YnM Fanfiction

Sakura
Written by Calis

Disclaimer: YnM belongs to Yoko Matsushita-sensei

Chapter Sixteen: Dark Dreams, Silent Screams

" Where is he? "

The scream of wrath was accentuated with the sound of smashing china, splintering what brittle peace that existed in the huge house without a soul. More inane destruction followed as the pale woman in the black velvet dress flung pieces of the delicate tea set against the wall. She clutched at the white crocheted lace tablecloth in front of her and rent at it with her nails in her anger, sending silverware and crockery crashing to the floor. The faint scent of roses wafted in the musty air as the infusion of rosebuds spilled over the broken spout of the Dresden teapot. The combination of smells was nauseating but she took no notice. She screamed the question repeatedly yet the ominous silence was her only reply. No one would come and see what was wrong. The servants were long gone, dismissed because they were no longer needed just like her and her son. The old man called Tamura was the only one left but it was evident where his loyalty belonged.

Unable to withstand the violence, the delicate web of fabric tore into shreds. Pale wide eyes stared blankly devoid of any emotion even as those thin white hands continued to rip and tear absently. The once beautifully coiffured hair was now a mess; silvery tresses loosen from their pins to fall in disarray about that harsh beautiful face. She had been waiting until day had passed into night. The room was shrouded in shadowy darkness that the meager illumination from the thin narrow sliver of a moon outside could not penetrate. The hoarse uneven rasping that was the sound of her breathing echoed unnaturally loud in the tomblike silence. Gradually those hands became still and with a sudden movement, she cringed hastily backwards away from the mess that surrounded her. A fearful whimper issued from her throat as she surveyed the ravaged remnants of her wrath.

Shaking her head in denial, she whined piteously as if afraid. She glanced around frantically in her guilt, fearing that someone had witnessed her misdeeds. Finally assured that no one was watching, she scampered over to where the shredded pieces of the ruined tablecloth. Grasping each tattered fragment to her bosom, her eyes scanned the room quickly, searching for something that she could use to hide the discriminating evidence. Rising to her feet unsteadily, the pale woman almost fell in her haste as she rushed towards a tall heavy vase almost hidden behind the long dark drapery. She stuffed the shreds down the wide neck of the vessel and as each fragment vanished, she started to smile until she saw the pieces of shattered china strewn across the floor. She had failed to notice them in her single-mindedness to hide the torn tablecloth but her smile held firm. After all, she had found a perfect hiding place. No one would know what she had done and she would not be punished.

It was a lesson that she had learned well. He did not care for wanton destruction of his possessions and when she had taken to wrecking his prized antiques in futile bids for his attention, he had retaliated viciously. She could still remember the pain that exploded as his fist smashed her face. One hand touched her cheek unconsciously as she picked up the shattered pieces and concealed them in the same manner as with the tablecloth. She had to be very careful in curbing her destructive tendency. He would send for the doctors to take her away. She shuddered at that thought and at the things she knew very well that would be done to her once they take her back to the institute. She recalled how the wide leather bands had dug painful welts into her delicate skin as the smiling nurses strapped her down into a bed. They would leave her like that immobile for days in that special cell where everything was painted white until she was docile enough to be released. She hated that room because the starkness frightened her. It made her think of being trapped forever, the white walls enclosing her for eternity, separating her away from her precious son.

She picked up the spilled rosebuds and threw them into the broken teapot. She loved roses, especially those dark crimson ones the color of blood but no one ever gives them to her anymore. The familiar cloying scent brought back memories, some, which made her smile, and for a moment the face in the old mirror reflected a faint echo of the girl she once was. Yet time on its silent wings had passed her by, leaving its ravages behind. Like a faded photograph, her youth was a thing of the past and the mirror showed only the harsh reality of the withered woman that she was now. Those silver eyes lost their dreamy cast and the hand that grasped the broken teapot trembled when she looked upon herself in the ancient mirror. She stared at the image with disbelief, unable to accept that the woman with the withered face was herself. Lines of discontent marked the corners of her eyes and mouth, adding more years than her actual age. She flung one arm over her face, not willing to see the creature in the mirror.

" No, no, no.... " She repeated brokenly.

"No! " The cracked teapot sailed through the air to smash against silvered glass, raining shattered shards over the floor.

The mirror lied.

The change was very subtle but still the servant noticed it. The young master's body was tense, his back straighter and his face impassive. Tamura watched him discreetly with the rear view mirror, as his young master became another person. Gone was the smiling youth with gentle eyes and in his place was a cold aloof copy. The servant had been by the young man's side long enough to discern the mood he was in by the barest hint of his body language. It was such a pity he lamented privately to himself. Seeing the young man smile was almost like a miracle he never thought would happen. The happy child had not died but had been buried deep within. For a moment, the child had returned, brought back briefly by that dark-eyed boy. The boy called Oriya was perhaps his young master's first and only friend. Tamura had been surprised when his young master not only brought the injured boy home but also tended to him personally. His young master guarded his privacy fiercely because of the stigma of his birth and to bring Oriya back to the house twice was totally out of character.

Yet it had been a good thing because the young master had been happy. Tamura knew well enough how miserly that fate had been when it came to granting some happiness on the youth. There was no joy, no laughter in that house where he spent his childhood. Things had been slightly better when the old master was still alive. The servant knew the youth's grandfather had tried his best but there was some ugliness that he could not protect the boy from. As he eased the car into the traffic seamlessly, Tamura wished he could have done more but it was a line that he could not cross. He was aware of his status and had been reminded of that fact curtly by the current master when Tamura had dared to stop him from slapping the child for no apparent reason. The old master was a kind man but weak and indulgent when it came to his only son and heir. He had such hopes; Tamura remembered for the old master had frequently shared his thoughts with him as he chauffeured the man. The hospital was a legacy created and built by the Muraki family and each generation had taken up the duty to ensure that it flourished and continued. Yet, everything had almost came to an end at the hands of that wastrel. So many years of blood and sweat all ruined just because of one weak link. The confrontation was between father and son was disastrous. Every word was malicious and hurled like vicious spikes by the younger man. The ugliness opened eyes blinded by love and for the first time, the elder Muraki realized the great mistake he made. Despair triggered a near-fatal heart attack and the son that he had rested all his hopes on had simply stormed out of the house without even caring if his father lived or died. The elder master never fully recovered, the blow wounded too deep, reducing him to nothing more than a broken old man. Then one day, the prodigal son had returned with what he thought was the perfect solution to the problem - What could be better than charming a rich and mentally unstable heiress into marrying him?

It was disgraceful in Tamura's opinion to make use of someone so shamelessly. It was also an abuse and violation of the trust between a physician and his patient. The servant could not understand what his kind gentleman of a master had done to deserve such a ignominious offspring. The current master was not fit the bear the Muraki name but the young man Tamura served now did. He was everything the old man hoped for and more but unfortunately the elder Muraki never had a chance to see with his own eyes that his legacy had a worthy successor. The young man's father hardly lived at the old family estate any more, preferring to spend his time in the city apartment where he had set up his other family or with the various women he was dallying with. Once a place filled with life and laughter, the huge house was sadly lacking in human presence now. Besides Tamura and the young master, the only other person who lived there now was the mistress. Her husband would have preferred it if the institute could lock her away forever but she always hovered on the brink between sanity and madness. He hit her as a means of provoking her into attacking him. If she was dangerous, he could get her certified mad and he would be a free man but she never took the bait. He made the people from the institute come and take her away time and again but she always returned. Perhaps, that was a kind of retribution.

The stairs were covered with dust and the cobwebs decorated the balustrade. No one had came this way for a while but today someone had. The swish of a silk dress had swept away the delicate gossamer threads and the distinctive impression of a woman's high-heeled shoes marked the previously undisturbed layer of dust. And another accompanying set of indentations was in the making. The young man took each step slowly but the aged planks that he treaded upon made no sound. Not even the barest creak to break the heavy ominous silence. He had not come to the attic room for some time. Basking in the newfound intimacy of his relationship with Oriya, he had allowed himself to forget that the room existed. It was an oversight that would perhaps cost him dearly but Muraki was no stranger to the price. He paused in front of the small dome-shaped door and one hand closed over the knob but he did not turn it. Right from the moment that he had said goodbye to Oriya, he had been preparing himself. Yet as he stood before the closed doorway, Muraki realized that he would never be ready. He could have stayed behind at Oriya's place but that would only be a vain effort to delay the inevitable. He was sure that the younger boy noticed the elusive disturbing ripples that stirred beneath his seemingly smiling facade. Ever since they had became lovers; the boy's empathy towards his feelings grew stronger. Those beautiful mahogany eyes had been worried when they watched him depart but Oriya had refrained from any questioning. Perhaps attributing his sempai's unease to the prospect of returning to a cold empty house. If only Oriya knew what it was that he dreaded returning to, Muraki's lips curved bitterly. She was just behind that barrier of wood, waiting like a hungry spider for the unwilling fly to inevitably ensnare itself on the deadly silken web. He knew that she was waiting for him to come. He wanted to run and had done so yet no matter how far the distance he always returned, drawn back by something within that had no name. He always came back to house where she waited.

She had become impatient and her temper had gotten better of her. He found the traces of her displeasure even though she had concealed them well. The bedroom floor was damp and the faint cloying scent of roses still lingered even though the windows have been throw open. It was a familiar aroma that he had grew up with. Roses were his mother's favorite flowers and how she loved the fragrant tincture brewed with the tiny tightly furled buds. As a child, he had drunk it with her during teatime every afternoon in the garden. Tea was a strict formal affair and his best behavior was expected and enforced. Misbehave and he would be sent to his room immediately without any dinner. Once he had accidentally shattered a cup from one of her prized tea sets in his eagerness in reaching out for a piece of cake. She slapped him so hard that he fell from the chair he was sitting on and her nails had dug into the tender flesh of his arm as she dragged him upstairs to his room. He cried and pleaded from pain and fear but she heard nothing as she turned the key in the lock. Curling into a ball, he sobbed quietly until he fell asleep until hunger woke him in the darkness. Starving and miserable, the tears were perilously close to falling when the door had miraculously opened. Armed with the master key, Tamura had come to his rescue with hot milk and sandwiches but the faithful old servant could not protect him now. The simple comforts could no longer offer him any solace.

Besides the shattered remnants of the tea that she had prepared, the bedroom was empty. He knew where she had gone for he could the number of places where she could be with a single hand. She would never willingly venture out of her domain without a compelling reason. His mother had hated the old house and everything within with passion, refusing to move in until a whole suite of rooms had been remodeled for her in the European styles that she favored. She believed everything had been done for her out of love and in an ironic way it was true. His father had done it out of love of her money. Now he stood outside the room created especially to house her extensive collection of antique dolls. They had fascinated Muraki into spending endless hours in the room as he listened to the tales that his mother spun around her porcelain children and one particular doll with her long golden curls and sapphire eyes became his favorite. He would run his hands through her beautiful gleaming hair that slipped through his fingers like silk and dress her in the myriad fashions of a wardrobe that had been created just for her. Her name was Veronica and she was his companion. His only friend who shared every little secret. Yet one day, he could not find her at her place among the shelves. Another doll whose name he did not know sat in her place. He searched and searched but Veronica had vanished without a trace. It was as if she had never existed. Confused and bewildered, he had gone to his mother asking where Veronica could be and in her cold beautiful voice she had replied that the doll had been thrown away. Drawing him into her embrace, one slender hand cupped his face slowly caressing. He was frightened but he did not know why. Instinct told him to flee but his limbs were heavy like lead, he could not move. She touched him; a chilling sensation that made him shivered even as she whispered against his ear. The voice low and husky, speaking strange words that made no sense to a child's mind.

Muraki had not understood then and now older and wiser, he knew what waited for him behind that door. Knowledge and reason begged him to turn away yet his hand only gripped the knob tighter. Deliberately, he stopped to think, silencing the rational thoughts in his mind. Withdrawing deep into the secret darkness that was his sanctuary until he lost the ability to feel. He was detached, like a soul that had left its receptacle of flesh. He watched himself from within, the silver eyes emotionless as his body moved like a puppet manipulated by unseen strings. The hand that was no longer his, opened the door and the feet that he could no longer control, stepped across the threshold. Perhaps he belonged there just like the many inhabitants of the room, another doll in a room of dolls. The merger light of a single candle illuminated the room, the feeble flame flickering from the sudden draft from the open door. Casting shadows that capered madly on the walls in some strange bizarre dance but the curvetting was abruptly cut short as he obeyed her wish to close the door. She sat in the middle of the room and beckoned him over. The bone white face with its blood red lips grinned with delight at the return of a favorite toy. A living breathing toy that was hers and hers alone. Created by her, a part of her always and forever. He was her doll, her most perfect doll.

It was always the same, like a reel of film playing again and again without end. So many years but everything remained unchanged. He moved towards her, the sacrifice in the ritual and kneeled by her side. She spoke the words again as her hands caressed his hair but his ear heard not the sibilant sounds. Her painted face was inches from his own but his eyes flat like dull pewter saw nothing. He did not move nor cover himself as she stripped him naked. Those eyes that were a mirror of his own devoured him hungrily and like a rabid wolf, she dragged him down to the floor. Beautiful, so beautiful with all that pale skin and long, so long since she last touched and felt that exquisite body beneath her. Her hands roamed over his body, covering every inch until she found her prize. Like a starved woman, she feasted on bounty that was he voraciously. Pliant and untenable, he let himself be defiled. He made no sound when her nails raked across his breast in her twisted passion, drawing thin rivulets of blood. She laughed as she licked and tasted the coppery metallic flavor of the sanguine fluid. Lying there, all he could see was the endless sea of soulless eyes looking down upon him. Orbs of pretty colored glass, they held no pity, shed no tear for him because he was one of them.

The candle burned itself out and soon there was only darkness.

Only darkness...