Intervals
by consilience
disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
The eye is the first circle. But I am tired and do not know if I can muster a second. Those who do not know death tell me that life is a series-a beautiful series-of circles. Experiences after experiences, we must always seek for more. There is always a new ring of ripples to succeed the old and I am as much in the center as the boundless peripheral. They tell me I have so much potential—I am chock full of jewels, secrets and complexities. Don't stop.
They do not know that I am only alive because Death has rejected me. Cruel Death who will not have me, cruel Life where I do not belong. When I was torn back to the living, I saw myself for the first time and realized that I am no series of advancing ripples. I never was.
The eye is the first circle. From there, I have hemorrhaged dry. My eyes, they bled a scarlet red for you. You who are the embodiment of a gentle ripple through ice; I strained myself to catch a glimpse of exquisiteness. My eyes, pinpoints now; fading, diluting, gone.
The circle closes, I see no more.
The eye is the first circle. It is the only one that matters right now. I am finally seeing you.
My legs burn; they draw circles in the air as I run—never enough, never fast enough. You're a slumped figure there on the bench. 100 meters away, not close enough. 99, 98, 97…
We left each other. You disappeared and I chose not to search—arguing for your prerogative. But whatever I did, I spiraled towards you. I tried to do more and more, to find what life had to offer, what friends, lovers, mentors could teach me. Yet when they asked for commitment to a decision, a path, a bond, I always remained in silence.
Fuck your prerogative, I want answers from you. Speak for me.
Unattainable. Permanence is but a word of degrees.
I won't be fooled. I won't believe that each breath will lead to a next. Everything is a tease. The drama of life and death are caught in the interval between an inhale and an exhale.
I take no chances. I want to feel permanently alive, to feel what you feel, so I inject it over and over.
Euphoria—
to feel what it is like to have you, without the memories, without the burdens and scars. Without me.
Unattainable. Permanence is but a word of degrees. Your dynamism frightened me, but only because I was trying to contain you to a constant. You asked for things I didn't know how to give. You felt with such intensity that it made my thoughts feel so simple by comparison.
Who am I to try to understand you? I would only disappoint you. Yet it made me furious to hear the others gossip about you as though they had reached out and touched you. Reporting back with, "this is what she feels like." Perhaps I was just jealous that I could not correct their arrogant words.
Even when you were so far away, word of you never completely ceased to whisper in the air. Those who were hooked on fantasizing about you, on hating you, on owning a part of you—they could not be without wondering about you. I couldn't help listening too, about all the crazy things you did, the ridiculously stupid things you did. Money, mafia, parties, drugs. At one point a deer for a pet.
Of all people to be your partner in crime—Kanzaki, the pretty boy. Maybe you think you belong together because, in some ways, you are similar. Stubborn. Obsessive. Hidden. You should know then that there is a fundamental difference that separates you from his kind of backstabbing scum. He is confused about being alive. You are alive with confusion. Self-preservation has never been your primary motivation. Even during the Carnival-especially then-it was all for me.
When I found out that he had left his debts to you and sent the thugs in your direction, it took a great amount of control not to beat him to death. Solve his existential crises. With his rotten face he looked up at me and said that it didn't matter; you were on your way out regardless. Full-on addiction.
There could only be one heroine in your life and it would not be me.
Excuse his tacky pun.
After Kanzaki's dingy apartment that reeked of sex, your trail went cold. But if I've learned anything throughout my adolescence, it's how to chase and be relentless. I never saw myself as someone to save you, that's not how we work. I just want to tell you that you are my definition for life. Without the counterfeit stimulants, without the air of sensationalism, without the façade—just you; unattainable, fascinating, you.
This much, I want—I demand- to be permanent. The thought of anything else makes me want to cry and destroy.
Our moods do not believe in each other.
I am a manipulator of memory. I am nothing but memory. I live in a series of images of the past and I have no morals. I am strung by a thin thread over a never-ending projection of my own life and I do not know what these scenes mean. If you ask me why I have done what I have done, I would not be able to answer in human language.
I remember my hands holding greasy cans of kerosene and shaking as I poured it over the wooden frame of my father's estate. A bastard in his house, I moved past my mother's corpse that hung from the ceiling, her blonde mane shining with an ironic dynamism, and I dropped the match under her. Was it out of honor? Love?
Flames, I remember singeing flames. Fumes that dulled my senses and twisted time and memory.
When I awoke, I was president of the student body. I never remembered the flames until I slashed to end Haruka's life. It all came back in a rush of adrenaline. I wished there was blood involved, I wished there was carnage, something to take my senses away from
you. Wanting you. Wanting to be human enough, with a history of memories necessary to properly love you.
The look in your face told me that I was amoral as a human. These memories need to be gone; I cannot believe my own desires.
There are ways to forget. Apparently there are other humans like me in this world. There are holes in my arm to prove it, each one a jolt from the past. Vomiting is brain numbing, it is easier to make a commodity of my body when it is detached from the heaviness of the past. With holes in me and insides that could only be empty—people never enjoyed me more. They took my pictures and gave me money, they murdered each other for me as a mistress, and I made money. I said what people wanted to hear, I sold things—I made money. It made Reito happy, I think, to have money. More for indulgence, more for life; he could not live without me. This made me feel something.
An instance.
She caught me by the wrists and threw me to the wall. Pushed herself against me.
I kissed her and she slashed a line across my cheek. Nails sharp as ever. Was I pulsing then? Did the cut smart? Smear? I do not remember.
What are you doing you psychotic woman she hissed. Do you kiss everyone who hates you?
She happened upon me shooting in a club, no, somewhere with stars, no, lights, doesn't matter. Tie around my arm, blood in the syringe waiting to return to the vein it was torn out of my arm and thrown to the floor. There was no pain, light was coming to me from the inside inside, I was warm or her breath was warm, it didn't matter.
I should have killed you in high school; you make me sick you make me so sick! Do you hear me! You were supposed to be successful, but I knew you were twisted. You were wrong. You should go die.
God, you're fucking high. You're fucking disgusting! Why…why are you still everywhere? Your face, it never leaves
I smiled
it's you
Nao it's been so long, you found me, you are so warm so warm I smelled her hair
she froze and shivered, I smelled and took warmth from her neck, ate and ate insatiable inside and she shivered and shivered
do you love her Shizuru
do I what
Natsuki
Who is Natsuki
Our moods do not believe each other. With each step I take, I move into my last cloud of breath. Are you breathing? Do you breathe? I have always wondered if we could exist together. If the atmosphere could support the both of us.
I have been torn, before, by what I considered a normal life and you. Somehow I never believed the two could mix. You always required another realm of being and I was always afraid of going there. When I sit on a grassy hill, underneath the sun, with good company and good food, I am the furthest away from you. I think the most about you. I want you to be here too. I want you to experience simplicity with me; I realized that without you I could never be truly anywhere. I want to be there.
As much as you loved me, I never felt like you thought we could coexist either. I believed that there was something else—something more suitable to your dimension—that you needed and I could not offer. It seemed like you were hardly breathing in this world as it was and I was only more stifling.
There, you are, still facing away from me. Yet something drives me to the wall that you are, I am urgent, I am fearful, I am not afraid of crashing and burning.
I am tormented by my imperfections. I hate my hair, I will cut it.
No you won't I love it I love you
It itches I cannot see, it is heavy, I am tired I am cold
Take me, take the money, take it all stay take more take it forever itch more
I don't want it. If you stay I will kill you
Yes, yes be cruel I love it when you're cruel, I love you
I'm going
You have nowhere to go but here, I am your everything
You are nothing
I am nothing, you are everything
Everything
I am just Tomoe and you are mine, give me your arm
Yes, yes, yes, yes, say my name.
No, I remember it now.
I can go anywhere.
Leaving
Where are you?
Too late, it's too late. You are mine.
I smile, I smile I smile already gone
I am tormented by my imperfections. I waited to find you and when I finally looked, it is back where I started that I see you are waiting for me. Useless, I really am quite useless.
A train is coming for you as I am coming for you. Fuuka station, have you always been here like a ghost, on this bench, waiting for me to come?
You are so real, it feels fake.
3 steps away, 2—a crunch—a shattered syringe.
Conversation is a game of circles.
When we first met, you taught me that beautiful flowers are meant to be appreciated for thriving in this cold world, and not to be crushed without a care. I have never responded to these lines. I am still learning this lesson.
I mirror your limp form; it is as though you are sleeping. You are so cold and you are so foolish. I am so despicable for letting you spiral down here, back to me; crushed without a care.
My response to your first words lies on the tip of my tongue—I'm sorry- but we are not done yet. I refuse to come full circle.
Tears stream down my face and the whole world frosts over
I compress your heart
once
twice
three times…
Your lips are cold, we are finally linked, take my breath. Open your eyes, there is no more distance.
A/N
The italics are taken from the essay "Circles" by Ralph Waldo Emerson, whose words I have interpreted in a very different way. Style inspired by William Faulkner, particularly his novel "The Sound and the Fury" and made use of to varying degrees of success.
An exercise in complicating a relationship to the point of some clarity. Dedicated to a friend.