Meaningful company was a lacking commodity at the Kiryuin estate. There were more servants than she had fingers or toes, and not one was worth as much. Every word out of their collective mouths was filtered through trepidation and polished to an inoffensive shine, otherwise they might displease the lady of the house, whomever she may be at the time. It was far from intentional, merely a consequence of her position, but the thought of being compared to Ragyo pricked like a poisoned needle. So she delegated the responsibility of issuing commands to Soroi. It was another line of isolation that pushed her deeper into silence. Still less irritating than the alternative.
Soroi did ease her solitude, but for better or worse, he knew his place. Her only confidant was less inclined to conversation than she was, and when he did bother to open his mouth the most he shared was a casual remark. It meant more than he said - it always did - and she was thankful for his insight at times. But sometimes, she just didn't feel like playing the same subtle game.
Perhaps that was why, in the absence of routine, she was drawn to its screaming. Perhaps the sound of her own heels was just too loud these days. Perhaps it was the only thing that understood what it meant to have your mouth stitched shut.
She watched it squirm, wriggle, twist and turn. She heard it shriek, scream, roar and howl. It was loud enough to make ears bleed, but she was the only one who knew. Spotless glass was the only thing dividing them now, yet steel walls couldn't keep them apart.
Eyes, red in gold, pushed towards the glass, bloodshot with narrow veins digging deeper. They twitched in its nonexistent sockets, looking everywhere but at her. She couldn't blame it, not really. She was the one that had it put in the glass box in the first place. It was hard looking your jailer in the eye when you're pinned down, pressed and primped like a new blouse. It had been waiting for years, wrapped up in a cellophane prison, nothing but its own thoughts for company in the dark. It was made and abandoned by a mother, a mother that should have loved her like every parent was meant to. A mother that looked at her like a tailor a few inches short of stringing together a new dress.
And like her mother, she'd put it back in its box.
Satsuki pressed her hand against the glass. Junketsu immediately jerked in her direction. Its eyes were more red than gold now, veins choking out the softer color. The hem of its skirt flapped wildly, unseemly wrinkles crawling up its front and down its sleeves, errant threads popping free. It was still screaming with enough intensity to shatter glass, but underneath the baritone wailing she found a familiar chord.
Please.
Please.
Please.
An unspoken plea from a throat too proud to beg. It would never admit such weakness. Neither would she.
Perhaps she was desperate. Perhaps the years had finally frayed her sanity. Perhaps she was the only one who understood how it felt to spend a lifetime in a perfect cage.
But without a doubt, she hated that glass case. She didn't regret breaking it. Neither did he.