Quuuick note here: How do you edit things? I think at one point I knew, but it's been so long I've forgotten x_x. Pathetic, I know. (Bahahah, I say 'things' when I should really clarify - once a story's published, how do you edit the text without having to re-upload it?). Anyway, it was too much of a hassle to find out before hand, so I decided to just go ahead and republish this with the little tweaks I added and tossing the old one. I realized that I had uh...neglected to put in any page breaks previously. Talk about confusing. Gah. And a minor word or two changes. Nothing mind blowing.
Also, if anyone particularly cares (those few of you out there that still have faith in me...I think..._) I am entering this lovely thing called summer (summer, they say. It snowed. In May. Snowed. I adore the snow, big skating fanatic and that lovely stuff, and this is too much for me. I mean, isn't it supposed to get warmer eventually? Moving to this god forbidden place was a mistake I tell you!). Anyway, pointless rant, but the idea is that I'll have all this free time. To say, write. Perhaps. I shouldn't be writing now, finals and all, but hey, Friday. Party day xD. Not so quick note but final statement: any particular stories people out there want updated? I'm not looking for any...attention I s'pose? Regardless, if you feel like speaking up and giving me a shout, I usually shout back. Loudly. It's in my family to be loud _.
THANKS FOR THE SUPPORT 3 You guys are the reason I update ^_^
STORY TIEMS:
(I own nozzin)
Raindrops fall down, down, down. They don't just plummet to earth, but dance in the sky, weaving a pattern that only enlightened souls can glimpse. The moonlight bounces off of them, because they themselves are transparent and only want to show you a warped little world, reflected off their tiny bodies in miniature mirrors.
They fall down, down and down, but they are laughing with a silent joy that only the distressed and desolate despise to hear. They do not think of themselves as one in a million, but one of a million. And they are shining with an inner joy of the moment that only children can reflect right back.
She looks up, trying to see the world in each raindrop spiraling down. Like snowflakes on speed, she laughs to herself. The sound rings hollow, and the little pitter-patter of the raindrops surrounds her and makes her feel ashamed of her own falsity.
So she just continues to look into each little mirror as it comes crashing down.
"Dear," a voice cries from inside the warm house, straining over the validity of the rain's song "would you please come inside? You're getting soaked."
She thinks of each of the little raindrops. Blithe as they fall, do they know the end is to come? Or do they simply choose not to care? She enjoys the feeling of each little pressure as one drop after another soaks into flannel and cotton. Leaving a little piece of them with her. If enough carefree raindrops soak into her skin, will she absorb their state of mind?
She looks back into the warm glow of the inviting house. The light blinds her eyes as if to say 'we'll hide the harsh realities from you, just come in, come in'.
She looks up at the sky, as raindrop after raindrop meets its demise.
"Coming." She says back, and turns towards the light.
"Are you going to be alright?" her mother asks, as if the idea was not her own.
The light outside is bright, sparkling off each tiny puddle left over from the night before. As the brush runs through her spiraling hair, a black shadow around her all too pale face, she says: "Of course. There's nothing wrong with me."
She pulls on the uniform, looks into the mirror at the nineteen-years-and-counting image reflected back at her. The mirror is straight and plain as day, and she decides she likes the little raindrops version better.
"As long as you're sure." The mother says, an arm wrapped around her middle. She looks worried for her daughter, but then again, this was her idea after all. Any mishap is on her shoulders.
Shoulders that have had to bear worry and anxiety for many years previous. Despair that she'd have to say goodbye to her daughter before she herself left this world.
Still, without bothering to reply, the nineteen-year-old (and counting) turned out of the room and down the familiar steps. She hears her mother's plaintive sigh, but hurries out of the warm and inviting house.
It is not fair of these memories to continue to haunt her even after the fact. The more they tried to escape the vault she had created, the more the struggle showed on her face. She liked the pretty little raindrops because their warped version of her looked much more resolved.
As she heads out another voice is calling her back, young and sincere. "Sis!" the voice yells, but she does not turn. "Wait for me!"
She's looking up at the sun when he reaches her, panting. "You do remember what Mama said, don't you sis?" he asks, and she turns to him, seeing only a bright, blind spot where his face should be.
She's looking at him blankly, not for the reasons that he's thinking, but he sighs all the same. It is an echo of her mother's own moments before. "Our schools are right next to each other. We might as well head to school together then, right?"
He slips his hand into hers, and grips it tightly. She is unable to compensate his pressure, delicate hands broken and brittle, by tries to keep up with him all the same as he leads her down the shrine steps. And she won't look at his despaired young face and he won't look at her expressionless one, both shining earnestly in the rays of the light. Neither wants to see the truth so widely portrayed. So he looks forward as he drags her along, and she looks up into the bright light as she follows.
While the rain reflects the warped truth of the night, the sun likes to blind all its little denizens of the day with absolutes.
The silence only lasts for a moment before he starts to string nervous words into sentences. He's slowed down a fair bit, and she can now avoid the little puddles pooled on the pavement as they walk to school.
"Are you excited to start school?" he asks in a rush. She doesn't answer, so he steams on. "I am. Hiroshi is in my class and everything, and together we're going to go out for the soccer team. I know Mama said I should pay more attention to my grades, but I really think we could go somewhere with it, don't you?"
She won't look at him, but stares at the ground, thick black hair drawn in front of her eyes every few seconds. She says, ever so quietly: "I've never seen you play Souta."
He too is quiet for a moment, following her downwards gaze. It's an awkward elephant, growing and growing between them. But he smiles at her and gently squeezes the hand he still has in his grasp. "You'll come to see me then, won't you?"
And although she doesn't feel she deserves it, a tiny pool of warmth surges through her. At the very least, she thinks, she can act it out for him, her loving little brother. "Of course."
So hand in hand they walk to school, carefully avoiding the pretty little pools of raindrops.
The good mood does not last long in these tense times.
It's ironic, she thinks, that it is up to him, barely thirteen years old, to care for her. But he is reassuring her, telling her that he'll come to pick her up after school, and smiling at her with false enthusiasm as he tries to take in this shell that was once his sister.
He is valiant that is for certain. She has disappeared and reappeared in his life, each time with bad planning and horrid timing. Just when life is becoming normal for them, she screws it up. Time and time again.
They are standing by the gates of the high school, the nineteen year old (and counting – she had promised to still be counting) awkward against the backdrop of younger students. This is what she deserves, running away from her true society into one she loves, only to be thrust back into this foreign atmosphere where she no longer fits in. She should have never tried to leave in the first place.
She wonders idly if she looks nineteen to them.
Her frown interrupts his ramble for a moment. "Is something wrong sis?"
"I'm sorry for ruining your life." She says quietly, her mind miles away. She doesn't care for this burdened feeling, but embraces it all the same. At least it's a well-deserved burdensome feeling.
He shakes his head in disagreement but she will not look at him in the bright light of the day.
"I'll see you after school Souta."
He's looking at her because she has become a stranger, and she's looking away from him because he's all too familiar.
They part ways in silence.
"This is Kagome Higurashi class. Please treat her well."
There is excited murmuring, probably because she clearly shows the illnesses that her rumors have run rampant with. It certainly shouldn't be because of her age, because that was to stay put as a secret. But she doesn't know, her ears clogged with warped little raindrops, and struggles not to care.
As she takes her seat several pairs of eyes linger on her, even as the lesson begins. Her hair, black against her pale, sunken skin, curls around her waist, and vacant eyes strain to remain on the teacher.
Does she look like the freak that she feels? The outsider, the abnormal? Can everyone see what a fake existence she is truly living? Does her skin stretch so tightly across her skull that is reveals the lies hidden underneath?
It is to be a long day, she realizes. But she has promised to continue counting her years. Promised them. So she stays awake, stays alert, and stays alive.
She is alive. She is alive.
Then why does she feel like the raindrops, falling, falling, falling down? Only her fall is not as carefree, her descent not a secret, nimble dance. Her stomach is three feet above her and she is only all too worried about the landing that is sure to come.
Lunch is a ritualistic thing in any society. Kagome is certain that somewhere in her bag there is a lunch packed with worry and remorse. Each organized portion contains some memory, stirs some emotion, and she has no desire to dig around for it.
A figure sits down before her, taking her away from these thoughts for a brief moment.
"Hello!" The figure is saying, thick brown hair settling into place as the girl takes a seat right in front of Kagome. She is bright and smiling and everything Kagome doesn't need to be reminded of.
"Hello." She replies all the same. The girl is introducing herself as Keiko soon enough, and before she knows it has launched into a rhythmic chatter that is easily tuned out.
But she has promised, and so with a slight internal struggle she once again focuses on the girl's face. She's such a pretty little thing, Kagome thinks, although certainly not beautiful. But it's the softness in her face and the kindness in her voice that stands out, that makes the image lovely.
She tells Kagome that she has beautiful eyes, and asks if she is foreign. Kagome narrows her gaze.
"I don't know who my dad is."
The sentence is meant to create an awkward silence, to stop the girl from looking so familiar to her, but a louder voice quickly reprimands the attempt.
"No problem, I dunno my pops either. Don't make me nasty."
The girl is angry. "Yusuke! That is rude! And you are so mean sometimes! Remember the time-" she is telling him off, apologizing to Kagome repeatedly.
But she's looking into playful eyes, protective eyes, defiant eyes, and it may be the tone of voice or that way he stands but suddenly her vision is obscured with pretty little raindrops that warp her vision.
She is out of practice, and does not notice any irregularities in these new people. Except that maybe they're a little too persistent, especially since she has not said more then five sentences to them collectively. Maybe it is just that once they spot a damsel in distress, they feel helpless to leave her alone.
Once upon a time she would resent the title, resent being powerless, useless. Now she's just wondering if she'll run with them if they rescue her.
It isn't just one, and they aren't just guys who have helpless-girl syndrome. With the possible exception of the one everyone is referring to as carrot-top. And they aren't normal, but she hardly cares about this. Just that they will not leave her alone, and does this count as living? She is counting the years still, until a natural cause will bring the reaper to her door.
But she has promised.
The little brunette walks by her side, huffy and annoyed with the group behind her. She catches Kagome's eyes, and scowls. "Men."
She cannot smile, but turns her head back. The obnoxious one, the familiar one, is grinning lecherously. It's an odd mix of the two people from her past and she shoves the thought out of her mind.
She's been getting good at that lately.
"Can I ask why you're transferring Kagome?" at her silence the girl continues on nervously. "It's just odd to be transferring in your last year of high school."
The brunette has probably heard rumours, wanting to know the truth behind them. Or maybe she is just trying to ignore the pervert behind her.
Then, if it really was truth be told, the nineteen year old (and counting) never wanted to come back to school. What could she possibly make of this new life that had been stuck with her? Why even bother with the formalities?
But she did not say this. "Too many absences. I was kicked out of the old one."
She does not say this with any awkwardness, but it still earns her a look.
She'd be annoyed if she could, and answers the question that is not asked. "Yes, I was sick. Sure, why not?"
Kagome stalks ahead, if only to get outside. The sun is shining, and it is revealing things Kagome would rather stay hidden.
That she can't see them anymore.
That she can't understand them anymore.
That she isn't one of them anymore.
"Kagome!" a young and sincere voice calls, and she's relieved to see her escape.
They walk back, hand in hand.
He's looking at the ground and she's staring at the sun, and both are wondering, wondering, wondering.
"Who were they?" He asks.
Loud, she grumbles to herself. But she is in no mood for grumbling or anything of the sorts.
"Persistent." She says instead.
But he's smiling up at her, and she's looking down her nose at him. "Good." He says, grinning a Cheshire cat grin.
And he leads her away, humming a little tune she recognizes from a long time ago, from happier times.
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red
Cryin's not for me'
Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'
Because I'm free
Nothin's worryin' me