written: charlotte
date: 16 June 2002
note: weiss kruez belongs to its original owners. aya + ken. dark / angsty / non-yaoi (but still delicious); one of my fave stories
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There is too much blood upon my hands. Literally. Figuratively. From the past, the present. My pale fingers have dark stains, a red so vivid and thick that my own eyes can see all too clearly, yet no one else spares a passing glance. I wear midnight black attire, yet is that colour not meant for the evil shadows that lurk behind sharp corners? I should be clothed in the dress of angels if I were truly a white knight. Bull. I am an angel of death. I pull the life from monsters as well as innocent creatures who should not have tasted my blade.
I am arranging these beautiful things before me. I shouldn't be touching them at all. The petals are soft beneath my long fingers as I gingerly stroke their delicate forms. I pray that no crimson stains suddenly appear on the pure white blooms. I would have to throw them away then. Kill yet another innocent being that had only to meet me to know death. My hair gives me away. At least, my reflection seems obvious enough. Slanted violet gaze upon a white face giving way to a deep red. A blood red that clashes violently with my thick black killing attire or faded orange sweater I wear around the shop. My eyes are burning into the speckled counter before me, wishing the reflection of myself in the gold framed mirror across the room to stop following me. I want the impossible. It is like staring at ourselves in a puddle. When we smash our reflection, the water ripples and changes shape, and we disappear for a moment. But, we always return, our face looking back up at us, still and unchanged. I hate the truth.
The blond is speaking about something unimportant, his lips still clenching a cigarette lazily. Sprawled upon a chair, his lanky figure is bathed in the dying sunlight, giving him an angelic glow. How deceiving. I wish I could exude the kind of confidence and carefree attitude as Yoji. Yet, I know that his outer being is a fa�ade, that he and I are the same men battling opposite demons. I envy the way he carries himself, adequately hiding his feelings beneath a man I wouldn't otherwise associate with if I didn't know him personally. I, on the other hand, wear my soul upon my black sleeve. No one would believe me though. I am an icicle some say. Yet, icicles break when crashing to the ground.
"They say it's going to rain this week." The voice was quiet as the boy observed the fiery sunset from the back windows. His words were such a contradiction against the present view.
"You're kidding?" Yoji slid the cigarette from his mouth quickly as he eased up from the chair to stand next to Ken at the window. His eyes were squinting, seemingly trying to spot a wayward raindrop, a sign to prove Ken's word correct. "We'd better not have a shower because I'm going out tomorrow night. Besides, the weather looks great right now."
"Some say the sky changes moods as quickly as any woman," the chestnut haired boy said with an ominous whisper in his voice. As Yoji disappeared out back, I caught the small smile upon Ken's mouth as his stare never broke from the now cool sky before him.
"Do you like rain, Aya?"
I almost didn't hear him, and yet his voice seemed to shatter the silence. I glanced up at him with a blank face as he turned momentarily to look at me, a simple grin on his face, before he turned once again to face the glass.
"It's so powerful. When I'm alone on a rainy day, I go out to practice my soccer because it gives me such an adrenaline rush. I'm not chasing a ball, I'm dodging raindrops." He gave a light laugh then. "Rain purifies, and the world is so clean right after it pours."
I hate the rain. It's ugly and cold and harsh. Drowning. I always feel as I'm sinking beneath those heavy drops of liquid, beings that crash toward the concrete and my body with wicked intent.
"I'm not really fond of the rain," I answer lightly after a long pause. Ken nods silently, his back still towards me.
My reflection is staring at me again, those dark lavender eyes watching my every move. My hands fumble quietly beneath the counter as I try to escape, my fingers searching for the last few roses to fill the arrangement within the clear blue vase. I immediately snap my hand back up. I must have forgotten to clip a few thorns, and a single drop of blood is forming on my index finger. It's mocking my pale skin as it rolls down the length of my finger, leaving a dark trail of red. I must have made a tiny sound when pricked because Ken is suddenly beside me. Soundlessly, for a reason unbeknownst to either of us, we both watch the crimson path my blood makes, fascinated by the way it continues to seep so smoothly from inside my skin. It has weaved a beautiful spell, something so different from the disgust I feel within my chest as I catch a glimpse of the smeared blood upon my long coat, slashed across my cheek after a mission.
"Aya." He has broken the trance. He has spoken too hard, too loudly in the air that froze for only an instant. "You have to clean that up."
My eyes lost their glaze and quickly tightened. Ken ignored my glare and rummaged through a top drawer a few feet away for the medical kit.
"You're overreacting," I said coldly. "It's nothing but a drop of blood." I slid my fingertip between my lips, sucking lightly at the wound. As my tongue savored the tangy sweetness of the liquid, I almost laughed at the absurdity of this situation. My katana has felt the sting of flesh and blood, as my victims have swallowed cold, merciless steel. I have treated Ken's wounds, have seen sickening gashes upon stomachs and arms, have scrubbed away dirty stains from Omi's dark clothing. I cannot fathom fearing a prick from a wayward thorn, nor feel it's pain anymore.
"You're trying to get an infection, aren't you?" Ken said sarcastically. His tan hand grasped my wrist and yanked the finger from my mouth. I sighed irritably and let him wipe an ivory cloth gently against my hand and wrap a small band aid around the fingertip as if I were a child. My hand lay upon the cool countertop as I examined the ugly brown addition to my milky skin.
"I wanted the Pokemon bandage." My voice did not change in tone nor pitch, just carried to where Ken stood staring emotionlessly at me. He was not amused.
"You just made a joke." It was a deadpan statement spoken along with the shake of an annoyed head as he wandered from the room. "You're strange, Aya."
Indeed I am.
* * *
Black all over. Blackness from within leaking from my wounds. I watched her, watched little Aya-chan fade into nothingness before my wide eyes, listened to her shrill cry of help twist my heart so that I couldn't breath. I could not help her though. I was battling with someone. Myself. My reflection had emerged from its place behind the glass and bared its sword. It sliced my skin with rapid speed, and I watched myself the way my victims catch my blurry form before their fall into death. I could not move my mouth, silence bursting from between my white lips. It, him, me, myself, I. I was going to break. The shards of my sanity had popped and I reached out my hand, only to grab hold of emptiness as the world tilted.
My room came immediately into view as I launched myself up, gasping quietly, my breath punching sharp holes in the still air. Over my chest lay a slim layer of sweat, and I ran a quick hand over the sticky skin. The deep cobalt coloured sky gazed serenely at me from my open window, the white stars twinkling from their perches. The swirling air of the nightmare was gone, replaced with a soothing breeze. I let my eyes close as I sat amidst the tangled sheets, wishing the calm caresses of the air to give me sanity. So many nights. Different dreams, same outcome. I am floating. I am an assassin who must wear two faces. Is it my lot in this life to forever be a killer? I must kill, so I fulfill my duty, but I do not find satisfaction. There is nothing else, except her. And she is sleeping for an infinite amount of time in a hospital bed. I am drowning and there is nothing to grab hold of.
* * *
"Damn it, Ken! You were right. Aw hell, she's going to hate me." Yoji began muttering to himself as he strode from the room.
Ken gave an apologetic shrug toward Yoji's disappearing form before he turned back to gaze up at the overcast sky. The morning had already been filled with the bland colour of grey, and by mid afternoon, had deepened even more. We've had a grand total of three customers come in today, with the second person not actually needing our services, but our phone to make a call that sounded like nothing more than a B-movie drug deal.
"You get it?" the man had asked into the phone. "I have your stuff. You got cash? Meet me in an hour. You know where."
I sighed. Again.
"We should just close early," Omi suggested as he walked through the room, his hands tucked in his pants pockets. Then, he was gone, going down to the basement to play on his computer most likely. I listened to him whistle pleasantly as he descended the stairs.
A rumble was heard in the distance. Ken's dark eyes sparked as two lone raindrops splattered against the large window. More clear liquid began to fall then, quickly and firmly against the pane. Pat, pat, pat. I watched a hand slide up the cold glass, a finger trace the liquid shapes, follow one in its travels down the window pane. Child. Ken was a boy in a man's body, a soccer player in a killer's skin. Iove always watched him without knowing my reasons. His is one so opposite from myself in every way. Dark. Pale. Hot. Cold. Simple. Sharp. Soft. Hard. I would like to speak with him more, but I do not know what words I would choose. I am silent in every way, and good conversation evades me because I don't encourage it. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me...
Suddenly, I'm claustrophobic. I'm suffocating within this room, with his presence, within my body. I slide without notice from the room and out the front door. I'm pelted by hard drops in an instant. I knew they hated me. Walking out to stand in the middle of the sidewalk, I let the rain coat my body, soak through my hair so that I imagine rivulets of crimson staining my cheeks. My eyes are half closed, my mouth exposed to the wetness that's slipping between my lips. I look up into nothing but straight lines of blue liquid. I've always hated the rain. Yet, I do not fear it at this moment. I welcome it because maybe it can surrender a cure, a healing upon my soul.
I glance down at my palms. It's still there. The blood is only blurry now, but it is still there. I hate the rain. It's nothing but an illusion. It cannot wash away these stains, stains that are so bright and bold in colour even now. This painful existence isn't worth it. Wash me away. I hope to find peace in the afterlife. Since when do I even believe in an afterlife? I can't think. My mind is shutting down, my body becoming numb as I continue to stand motionless under the cold and wet. I have failed her. I have failed as a human being. I'm an icicle, remember? I am melting, and it isn't as unpleasant as I thought. I am lost once again in a trance, in a beautifully concocted nightmare to which I do not wish to stop. The edges of reality are bleeding away, giving way to a surreal atmosphere that wraps around me. It is pushing me down. Should I give in? I have nothing to lose anymore. Lost. Forever. I'm falling. Someone. Anyone. I am drowning and there is nothing to grab hold of...
...but he has grabbed me. His hand was surprisingly warm as his fingers wrapped firmly around my wrist. His face was distorted in the rain. Or was it only my own gaze that had twisted? I turned to look at him, his eyes solid in their hazel depth.
"Aya..." Did I just hear him whisper between the spaces in the rain? He spoke my name as cautiously as if he were walking across glass. "Aya, I'm right here."
"What?" I mumbled, my violet eyes growing clearer as I stared blankly at him.
"You said you were drowning," Ken said. "I'm here."
I was suddenly gathered into his arms, his skin slippery and smooth. My body was stiff against him, unresponsive. He kept repeating my name in a quiet chant. The rain continued streaming down upon our forms as we stood there, the last two people alone on earth it seemed. My mind awoke. What was he doing? Did he wish to be tainted by my sins as well? He was stroking my neck. Stop touching me. You are so much more innocent than I. Please, don't hold me like this. I do not deserve a friend. Dark, red liquid was raining down now, flowing through Ken's dark hair. He was going to be stained forever. It streaked across his cheek. Horrified, I started struggling against him, shoving him away with my arms. But his grip was relentless.
"Aya," he ground from between his teeth as he tightened his arms around my body. "Aya, stop."
"Let go," I growled.
"No. There's something wrong with you. You said you were drowning. I want to help you." Ken kept his voice so steady as I strained against him.
My deep voice grew louder. "Let go! Do you want to be stained too? To see yourself dripping with blood in your mirror?"
Without releasing his hold, Ken looked up at me, his eyes holding sadness and understanding. With the back of his hand, he gently began to wipe away the slick wet from my face. He thought there were tears mingled within the raindrops. It occurred to me that I hadn't cried, hadn't let a tear fall for so long. I let my body go limp and he did not expect it. His arms still around me, we both slumped wearily onto the hard pavement beneath us. It was then I admitted defeat. I let warm, salty streaks of water wash down my face without a sound.
"Aya... Aya, I'm going to hold onto you," Ken murmured, his head coming down to rest against my neck, his breath stroking my cold skin. "I know exactly what you feel, but I'm not going to let it destroy me. I play hard, and I play to win. You're not going to drown. Not anymore."
He held me. I slowly let my knotted muscles regain their original shapes as I relaxed against his body, a body glowing warm with hope and strength. I do not pretend to be a strong man. I am only a body who kills because I have nothing else to live for except this curse of revenge. And yet, I have been shown pure kindness. I realize that I have not been saved by my hands grabbing onto something sturdy, but by strong hands that reached out to pull me from the dark. We sat there forever, letting the rain pelt us again and again, clothing covering us in vain as it stuck to our bodies like a second skin. I was drowning now, but a drowning that was above the waves. I cannot run from myself, but I can float slowly towards the surface and reach up. And know that someone's fingers will wrap around mine, a grip that will not let go as it pulls me up from beneath crimson swirls...
[end]