* * * * * * *
Wormmon! No, no . . . please come back! Please, I'm sorry!
Wormmon, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry . . . I just
found you, how could
you leave? It was me, it was Him . . . I promise, Wormmon, I'll
find you, and I'll make right it all. You sacrificed everything . . . oh,
Wormmon . . . please . . .
I felt something stinging my face, little diamond-edged cuts and pricks that
seemed to slice through even the pale clothes I wore. I was lacking a
sense of pain physically beyond a certain extent, though -- most of it had
culminated in my soul, where vicious little imps took turns and subsequent
delight in digging their filthy claws into my heart. Curdling ichor,
aided in its congealment by the sun that blazed overhead, only fueled their
bloodlust; dining to their own contentment in a parasitic show that left me
feeling as though I was about to shatter into a thousand pieces and blow away
in the wind. Just as Wormmon had done, in his sacrifice . . .
. . . please, come back, please . . .
I stood up abruptly. From behind a half-shield of limp navy hair, my
eyes were trying to follow the dispersal of Wormmon's earthly body as it was
taken by the desert's scorching trade winds. I could feel nothing, nothing
left but my own consuming emptiness. There was no remnant of him that
would "stay with me always," no echoing comfort to be brought back by
a gentle, nostalgic breeze. There was nothing. And that's exactly
how I felt right then, too: a blackhole, a void, just something that took in
all it could -- so before the brain could recognize and enjoy anything, it was
crushed so viciously it could make you cry. But then again, no matter how
hard I wished, I couldn't do that. I couldn't expel any of the
toxins my internal demons spewed with those saline dissonances. I wasn't
beyond tears, oh no . . . I just didn't know how to cry.
. . . I'll kill Him. I'll kill Him for you, Wormmon . . .
A seemingly logical whispering inside of me told me that "He" was
already long since dead and gone, and thankfully forever. There wasn't
going to be a B-movie's cliche tenacity for the damned to walk the earth again:
no puce-eyed, mummified corpse or immortalized, vampiric tyrant to burst out of
the nearest dune and claim my neck with whetted fangs. The only sharpness
I felt was the sand being whipped in my face, and the invisible blades of guilt
that minced up my heart as though it was to be pate.
"I gotta' go . . ."
An explosion of fresh pain -- not to say that what had torn me up prior to that
hadn't been particularly vibrant -- as vocals were choked in saline
ambiguity that threatened to course down my smudged cheeks, but only burned at
the rims of my eyes like acid. Everything hurt. Even breathing . .
. which to some extent was mercilessly lessened with the sucking vacuum that
surrounded me, stealing the breath from my lungs before they could even draw it
inward entirely.
They were yelling. Their leader was, I remember. I wasn't quite
listening, as the words didn't seem to reach me completely in the vacuity
enclosing my head; after all, all that consumed me was the burning
self-loathing and promises of vengeance (one slice for each and every last
tear you've ever shed) that went unheard while in my mind. It was
almost demented how driven I was to a goal that I had deemed impossible.
To wrap my fingers around the sallow neck (andsqueezeandsqueezeandsqueeze)
of a lost despot was as likely as discovering a safe haven for my mind from all
of the insanity, all of the hurt . . .
I walked. I don't know how long. It was aimless, crossing dunes of
sand that were not unlike their watery counterparts of tidal waves . . . up one
cresting rise I would plod, as though to reach a sacred holy land I was unsure
existed, only to find several thousand more laying in wait for me. They
were patient. And so was I. I kept going, long after the cries of
the Chosen had faded into the background to be replaced by howling wind . . .
long after twilight had begun to set on the timeless horizon of the desert I
could vaguely quote remembering from another era in my existance. Washed
in an eerie half-light of pastel pink and purple, I plowed onward, even as the
tempest of a sandstorm rose to greater pitches.
Focusing on the stretching, reaching, beckoning fingers of pale light gave me a
direction, however proper or incorrect it was. I was beyond notably
righteous worry over whether or not I would find a way home . . . there was
only that desire inside of me, along with my personal demons. Both
spurred me onward. There would have to be break in all of the madness and
chaos, I told myself confidentially, there would just have to be something I
could hold onto for a little while longer.
As I said, I don't know for how long I marched in that one-man
procession. It couldn't have been terribly long, because it was before
the twilight had managed to flee into night that it completely dawned upon
me. The clouds had spread, and the light had showered down . . . or in
this case, the unveiling of a shred of sanity and a scrap of hope to keep
myself from splintering into discarded shambles to be taken by the breeze's
ferocious widow.
Even without a literal beam of godly grace in sight or divine star of Bethlehem
to guide me through the sandy currents, it didn't matter as the tortuously
unreal mountains began to transform more and more into gently rolling
knolls. I supposed my eyes must have been deceiving me in my unparalleled
despairing from the earlier day . . . for my feet would begin to rather meet
with rough-hewn grass rather than the scorched whitecaps of a terrifically
sun-baked desert. The sparse vegetation was pathetic, a murky shade of
yellow-green that almost blended into the light canary sands. It still
clung to the ground viciously nevertheless, and I found myself mostly stumbling
on the jutting patches here and there as I began dragging my feet toward the
beginning of the end of that haunting desert.
My voraciousness for revenge may have not been as spry as I once thought, as no
more than five feet from the checkerboard of jasper and primrose, I simply came
to an abrupt halt. Lacking breath, and suddenly finding the sun's
radiating heat seeming as though a ten-ton weight on my shoulders, it was not
at all unexpected that I suddenly felt quite faint. My unfocused gaze
tried to fix on any sort of landmark to keep me oriented . . . as otherwise I
would merely keel over in such the environment, and then where would I
be? My hand was drawn to my forehead, mopping up what perspiration had
since begun to trickle down my face, slide off of my damp hair -- serving also
to shield my wavering stare from the harsh sunlight for a better view.
A shape in the distance. I took a step forward, and after an unassuming
moment of hesitation, yet another. I strained for a better look, since
the heat waves that were being given from the ground masked the exact
silhouette; borders were blurred and distorted, like a fluid glob of obsidian
mercury, but I could still distinguish the humanoid shape. My sluggish
brain tried to place the inky profile to anything I would know personally, as I
had the faintest telltale that I had in fact seen it before . . .
That was just around when I stopped breathing.
It . . . it can't be . . .
It was still difficult to see as lazy wreathes of grit happened to steer
themselves on the calmer breeze toward where I stood, augmenting and
diminishing before my eyes in coils of abrasive saffron earth. I
perceived the first differentiating characteristic after the soft whispering
passed -- a strain of musical plinking discordant and harmonizing all at
once. It was not unlike a soprano wind-chime, tones clashing and
blending, stirred gently by the equally as faint disturbances of the air around
it.
The anthropoid had become much clearer as the curtains of sand were pressed
through, and I caught sight of it entirely when my vision wasn't nearly so
clouded. The raiment was what seized my attention first, considering it
was quite odd for the sweltering locale I was stranded at. A nebulous
shade of wild rose painted the outer layer of material, otherwise trimmed along
the each edge with a conservative amount of honeyed gold cloth. It was,
essentially, a tuxedo . . . long-sleeved despite the inescapable intensity of
the sun's snarling rays, even complimented with old-fashioned coat-tails that
comically extended to the knees like a grand maestro's, being blown askew in
the wind.
But . . . that isn't possible . . .
A dress shirt of unblemished ivory stood out against the pallid hue of the
over-jacket, frilled and crimped beyond belief, and looking as though it would
have been very uncomfortable. The ensemble also supported a pair of
slacks in that same rubicund color; even cufflinks had not been forgotten --
mere dabbles of quince artfully sculptured as small fleurs-de-lis took pride,
one at each wrist. Unmistakably as exotic as anything else, a court
jester's collar of patched triangular pieces in opal went about the neck and
over the shoulders, perhaps connected to the said pleated shirt. A second
collar, this time ruffled, was a lustrously aureate shade, and remained
situated above the first.
You're . . .
As romantic as it was, the sprouting wings of rouge feathers from the persona's
disheveled lavender hair were not as surprising as they should have been
("They must be the ears, as they do resemble a rabbit's," I
thought). The melodic ringing I heard from before came from the golden
jingle bells I discovered suspended from the base of either "ear" . .
. but that was, of course, not what had caused me to hold my breath.
But . . . but you're . . .
Topaz blue eyes pierced straight into my own from behind a pair of glinting
lenses, reflective glass nearly mirroring my awestruck visage despite the
distance between the two of us. The dreamy, hazy quality was ethereal
right then . . . before I could even utter one word, the figure held up a hand
(encased in a wrist-length white glove, I would note) -- one index finger
brought to vaguely smiling lips in a "shush" manner. It was
then with the enigmatic gesture that, in a blink, he took off running at a mad
speed.
I watched Ichijouji Osamu disappear over the next hillock.
. . . but you're dead.
Dazed and confused, I had to once more steel myself from merely surrendering to
the will to collapse to the ground. My mouth had gone as dry as cotton
balls, and tasted just as foul -- it had to have been a mirage.
The desert heat was just affecting my mind, after all. Nothing more than
that. Of course.
Onii-chan . . . a hallucination? I'm more fatigued than I thought . .
. my eyes are playing tricks on me again.
'But can you risk it? What if that is him . . .'
A little voice queried such from inside of me, in a mocking singsong that
grated my nerves like never before. The perpetually unshed tears
continued to jab at my nerves, but I merely took off at a sprint after where my
ghostly brother may had gone to. Just over the rise. This would
have seemed to be no easy feat regarding my condition . . . but a surreal surge
of energy gave me the strength to fuel the decisive willpower, and so I went
bounding. The idea was absurd. But still I ran --
As soon as I catch up to him (fancy that, Osamu as a *rabbit*?) we can all
go home together and we'll be happy and Mom and Dad will finally be happy and
they might love me because I found Osamu again and we'll be a family again and
I'll let Osamu keep whatever he wants in his drawer and I'll always do whatever
he says 'cause my sins will be erased and it won't be my fault he died and and and
and oh God we'll live happily ever after, just like we were supposed to all
along --
I tripped on something I failed to see in my path, which was not at all strange
considering my blind racing was due to the fresh acidic screen of flashing
liquid diamonds in my eyes. There is always a moment when you fall that
you feel weightless, as though you were flying . . . and just then all thought
was lost to me, and I only experienced the split-second before I blacked out as
being more wondrous than I had ever imagined. There I was, dancing in the
heavens (oh with Osamu oh please with 'Nii-chan) with wings of molten
pearl . . .
And so on Icarus' I flew.
* * * * * * *