Hey.
Present for a friend, due to my extreme procrastination, a belated birthday gift, forgive me. _
Honestly speaking, Terrorist isn't my favorite couple, but you have to admit they're pretty cute. Egoist is my fav pairing, and I shudder at the thought of the Romanticist (or is it Romantist)? GAH. It's just a cliche, you know? Still, JR is a lovely, super cute series.
Oh right. If you're looking for fluff or PWP, I suggest you just not read this...
It's kind of depressing, but I'm having a ball writing this.
BUT I PROMISE YOU THERE WILL BE SOME SCENES. Note the "some."
I don't own JR. If I did, I would make Hiroki confess his love for Nowaki a million times over, if that could ever happen...
And also, PLEASE REVIEW.
heh.
Oh shoot, I forgot that this is the TERRORIST COUPLE. Not egoist, not sappy cliche couple, EGOIST. You know the cabbage one?
Shinobu POV
If only eternity would stop for me…..
The hospital bed next to mine was occupied one day.
The curtains that separated us formed a barrier, one that could yield to a slight breeze, but also an impenetrable wall that I could never break down.
The creamy white linen was the only color I saw as I turned to the side, seeing the silhouette of that man.
Who was he waiting for?
Why was here?
I could only answer my own questions, make up my own stories, for there would never be an answer. Even if I ever did find out…
I would already be in my grave.
Jealousy seized me – that girl on the other side had someone that loved her, someone that treasured, remembered her. If only, if only someone was here, waiting for me, thinking of me, the pain would lessen.
Just a few words would be enough for me to sleep peacefully.
My desire would never be fulfilled.
Every day, he sits there in the hard plastic chair the hospital offers for visitors. The navy blue chair is unoccupied on my side, having remained cold for such a long time. My bedside is austere, so no flowers, no cards. Just a desk, along with a notebook with unused, clean pages.
My fingers itch for a pencil and a scratch piece of paper to capture his shadow – his broad shoulders, his bowed head as he reads.
He reads literature out loud to that girl as she listens quietly, occasionally giggling softly in hushed, tired tones. His mellow voice lulls me to sleep as I eavesdrop, appreciating the sound of the words as he enunciates them, painting tapestries of vivid color.
Soothing, quiet.
Beautiful. Surely such a mellifluous voice would have handsome features. Though his face remains a mystery, excitement overtook me as I imagined his face – straight nose? Long? What color of eyes would he have? His mouth…long, thin? What would he look like with his eyes cast down, gliding over the printed words?
What….
If only I could see his face.
Would it be what I'd imagined, passing time? Yet….what if, what if he was completely different?
I….I
I don't want to know.
I'm scared….of reality. In this hospital room, there is only me, the shadow, and the color white.
This is my reality.
If only the curtain would part.
It's been a few months already.
The white of the hospital have become different.
It's an imperceptible change, but they're no longer that harsh.
My hair…..it's grown out. Wisps of it caress the nape of my neck, curling up at my slight shoulders. The sandy colored hair should be cut already. I'm not used to this heaviness, the length of my hair. I've always kept it short during school, preferring the wind to run through my hair…..
Such memories of long ago.
I miss the wind. I miss the outside, the sweat after exertion, the aching of my muscles, the color of my sun browned skin.
Ah…
I've gotten quite pale.
Translucent, almost. Lifting up my arm with the strength I could muster, my head propped up, I study the criss-crossing webs of blue green blood vessels underneath my skin.
In those vessels, is my blood.
Soon, I know, the blood will become stagnant. No more blood flow, no more pumping, no more pulsing of the crimson liquid. Only a pale, dead corpse.
Should I be scared? Or….relieved?
Death would bring me long awaited peace, escape.
Wasn't this what I was looking for in the beginning anyways? I should be happy then….but I don't even know if I welcome death.
I've already resigned myself to a cold, cold nothingness.
The girl next to me doesn't have long to live.
Her persistent coughing has worsened, to the extent where she's coughing up blood.
It's actually red mucus streaked with scarlet, bubbly blood, with chunks of rust colored, coagulated blood in it, but I don't want to think about it too much. When the nurses come to my bed to inject me with more immunoglobins, I listen to them chatter about all the neighboring patients.
Apparently she's not looking too good either.
We'd be on the same boat then…
Riding on Charon's to Hades together. Ha.
Ha. Ha.
Pathetic joke.
Still, what a revolting way to die. I'd much rather prefer to die peacefully, possibly without any disgusting fluid coming up from my lungs.
He doesn't read as often as before. Whenever she coughs, he rushes to her side and embraces her, holding her close till both silhouettes meld into one. He assuages her, gently whispering words of encouragement and hope. Telling her what they'd do together after she gets let out of the hospital, how much he loves her, how LOVE will get them through the hard times.
That's…
Complete BULLSHIT.
Does he think telling a girl false lies before she dies will help? I wanted to get up and shake her so badly but I can't do that, with my current condition.
Does she think that she'll live? Tough luck. The Heavens aren't that merciful.
Someone ought to tell her that the only way they'll be together is in the afterworld. Someone should tell her already that she's going to –
Die.
That's right.
Just like me.
Someone spare her the hurt when she finds out….. she's only got so much time before death.
As for him…."Miyagi," his name I learned….I know his tearless sobs when she's asleep. Through the curtain, I see his shoulders heave, his uneven breathing. He knows.
…..Bastard.
Hiding the truth, what was he trying to accomplish?
Who was that girl, anyways?
His lover? His girlfriend, his wife?
I turned away from the curtain, closing my eyes in frustration.
A long time ago, I think…
I wasn't this way.
Wasn't this cynical, wasn't so tired, so sick….so dead.
I don't remember too clearly anymore, for it feels like I've spent the eternity in here. Life, for me, was charming. Like a picture frozen in time – a flurry of blurred smiles, friendly banters, first loves at school, and underlying all that –
…...
…...
The feelings I felt were too much for words to describe. Too complex for mere phonetic letters to convey.
Even though I only chose to remember the happy things in my mere 18 year old life, the only word is…
Pitiful.
I can't suppress all my memories. With it comes pain, the constant reminder that I would never, ever…
The fake smile I molded, plastered on my face was so deceptive that even I too, was convinced.
This morning, I took a shower.
I mean I can still stand, but my legs feel like rubber – not flexible, but more leaden.
I feel like they're not my legs anymore, they're someone else's. I don't really feel them, even if I do happen to stub one of my toes, or manage to hit my shin, only a tingling sensation occurs.
Pinpricks or needles, numb, I guess.
Shuffling over and stepping onto the slippery tile floor, I feel anxious. What'll happen if I slip?
Staring at my skinny legs, I suddenly felt so small, so helpless.
What will happen when I finally succumb to this sickness?
I manage to sit down, feeling the warm water cascade around me. Tracing circular patterns on my milky thighs, I suddenly pinch it hard, seeing the red suddenly blossom under.
I shudder, and suppress my voice.
"Ugh…."
I stay in the shower till the water runs cold.
Please, read and review.
Thanks.
