A/N: Hello! I apologize for the delay, as my schedule was pretty packed the previous day. Thankfully I got this and "Plus Four" done in time! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this second last installment for the miniseries (or of course you can keep this as a stand-alone)! Hopefully I've made minimal errors. :3
Disclaimer: Ouran High School Host Club belongs to Bisco Hatori.
Haruhi sat by the door of her parents' room, staring at the wall across her. Behind the strong but thin paper of the shoji, her father's sobs were audible to the four-year-old.
Clearly Haruhi's father was upset, so why didn't he make an effort to bring his wife back?
The last day she saw her mother in the hospital, Haruhi cried. She cried in confusion, but also because of a mysterious hurt that sprung in her heart. Her father was another reason, too. He cried, and seeing her usually outgoing father so sad made the brunette feel equally as melancholic. It wasn't until the nurse came in to escort Haruhi out did she stop crying, as the confusion took over. She may have been playing in a different room, but her father's behaviour stuck to her.
Influence spread far, especially when it came to the connections between parents and their offspring. So, seeing her caring father grow frantic and hurt over his beloved wife made Haruhi cling to the feeling—she just didn't know why she felt the same thing all on her own.
The following funeral was equally as morose as the time at the hospital. Its ambience was not something to relish in. Haruhi's mother wasn't there, according to her father; but she knew that, in some way, she was.
There was a lack of words exchanged, but each one spoken had a much deeper meaning than the average sentence.
"My condolences," majority of the funeral attendees had said, before leaving to move on with their own lives.
It confused Haruhi, as her four-year-old mind couldn't quite process it. Therefore she had to learn—know more.
The brunette sighed. Her head started to ache a little the moment she tried to dig deeper into the situation. Haruhi shook her head.
"Maybe I'll know what it is. One day," she whispered.
Her father's shattered cries continued behind the paper that divided the dark room and the rest of the Fujioka residence.
The five-year-old clutched a book to her chest as she made her way to her room after a quick trip from the bathroom. Her birthday just passed by, moving on without anything exciting happening.
Haruhi was given a book by her father, one that dealt with slightly more advanced topics. Studying and reading brought solace to the little girl, as she needed a way to leave her troubles. She was five years old, but she was no ordinary one.
It also wasn't that long ago that she realized what was really affecting her.
Trauma.
Pain.
Hurt.
A sort of mourning—a stint of the feeling perhaps. Her mother had recently passed away after all.
She didn't mean to know. At a young age she had discovered the meaning of death. Her deceased mother was proof as she struggled through death's dark, clawing grasp. That was how five-year-old Haruhi defined it: overwhelming, sadistic, and disparaging of life; she learned the words in a dictionary.
She wanted a way to cope, so keeping the world silent was her solution.
They said ignorance was bliss, and Haruhi certainly took delight in that saying.
She wished she could reverse the clock and forget about death—forget about all the suffering that the world truly brought.
She wished she could have left her father to attend to her mother on his own that final day, and she would remain unknowing of what had happened. Completely oblivious—completely ignorant. But that was cruel of her, and so she remained; and she shared the same sorrow as her father. Yet to her, ignorance was, in fact, bliss.
Because not knowing anything was sometimes the time of the life. However, Haruhi wanted to expand and learn, so her wants were contradicting each other. In the end she chose the former.
"Haruhi?" called Ryoji. "Are you not eating breakfast again?"
The little brunette shook her head.
"I'm not hungry," she uttered, but her protesting stomach said otherwise. Then she entered her room in silent hunger. More studying to do.
"Haruhi," said Kotoko, "promise me you'll be strong, okay?"
The four-year-old cocked her head to the side. She clutched her ill mother's hand tighter. They were at a hospital, with the older brunette staying for treatment of her unknown illness . . . if the doctors could ever find one.
"Why?" wondered Haruhi.
"Because, like now, I won't be with you all the time. You'll need to be strong in this world." Kotoko looked towards the window. "So promise me that, okay?"
Haruhi still didn't quite understand, but she nodded anyway.
"Okay."
She just had a different way of showing it.
The five-year-old girl read a cookbook, learning how to form some onigiri for dinner. It seemed basic enough to her, so she wanted to give it a shot. She rolled the rice around, attempting to recreate the shape of the image on the book. Her father entered the apartment, but she ignored him and continued with her task.
"Ah, Haruhi!" said Ryoji. "You're making dinner?"
No answer.
Ryoji walked to where Haruhi was, and watched her make the rice balls.
"That looks nice!" Ryoji said, but once again he wasn't given a response.
All Haruhi did was focus her attention on the rice. When she was finished—in the end she decided on four large ones—she transferred them onto two plates, one for her and one for her father. The five-year-old nearly dropped the plates when she bumped into her father, who still stood behind her.
"D-Dad!" exclaimed the brunette.
Ryoji chuckled at his daughter's surprise.
"Here, let me help you with that." He grabbed the plates, and they started towards the dining room that also served as their living room.
Father and daughter ate in silence.
"Haruhi," began Ryoji, and his daughter looked up from her dish, "you really should start eating breakfast again. It's not good for your growing body."
The little girl merely hummed in response.
"Haruhi, please, listen to me. I don't think your mother would appreciate what you're doing to yourself—staying alone and making yourself all hungry. I don't appreciate what you're doing, sweetie."
"I-I can't," she whispered. "I don't know."
She ignored her father for the rest of the night.
The next morning, Haruhi was about to sneak in a box of cereal, when Ryoji blocked her entry to the kitchen.
"Haruhi," he began, "before I go to work, I'd just like to apologize. Maybe I spoke too harshly, and for that I'm sorry." Ryoji extended his arms. "Forgive your papa?"
Ryoji looked like a fool, standing there with his arms extended in welcoming gesture. His silly, apologetic smile didn't help either. The brunette didn't run into his arms, but simply stood there. Then she laughed, before shaking her head.
"I'm sorry, Dad," she said. "But I wanted to find some way to be strong."
Ryoji walked towards his daughter and patted her head.
"Sometimes being strong isn't about being alone. Let me know when you aren't feeling well, okay?"
"Maybe," Haruhi muttered. Maybe.
She still didn't quite get the message.