Author: Chauni
Email: asukalangley2nd@yahoo.com
RP
session:
TMW, Kazu
Notes: Influenced by both the
song, “My Immortal” by Evanescence, and a discussion of Kazu not killing
himself if Grem died, this was born. Dedicated to the usual: Sha and PC.
“I've tried so
hard to tell myself that you're gone
And though you're still with me
I've been alone all along”
~ “My Immortal”, Evanescence
Twelve-twenty-two. I watch the numbers switch, not
flip or morph, but a blink as stiff lines rearrange their stubborn selves from
ones to twos. It’s the afternoon; the windows are open and the curtains are
swaying enough to let strobe-sunlight streak across of the floor. I haven’t
slept a decent in eight months; last night is no exception. Two hours, sixteen
minutes, all nightmares. I woke up six hours ago with tears on my lips, salty,
screaming of his name.
My bed is empty; Kyosuke had to
go home around one a.m. as his parents were starting to raise questions and
suspect something. He promised to be back sometime this afternoon; I hope so. I
get so lonely in this apartment, when all I can hear are the newlyweds that
moved in next door, or the sound of cars outside filtering in through the glass
and plaster. I can’t watch television; everyone is too happy for me. My plastic
acquaintances have ceased calling after my outbursts of tears on the phone
(they’re wonderful if you’re looking for cocaine or gossip, but the moment you
need one…crave a friend…).
And even though I can never be
truly alone, even Azrael’s voice has quieted in my head, as if to leave me to
my grief.
Eight months and twelve days,
and nothing is easier.
Little things set me off; the
picture of us sitting beside my bed, the empty pillow, his clothes in my
drawer, they all get me to cry. When the bed is an enormous plane all for
myself, I hold the plush cat he bought me, but it’s a poor substitute for his
warmth, his breath against my lips. At night, I wear his t-shirts, sleep in
them as if they can draw dreams of him to me. Some nights they work, work too
well, and I wake up worse than when I went to sleep.
I’m wearing one of them now,
along with a pair of his boxers. I’m thinner than he was, than I was, so they
threaten to slip free from my bony, little hips. My good clothes are getting
dusty in my closet; I haven’t really gone out aside from the store, and I can’t
stand the eyes on me by perverted assholes when I look like a woman. Every
single person’s eyes feel dirty, make me feel tainted, as if I have no right to
be pretty ever again.
Except for Kyosuke. I would have
died months ago if not for him, would have wasted to nothing without his hand
holding mine. I breathe for him now; every tortured and painful bout of air
slipping through my body is for him, a blessing, a testament, to him. I’ve
pleaded with him once to let me die, that everyday was agony, but he just
looked so hurt, so sad. I never brought it up again.
I forego a shower after swinging
my legs from my bed; I took a bath last night that left me prune-fingered and
sobbing. My eyes catch the glitter of the jewels on my finger; in eight months,
this ring has not moved from its watchful place. A vow of love that I cannot
abandon, this is my rope, my thread that binds us across planes of reality and
Heaven. This will never budge.
I make my way towards he living room, sacrificing a
small glance towards the kitchen. I haven’t eaten in twenty-two hours, though
no one really knows that. My stomach has such a hard time keep anything down
anymore that the simple idea of food is a frightening one. Today, I can tell,
will be no exception.
I find myself at my kitchen
table some time later. The stick-numbers have switched and bent; it’s
twelve-forty-seven. The curtains are pulled back, enough light filtering in so
that I can stare at the broken, shaking pencil in my hand and the half-drawn
design laid out in front of me. Work is level four of Hell. Every single time
someone mentions a show, I can’t bring myself to go; all I can think of is how
he looked when he modeled that one day, how he teased me, then loved me right
after in the locked safety of the bathroom.
The pencil snaps in half and I
throw it across the room. It bounces off a Scotch stain in the wall, then falls
to the floor, forgotten and broken. I’m ridiculing myself for wanting to cry,
for feeling the start of the tears along the whitened walls of pallid eyes.
Not again. Don’t I ever become
dry? Is this well so endless?
Without a knock, Kyosuke is
letting himself in thirteen minutes later. I have little else to do anymore
other than watching clock, trudging through the shit until the day I die. I
once told Gremory that’s what life would be like if he was gone; I wonder if he
realized that I was serious, that without Kyosuke, everything is a void I can
easily forget truly exists.
Kyosuke sees that I have been crying; I gave up trying to hide it long ago, maybe four months ago. He always knew when I was, anyway, as if he was empathic towards me. In the beginning he always looked so damn guilty, as if he had been the reason I was sobbing, but after awhile he realized it was just routine. In the end, though, his arms are so sympathetic, so consoling, and I always feel better after an hour or so. Or, at least functional.
He comes to me now, stroking my
hair. I can feel his lips against my forehead, and I look up at the sleeveless
shirt that is suddenly just a few inches away from my face. I can hear him
setting a bowl of food down on the table beside me: strawberries. Kyosuke has
always been so good to me, even when I can hear him cursing from other rooms
because I frustrate him so. I cannot tell if he is angry with me, or with Grem
for kil-- for leaving me. I don’t think it matters in the end.
“We should go out today,” he
says. It might have been significant if it wasn’t something he asked so often.
“…I don’t know…”
“You can’t do this to yourself
anymore,” he murmurs softly. “Come outside. We’ll go to the park. It’s during a
workday; no one will be there.”
His gentle urging is a heartfelt
concern that slips through my defenses like a sniper bullet. I can feel the
warm calm of his hand against the back of my head, combing through my hair
softly, words cutting through the haze of mourning that is never burned away by
any summer sun. Kyosuke has long been the only person to make me remember what
life is truly like, has been the only person to make me feel anything
anymore. I suppose that’s the reason
that he is the only one allowed to touch me.
I slip a hand into the bowl and
grab a berry, slipping it past the threshold of my lips a moment later.
Memories strike me: lying on a bed in a room permeated by afterglow, feeding
dripping strawberries into faded lips. I whimper as the juice (sweet and bitter
all at once, tangled up like a thick rope) explodes across my tongue, letting
me experience phantom chocolate across my nerves.
“I have nothing to wear.” Weak
excuse.
He knows he’s wearing my
defenses down. It’s been eight months; we both know I should go out, should lead
a normal life, should live up whatever I can. Grem… Grem would not have wanted
this for me, not ever. “I’ll find you something.”
“No skirts.”
He was petting me again, that
soothing sentiment that almost brought tears to my eyes. “Okay, no skirts.” Disappearing
into my room, I can hear him rustling around from here, pulling out stubborn
drawers that haven’t moved in what seems like ages. I pray that he doesn’t
bring me Grem’s clothes on accident; I don’t know if I could bear that.
Another strawberry explodes on
my tongue as I wait for him. Kyosuke and I have been talking about running away
the last couple of months now, somewhere… just away. Maybe to Italy, like I
wanted to back then. France is looking nice as well. Maybe even America, if I
feel daring, which I sort of do. Or to Grem’s old castle in Wales; the people
knew and would recognize me, I’m sure. But that place is a pipe dream; I could
no longer sleep in the room where he proposed to me than I could dig him up
from the ground and make a home in his coffin beside him.
It doesn’t really matter where. Just as long as it’s
not Japan anymore…
Kyosuke wanders back with a pair
of vinyl pants and a simple t-shirt, holding them as if they might detonate and
blow up, robbing him of his hands. I change in front of him without a blush, no
second thought. There is no shame between us; he has seen me nude a hundred
times over. But… his eyes are lingering on the tattoo against my hip, Grem’s
sigil that he etched into my flesh with his own hands, my gift to him. It burns
under his jade gaze, a reminder of my loneliness, my loss, my shattered
remains.
I leave my boxers crumpled on
the floor, but the shirt I drape with loving care over the back of the chair I
was sitting in; one of his shirts would never lie heaped on my floor. Ever.
Kyosuke is by the door, looking at me, expecting me, easing me in that gentle
way.
Outside. Outside without a real need. Outside
without a force yanking me to be out there. Outside where people are happy and
talking and laughing and I don’t belong…
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
“Promise.”
“B-but…”
He stalks to me, and I can see
his feelings of uselessness in his weary irises. He worries so much, too much,
about me, and I never make anything simple. Why? Why doesn’t it ever get any
easier? Why is everything so damn dark?
One of my hands is out, reaching
for Kyosuke; I can’t move without his hand gripping my own, without the feel of
someone’s blood coursing through a warm palm, reminding me that life is real,
that this Hell isn’t just some nightmare. His fingers, calloused and so gentle
with me, thread through my own, tugging me close, even as he’s opening the
door.
“You can do this, Kazu,” he
murmurs softly. “I’ve got faith in you.” He looked hesitant for a moment,
before he slid one hand against my back, resting against the bitter scars
without realization. It’s okay; strange that now, they’re my security blanket,
one of the last reminders that will never leave, will never fade.
“I love you,” he says as I take
a shaking, hesitant step over the threshold.
“…I know…”
It’s one-fifty-six and I’m out
of my box.