doesn't know that. Tomohisa, to her, is a stranger. He loves her; her drive, her passion, the way she adapted in her life to a dream that was not originally hers—he loves her, but he does not know her. Despite this, Junko loves him, too.
It's a fantasy; an illusion. But it's easy to pretend, and it's easy to grow to love again despite her fear.
But Tomohisa, no matter how she loves him, and he her—is this: a stranger.
Strangers in love.
Still, they get married in the winter, white surrounding them reflecting light bright enough to burn.
(After all, Junko hates both autumn and spring.)
(Winter, though—she might like winter.)
Madoka is born in the fall, and dies in the spring.
When Junko stares at the test that came out positive, she feels numb. A horror invading her, her face blank.
Her hands start to shake holding it; she looks up into the mirror, and a stranger greets her. Purple hair, instead of strawberry blonde; blue eyes out of place. Pink lipstick, instead of red—that cursed color, seeping onto her hands and dying them forever—red, her favorite color. If this baby is a daughter, she would love to dress her up in red.
That thought is what startles the laugh out of her. It's a joke, right? A cosmic joke. Junko is not meant to be a mother—that would just be the worst idea in the world, wouldn't it?
She's going to hurt them. This baby in her belly. Suddenly, she is sure of it; she won't be able to resist. The despair of it, the horror, the deep dread—she won't be able to resist it.
She laughs. She laughs, and laughs, so hard she cannot breathe, so hard that she starts to cry. What a joke—what a wonderful joke.
I should get rid of it before I can hurt it.
That made the crying become louder, the laughter tampering off into sobs. She didn't want to get rid of it. She wanted to be a mother. She could picture it now: Tomohisa humming as he cooked, shoveling food onto her child's plate. Would it be a boy or a girl—or decide to reject that binary entirely? It didn't matter, Junko was sure: she would love them no matter what, from the bottom of her soul, the depths of her heart.
She wants it so bad she aches , and she cannot bear to get rid of them before they're even born.
But Junko's love, she knew, was a dangerous thing.
That is why she fears.
Before Madoka, when they had first gotten married, Junko sometimes got her name wrong.
It was hard to remember that she was no longer Enoshima. That, at least, was understandable.
The times she'd choke out Tsumiki , or God forbid, Matsuda —those were not.
Her husband forgives her every time, though. It was hard for you to lose them , he soothes. It's okay, Junko. I understand .
But he doesn't. Not really. He doesn't know her; she is a stranger, a stranger who hugs him gently and kisses him soft and lies , lies to him, lies when she nods along to his own untruth, the way he'd say it wasn't your fault.
He has no idea who he's dealing with.
(That's how she likes it; to be undefined by her past, to be loved for who she is now. And yet, it grates—if he knew, would he look at her with such loving, tender eyes? She doubts it.)
She drinks herself to sleep when she makes those mistakes; Tomohisa looks at her with worry, but never scolds her for it—holding her hair back with gentle hands and kissing her temple when she vomits.
If only she could forget, and love him completely.
(He forgives her for being unable to anyways.)
(Sometimes, she thinks: why couldn't Mukuro have disobeyed me earlier?
Why couldn't she had stopped me before I—?
But thoughts like that never change anything. Yasuke will still be dead; it is pointless to ponder possibilities.
When she looks back, perhaps she always wanted Mukuro to disobey. Perhaps that is why she pushed; increasingly cruel, increasingly frustrated, when Mukuro did nothing but follow her orders to a tee. Why couldn't she think for herself? Why couldn't she express any amount of free fucking will? Why did she let Junko treat her like this—why did she let Junko do this to herself? It hurt everytime; everytime she stood their blankly and nodded, a special kind of despair. But maybe that was why Junko continued to do it: to experience the despair of being disappointed.
Still, you can only be disappointed if you hoped for something in the first place. But what was it that Junko was really hoping for? Even she wasn't sure.
She wasn't sure of a lot anymore.)
Junko promised herself that she would never hurt her daughter.
She breaks her promise when Madoka is 14 years into life; tears in her eyes, her hand flies out and strikes her hard on the face—it might bruise. (Junko hasn't bruised someone since Mikan.)
And she demands, why?
Why are you trying to leave me too?
I don't want you to get tricked. I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want you to leave.
Why are you trying to leave to a place you might never return, why are you trying to go out in this storm when you might die , Madoka!?
I am not getting tricked. Madoka says back, holding her stinging cheeks but holding her gaze firm. I am leaving because I have to; because I found someone I love and I want to protect. Because this is something only I can do, something I have to do, something I want to do.
Because I have finally found my wish.
Junko doesn't ask if she's coming back. She's smart enough to know better; she doesn't want to hear it confirmed.
I love you, Madoka, she says as she lets go. I love you so much.
I know, Madoka smiles, and vanishes.
(The queen of despair gives birth to a goddess of hope; if she knew, if she remembered, she might have laughed at the irony.
Or perhaps she would have just sobbed.)