It was a slow, agonizing walk back to the reaper dorms. Left alone with his thoughts, his regrets, his insecurities. Constant insecurities that no matter how much he trained his mind and body, continued to force themselves back onto him. He watched as every single one of his very close and important friends stepped into a ring of fire with no hesitation. No worry or concern for themselves. He'd always believed he could make choices like that for his friends, but back there.. with the Lost Clans Priestess..
He lost it all.
His confidence, his veil of assurance in himself and his beliefs. His dream. He wasn't willing to take a path of no return.
He trained, and his body didn't change. When Mitsu and his friends needed him, he was barely able to scratch a single hunter. He wasn't a threat. He had no pride, he had no redeeming qualities befitting a budding Boogeyman.
A Boogeyman... it had been his childhood dream. But now? No.. it was a silly dream. Childish..
All he was good for? Errands. Hel insisted he was 'good with words', but in these times of fighting, it was a useless skill. No one needed him or his words. And now, as he climbed the stairs of the cold stone building of the Reaper Dorm, toward Hel's room, he contemplated the "list" he was supposed to make for her.
A list of things he felt he was good at.
A blank. Nothing.
Mot found the spare key, quietly opening the door to Hel's dorm room. The sweet smell of cinnamon leaked out as he cracked the door open. The scent of Hel. She was out there with everyone. Fighting along side each other.
His heart hurt. He hurt. His friends, bonded through combat. Mot, staying behind to care for a growth-challenged poof.
Said poof, Heimdal, was found soon enough. Sleeping on Hel's pillow. All the thing did was sleep. It made Mot feel sleepy. What a life, sleep eat and be cute. The reaper kicked off his boots, lazily pushing them off to the side as he shut the door.
Mot sat on the bed softly, trying not to disturb the small pet's sleep. Take care of Heimdal, she said. Make a list of things you're good at, she said.
Mot sat quietly, pulling a notepad and pencil from his belt-pouch. Turning to a blank page, he readied the pencil.
A tap of graphite on the margins; tap, tap, tap.
Had it been a few minutes? Longer? Mot's pocket watch clicked softly inside his pocket as the seconds went by. The room was eerily silent. His mind went blank as the paper in his hands. "What am I good at? What good qualities do I possess?" He asked himself aloud. Maybe voicing it aloud would make the answers come.
"I'm good at running away... good at giving up..." He sighed. Those weren't good things. Hel would punch him if he wrote them down. "I'm..kind? I.." Mot huffed and threw both things across the room. He didn't want to do this. Not now. His head hurt, his heart hurt.
Everyone was braver than him. Stronger than him. Everyone had dreams, goals. His goal had been a silly childish fantasy. One that would never come true. Now? He had nothing.
Mot couldn't take it anymore. He wanted to be worth something. He wanted to be more than just a "nice guy". He didn't have the dedication or courage to be what all his peers could be. He was no warrior. Not a fighter. What place did he have in this world?
Mot's eyes felt hot. On fire. His throat stung. Tears built up and fell down his cheeks, slow at first. It felt more like rain after that. He began to sob, pulling his feet up on the bed, his knees to his chest. He curled his arms over his legs, pulling himself into a ball as he cried. He was all alone. Weak. Weak will, weak body. No amount of so called training would change it. His bravery and selflessness was tested that day, and he failed. He watched as every single peer stepped into oblivion, foolhardily.
Why? Was he simply born this way? Maybe he was dysfunctional beyond repair. He was sick of feeling sorry for himself. He'd tried so hard to be a better person, but when it came down to it, he didn't have what it took. He would only be in the way.
The so called gentlemen, Mot O'Boyle, was now reduced to a sobbing teenager on his ex-ghoulfriend's bed, babysitting her sleeping minipet.
A dark thought pressed further and deeper into his mind. Maybe he should truly give up. He was barely hanging on by a thread, dragging along behind everyone else's accomplishments. Maybe he'd best go home, admit to his stern and disapproving mother that he was in fact, useless and good for nothing. He would waste away in his bedroom at home, being nothing but a body that gathered dust.
Or maybe he would go further. Maybe being at home would be cruel to his mother. He was surely an embarrassment to the family name. Maybe he should disappear forever.
Mot was hitting rock bottom. Falling into utter despair.
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