|
|
Post by MINAMI JUN on Jun 18, 2010 20:05:50 GMT -5
 i run my fingers cross windows to trace all the outlines that make up your face.haven't found all that i'm looking for“Jun, are you going home?”
“No, I’m fine…”
“It’s nearly midnight, your mom and dad…”
“…fine, it’s fine. Go home; your dad is probably having an aneurysm. Watch where you go and stay in the street lamps, okay? I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Jun… please. Please go home…”
“Later, okay? Later.”
She ended the conversation by pushing off the ground, rocketing her and her swing into the air with a squeak of the aging play place. The lights around the playground lit her face in a drowsy glow, betrayed the calm monotony of her voice with the unveiling of her twisted expression. And when she swept back, the push and pull of the swing drawing her under the shadows, she attempted to rearrange her countenance to better suit the tone of her voice. With her head bowed against her chest, she couldn’t form the stillness that she longed for and again the lights revealed her. The slight down turn of her lips, the draw of her thinned eyebrows to attempt to meet, the wrinkles of discontent around those narrowing eyes. That friend saw it all, drew back to register the obvious and then turned to leave. A parting word was not spent because this was something another couldn‘t touch. Jun’s expression chased the other away, leaving her alone to go up and down in her pitiful arc.
Pathetic.
All you do is hover and poke at others, act like the mother that they already have. Tell them not to do this, but do that. Order them around with the stubbornness of a mom and look after them to make sure that they’re behaving. You want them to be happy, so you move around them and herd them and protect them. Yet, when someone else is there trying to help you, when they try to work you around to see you happy, you reject it. You run away. You’re pathetic.
The swinging continued, went wilder and faster and higher. The stars were beneath her feet; her eyes were in nebulas, viewing the dust of outer space. Her fingers gripped around the chains with intensity, knuckles stretched and pained, but the pain was unrecognizable. This was not her reality; she was far away, being chased by her own thoughts. The mother inside of her was snapping after her, looking to claim her back on the earth with insistent claws. The great clouds of star dust curled around her as she ran through the night sky, trying her best to keep away from her world. She didn’t want to go back; she didn’t want to have to face what she had abandoned for this alternative.
I’m fine by myself; I can do this by myself. No one should tell me what is right for me. If I am the mother hen, then my chicks should not be chirping and pushing me in the right direction. I can handle anything on my own; I’ve grown up with only my parents watching over me, no older siblings, no other relatives. No one but they have pushed me in the right direction and that’s all I needed. Now that I am older, I can move past them and further onto my independence. I don’t need people to show me how to be happy; I can do that by myself.
Stop it. You’re not happy by yourself, you’re only happy when there are other people around you. If you never got to see any of them ever again, you’d be lost. You need them to be happy, they make you happy, no matter what interaction with them does that for you. If others express concern you shouldn’t push them away, you should welcome it. If they persist, you have to eventually learn how to bend. In the end, you can be independent and still lean on them when you need it. Like now. Go home.
I’m fine. Leave me alone. I don’t need to lean on anyone, if I lean on someone how am I ever going to be able to be a good mother? If I let myself bend and break down, let myself into a weaker state I’m letting them down. No one can depend on someone who needs to depend on someone else. It’s just not possible.
Go home.
No. No. No. I’m not going home; I’m not going to crawl back with my tail between my legs.
Go home.
Never. I can’t do it. I can’t lean on someone else. No.
Go home.
“Shut up!”
The jaws had snapped on, drew her to her knees and dragged. There was nothing to grasp in space, nothing tangible or helpful. It had been an ideal, a comfortable other reality that existed so she could run away from her own fear of dependency. But now it was shattered and she was hurtling back to Earth with her own help, her own thoughts the chain that bound her to the world. The rationality that she had dismissed to float among the darkness of nothingness crashed onto her, made her clutch at her head with disgust. Pathetic, she was right, she was such a word. At this moment, the epitome of it.
“I’m going home.”
The screech of rusting chains was what finally hit her as her harsh swinging ended, her feet dangling in a hair’s reach of the woodchips. She couldn’t see anything, her head still wrapped within her arms, but in a moment the seat would be emptied and she would be on her way back home. And when she would reach the door to her home, she wouldn’t be able to look up as she knocked on the door, so sickened by her own behavior. But when they opened the door, her parents would wrap her up in their arms and say nothing as they squeezed her. Their lips would move to create words, asking her questions that she couldn’t answer. She still couldn’t…
I can’t do it, I can’t lean on someone else. No.
In the near, yet far future she was crouched in front of a different door with much the same thought, her fingers fisted to knock-knock-knock with the familiar sense of dread and comfort. “Kage, I’m home…” Murmured into the familiarity of her thighs, she couldn’t look at the door as she waited for the inner answer. Again, and always, pathetic.
|
|
|
|
Post by TAKANO KAGENUI on Jun 19, 2010 22:42:50 GMT -5
 ( I FEEL HELPLESS, SLEEPING AT BEST—WAITING FOR YOUR RETURN )[/color] --------ARE YOU EVER COMING HOME?[/size] [/center] How many days had it been? Had it reached a week yet? Kagenui didn’t know. It felt as though time had suspended itself around him, made hours and minutes irreparably blur together in a dizzy mélange of broken routine and an elusive feeling of illness that persisted at all waking hours. They had all been waking hours. His mind began breeding alternative universes behind his haggard sight, universes that were dark and filled with a single, insistent hum that was both soft and yet painfully loud in his ears when it ran endlessly on. Just whirring and darkness. And after the third day, that empty place didn’t bother him, didn’t drive him madder than he already was—it became, in a way, comforting. It was a quiet escape where he did not have to think or move or smile; he could sit for hours in a daze, spirited away to that blindspot where he would do nothing. Nothing in the whirring in the darkness.
On the fourth day, she found her way into that little patch of reprieve as well. The insistent hum that had lulled him into semi-consciousness warbled with a distinctly familiar, feminine lilt. There was now a second person, or, rather, a second voice, resonating in the confines of his mind. It was quieter than the one in his head that he had taken to represent himself. It didn’t seem so humorously calm, or ask him ridiculous things to pass time. Instead, it was softer, it spoke more and with a greater urgency, and it knew his name, said it often in a way that made him cringe at it.
For the first few moments it spoke to him, the first day it appeared, it sounded garbled and distant, as though speaking to him from beneath the waves of rushing water. It began growing clearer the graver it grew; it grew graver by the moment. The distortion faded slowly, giving way to the frantic voice of a woman, a woman he knew and cherished. It frightened him, causing his feet to root to ground and the things around him to be all the more forgotten, and for a moment he simply looked around for the body that housed the voice in his head. He attempted to bargain with it, responding to a voice whose directives weren’t real. The gravity of the situation had set in, nestled in his head with the darkness and the dulcet voice and the sickness that was both never and yet always in the back of his mind.
It wore on him. Visibly.
His teachers commented idly on his state, questioned what was on his mind because they knew what they were looking at, persisted when he lied—gave up when he fell away into his daze to escape him. He knew what he looked like, how he stared off into space, like a robot which had been parked and switched off. Kagenui didn’t need them to tell him what he already knew. He wasn’t delusional, he could still function and answer questions, he just seemed to have trouble remembering where he was at times. It took longer to walk the narrow world he’d created between work and home because he so often forgot where he was going. It took longer to fulfill his routines because his sense of time failed to connect with the rest of his world.
The dogs often worried his clothes with their noses when he came home, alone, their claws clacking against the floor as they danced anxiously along the floor, not understanding; concerned in their own way. They whined when he pet them for hours on end, stuck in the rut of his movements as day melted into night and was set ablaze again by the rising sun. Sunrise. Sunset. Sunrise. Sunset. Sunrise. They left, weren’t at his feet, watching him with dewy-bright eyes as the hours withered away, didn’t come to their names when he called, if he ever called them at all. Kagenui wasn’t sure when he spoke and when he thought he did at times. They didn’t even perk up when the door rapped, or when he came home. Their withdrawal period had ended, and now they merely waited for their master to follow suit with a nudge or two between meals when he was mobile and away from his dizzying spells.
Kagenui wasn’t sure where they were exactly when he sat down to attempt his work that day. He only knew that they weren’t nestled at his side when he leaned against the table and ran his fingers through his hair. His cranium had begun to ache suddenly with a strange, pulsating pain, as though his blood vessels were pounding against his skull in a desperate desire to rupture themselves. He dug the fingers of his right hand into the side of his temple and pressed, hard, into the skin, against the bone, to make it stop. It bred itself from a sound outside of his internal environment, was responsive to its power and disrupted the processes he had functioned on in the expanse of the days she was gone. It wasn’t until those processes cut off that the sound registered, that his arms slid away from the desk, that his feet shuffled to the door; that his hand toyed with the knob before opening the door to whoever had rapped against it.
They resumed when Kagenui accomplished that much, disconnected the senses from the brain; he saw who was at his door without really seeing. [/blockquote] |
|
|
|
Post by MINAMI JUN on Jun 20, 2010 16:11:09 GMT -5
i run my fingers cross windows to trace all the outlines that make up your face.haven't found all that i'm looking for The difference between the teenage and adult run away was the level of obstinacy that both took on when approaching the situation. It seemed that the voice was late in its approach this time around; her own ignorance in believing that she could handle this all on her own blocking it more fiercely than last. The words that would’ve made her rationalize her fears, words that would come from her own conscience, were absent. This absence allowed her to move through days instead of hours, made her able to experience all those things that she feared most without making her draw back and return to the place where she would be safe, the place that would allow her to return to comfort. It came too late, when she was already battered by that which she had fled her haven for. When it collided with her, finally approached her, she fell backwards at the force.
You’re pathetic.
I know I am.
Go home.
Okay.
It was broken, her will to resist and attempt to work around. The ability to run away had faded into nothingness, but in its stead came her weakness. The vitality of her limbs had long since vanished, leaving her to rise from her tucked away place in the alley with a slowness that made snails go green with envy. Her heavy legs eventually got her to stand, to stretch and move ahead. In the back of her head, the voice clucked and tsked and did all those motherly things that she would have done at another person if they were so. Her thoughts reprimanded her, but she couldn’t hear much of them over the sluggish commands of her mind to move, to get up, to go back.
“I’m scared…” the breathy whisper came as she exited her corner of the world, blinking back the harshness of the sunlight in combination with the noise her hands had kept out. Even as she exited her fingers were stuck in her matting hair, squeezing down on her ears to keep away the ruckus.
Go home.
I’m going. I’m going. I’m scared.
Those fingers hadn’t twitched from their place when she had entered the apartment building, passed through the lobby and took the stairs. The thoughts that ran through her head were the circling voices of her maternal side pressing her forward and the other end curling up like a child, murmuring words of agreement no matter the prompt. In reality, there really only was one. Go home. And that was what she had done.
Crouched in front of their door, with her head in her hands, she had knocked and he had slowly answered the call. There had been the idea in the crevices of that gray matter that he would run to the door, swing it open with an intensity and she would be pulled into a hug, a reassurance. But instead she was met with the blankness of someone who wasn’t really there; who had completed actions due to a stimulant and now was waiting for the next. The silence between them was the rift that she had created between his reality and his whirling mind, something that she could not yet know of.
“Kage.” Her face lifted from the comfort of her thighs, though her body did not yet follow. “Kage, I’m home. I’m sorry, I’m home.” It was desperate, pathetic and looking for that physical recognition, her voice and her expression. The face of her from years ago was not found her, the attempt at an air void of anything not on her mind. Instead, it was moved and broken in the lines of pleading, looking for his approval. “I’m sorry, I’m home.” It was all she could form, those broken phrases that were sick with emotion.
Eventually, her body moved in response to the drilling commands of her brain, stumbling upwards onto her feet and moving forward. Jun’s dirtied hands touched his cheek, ran along the expanse of the cleaner skin, smudging it. Those lips parted to speak again, to say something to confront the growing silence, the aching, but the remained parted and voiceless. Those fingers just moved back and forth, trying to find the response she spoke for.
|
|
