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They say it’s tough but rewarding to be a God. They couldn’t be further from the truth.
It’s been... hundreds? Thousands? He couldn’t keep track of how long it’s been since he went from a minor deity to a nobody. There are no shrines, no followers, and not even godly friends to share in their gifts and sacrifices. Everyone had abandoned him and followed the elder god, who took one look at him and decided he shouldn’t grow. *Distrustful.* *Pathetic.* *Trying to dethrone him.* The elder god had stated this in front of rows of divine beings, and all Homura had done was have a garden and treat the little followers he had with high respect. Unlike the other gods, those *conceited assholes*, he showed his face to mortals, which had garnered him drastically more popularity across the cities. People liked knowing who they were serving and worshiping, and he had sat in front of his gorgeous shrine and hugged followers, kissed kids on the forehead, and held babies because they *loved* him.
Now none of them lived. Thousands of years ago, the last follower died. Or at least the one he had watched live out their whole lives praising the elder god, forgetting about the minor one. Homura had attended the funeral just because, despite his followers being mind-wiped from remembering him, he deserved to know someone still liked them. After that, he went aimlessly wandering Japan. He’s seen the country grow, from samurai’s and small buildings to gigantic skyscrapers and modernity. The world has changed; people still worship the gods, but every year he could feel himself fade. Some days he didn’t have the strength to get out of whatever bed he chose to sleep in; not like anyone cared, no one could see him. Only the followers of a god could see them, and since Homura had no one, he was invisible, watching everyone laugh, cry, and worship shrines of gods that didn’t give two shits about them. When he looked at his hands now, they were nearly translucent; he was one day away from fading away. He was dying, right here, in the country he had appeared to love. He had spent 1000 years trying to gain another follower without anyone seeing him. In the beginning, when he had just a little power left, he shifted the glass to fall. But people were distrustful; no one assumed a god did it; they called him a rat, or a little critter.
The rain was pelting him like a thousand lashes. He sat there on the sidewalk as the sky darkened. Heavy gray clouds blanketed the midnight sky, and all he could think of was how *shitty* it was that he would die on a rainy day. With nature being bent by the heavy rainfall, He could barely see himself amidst the rain and dark concrete street; if he tried walking in front of a car, it would brush past him. He was forced to die slowly and with the knowledge that after all his efforts—all those little ghostly events he tried, charity events, writing his name on walls—no one cared, no one remembered. Cutting himself off from the spirit world meant he couldn’t ask a god to help him, not like he would; they were all assholes. The moment he had a –
Well, he can’t say that anymore because he was dying. It was over. He scrubbed his face, trying to wick away the tears that threatened to break. Gods don’t cry; mortals do, but, oh, was he even a god anymore? What was he? He had no room in either reality. More tears fell, and soon that aching tightness in his chest combined with the burning in his throat said he was done for. No amount of cockiness or enthusiasm could get him through this. As the realization truly set in that the end was upon him, Homura scrubbed at his face, desperately trying to hold back the tears. God wasn't meant to cry; that was a mortal failing. But what was he anymore, really? A god with no believers has no place in either world. The first sob ripped from his throat as tears streamed down his cheeks, merging with the rain. No one could hear his anguished cries. No one could see him. He would dissolve into nothing, and the world would roll on unchanged. *Useless.* **Forgotten.**
Fingers clawing at his scalp and nails digging painfully into his skin, Homura's body shuddered with the knowledge of the void closing in. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to simply cease to exist. All he needed was one soul to have faith in him, just one believer to keep him tethered to this life. But in this endless storm, there was no one. His fingers wrapped around his head, digging his nails into his head as his breathing hitched. He just needed *one* follower—just *one* person to believe in him. People walked past him and didn’t notice; he was *invisible*.
By now, Homura had long since stopped caring about his outward appearance. Not that it mattered when no one could see the pathetic sight he imagined he made. His nose ran in a constant stream, mingling with the tears, refusing to stop flowing. A piercing pain throbbed behind his eyes, swollen and inflamed from the endless crying. The sobs wracking his frame grew more and more inhuman by the minute. Raw, guttural sounds tore themselves from his throat like a wounded animal taking its final, agonizing breaths.
Curling in on himself against the frigid pavement, Homura pulled desperately at his hair with trembling fingers. As if the physical pain could distract from the anguish shredding his spirit to pieces. Everything hurt—his battered heart, his aching lungs, his *loneliness*. Through blurred vision, he watched the raindrops fall from the heavens, each one a mockery.
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