Disclaimer: I don't own Inuyasha
Understand
By Kitty
…
It's her again. She's screaming. That loud annoying scream. My name's hardly discernable but I hear it anyway. Because I know it's my name she's screaming. She doesn't understand.
It's nothing. Always, I'm telling her all the time, it's nothing. No pain. Nothing. She just doesn't understand.
…
It's her again. She's crying. That pitiful silent sob. Just like my blood when I'm like this. On the ground. Bleeding. I know she's crying for me. I'm the reason why she's crying. She just doesn't understand.
This is nothing. She never believes me no matter what I tell her. This is nothing, hardly a scratch. I'm sure it looks bad but when it's the worst, nobody can tell. She just doesn't understand.
It doesn't hurt. I don't feel the pain. Really. My body might, but I sure as hell don't. It's not that bad. I swear.
Quit your sniveling, you don't get it. This isn't what hurts. What hurt was what that bastard said right before he struck me. That's what hurt. More than words can ever say. No matter how I try, I can never find the words to describe it. No matter how I try, I can never bring myself to express it. So you can't know what really hurts. So stop crying.
…
He doesn't get it. I don't think he ever will. I know it bothers him to see me cry, but I can't help it. I just worry so much when I see him bleeding like that. I worry that he'll die without me ever telling him how I feel. I worry that he'll die and leave me.
He doesn't understand. I know. I know that each hole and scar that has been ripped across his body is a wound in his heart. Each devastating, burning tear in his flesh mirrors a scar on his mind. I do understand.
That's why I cry.
…
I cry sometimes when he doesn't see me. At night, in my bed, without him nearby. I think about the things I've heard people call him. The verbal abuse I watched him suffer everyday. I cry for those things too.
He doesn't understand. Whenever I watch him, I hurt. Whenever I think about him, I hurt. Whenever I hear his voice, see the color red, or white, or just watching a bully on a street corner take advantage of the small child who happens to be a little different, I hurt. It's because I see him in that child.
I hurt, because he doesn't let himself feel pain. Because it might shatter him, to admit his own weakness. So I'll be weak for him. I'll cry for him. I'll hurt for him.
He just doesn't get it. I know more than he thinks I do. He might be able to read my scent, and hear even the lowest of my whispers, but I can read his face, his stature. The tiniest twinge of muscle that broadcasts to anyone in the world willing enough to catch it, that here is a man, beaten and spit on, and still fighting. I cry for the child inside the man, on the street corner, facing that throng of unfeeling faces.
…
A soft gurgling cough resounds in the eerie silence of midnight. Dark liquid gathers in rivulets at the corner of his mouth. The rustle of sheets shatters the peace of the night.
"Are you ok?" a soft voice murmurs, a cool hand graces his brow and a damp cloth cleanses his cheek, "Does it hurt?"
"Keh…" he manages, coughs racking his weakened frame, "It's … nothing…"
…
"I know," she answers, softly, like the voice of the wind, "It always is."
A dull crystalline thud strikes the floorboard as the splatter of diamonds fall from azure eyes.
…
La Fin
…
AN: Um… did this make any sense? (btw, i wasn't sure what i should title this...)