Title: My Own Story
Don't watch, don't seize the lost butterfly
Go past the precious things, go past the important things
Break and destroy the key to my heart
I continue to search for my own story until the blindfold that conceals my fate is removed
I'll pierce through these clouds with my wings and go to the distant tomorrow...
- Nana Mizuki, "Meikyuu Batafurai"
Author's Note: Well, I'm a new author to the anime world. I've watched the Bleach anime religiously and am up-to-date on the episodes, including the ones that are only English subbed. Unfortunately, I have not done as much exploring with the Bleach manga, but I do want as much perspective as possible in order to make this story more accurate and enjoyable, so I have started reading it. As you read this story, please remember that I created Yamamoto Surmire not as a Mary Sue, nor as a shipper to get Ichigo shacked up with someone. Sure, I have a pairing in mind, but I'm not revealing anything because I want it to be a surprise. In conclusion, I just wanted to have fun with developing a strong female lead character with her own story to tell.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach. 'Nuff said.
Prologue: All the Same
Great spirits of all who lived before
Take our hands and lead us
Fill our hearts and souls with all you know
Show us that in your eyes we are all the same...
- Tina Turner, "Great Spirits"
Memories are a funny thing, especially if you actually want to go back and relive them through the medium of storytelling like I am now. The major focal point of my life? Yurei [yurei=ghost(s)]. Name? Yamamoto Surime. Place of residence? Karakura Town, Japan.
Yes, I am one of those rare people who can see the definite proof that life continues past death. When I was younger, I mistook yurei as fun imaginary friends. Obviously, my early formative years didn't include much in the way of popularity, although I could never quite shake my oddball reputation in the first place. Once people have made up their minds about you, it's very hard to rid them of their first impression of you. As a result, I pretty much kept to myself and only extended limited offers of friendship. Even then, those I considered a friend were not made privy to my secret. Not that my damage control efforts matter much anyway. How could anyone suspect me of possessing my particular ability when my retiring, brooding nature could be conveniently attributed to the label "social misfit"?
There was another reason for my self-imposed isolation besides hiding an essential part of my personality that no one else seemed to share with me. It was the toll this power was taking on me. Every day, I would witness the helplessness of the yurei's situation. Since, as I already pointed out, the number of living humans with my same power are extremely low, the yurei were in even greater isolation than I. With deep shame, I admit that I very rarely engaged those lonely, lost yurei to give them the kindly interaction they so desperately needed. Still...I was no expert in psychology. What good could I really do in the end?
Sometimes, the same abandoned yurei I'd constantly catch a glimpse of would inexplicably vanish. Presumably, they had been dispatched to the proper afterlife world based on his or her karma in life, but who facilitated the process? Once or twice, I witnessed what I thought might be the answer to my musings: powerful, humanlike kami [kami=god(s)] whose outfits consisted of a white shitagi, a black kosode, a black hakama, a white hakama-himo, white tabi, and waraji. In other words, these kami's getup were quite old-fashioned in comparison to the modern clothes most recently deceased yurei wore, making the kami stand out very plainly. Most striking of all were the katanas the kami wore tied to their obi sash. With these katanas, they engaged in either one of two activities: 1) using the hilt of their katana to tap the forehead of a yurei, who suddenly disappears in a flash of light with nothing left except for a strange black butterfly fluttering away; 2) fighting huge, grotesque, multicolored, and multlimbed yokai [yokai=monster spirit(s)] that had a hole in their chests and a white, skulllike mask on their faces. I was deathly afraid of these yokai and the overwhelming evilness emanating from their forms, so I was always grateful for the kami who split the yokai's head and mask in two with their katanas, instantly dissolving the yokai's bodies into oblivion, or perhaps, to the afterlife. Surely there had to be some sort of good in them before they transformed into yokai.
Life continued on for me in this manner until I reached my fifteenth year and was attending Karakuro High School. One day, I was walking home when I rounded a corner and happened upon an unexpected scene. Kurosaki Ichigo-san, a fellow classmate of mine that was merely an acquaintance, delivered a swift kick into the face of a twenty something guy dressed in the typical punk skater style. Four stunned, similarly attired companions holding their own skateboards flanked the unfortunate young man as he promptly crumpled in a heap to the ground next to his overturned skateboard.
This sound defeat was too much for one of the loser's friends: "What the...? You suddenly appear and kick over Yama-rin, plus you want us to get out of here? What are you thinking? You wanna die? Huh?"
Kurosaki-san merely scratched his spiky orange head nonchalantly and stared blankly at the new challenger. In that moment filled with such tense silence, I focused solely on Kurosaki-san's unusual hair color, something so punkish in of its own right. Was orange his real hair color, or had he bleached his originally black hair on purpose and thus changed the color to orange, not blond as would normally be expected?
"Say something, you..." the short-fused contender cried out in frustration while simultaneously rushing forward, obviously hoping to use his bulky frame to knock down the smaller, wiry Kurosaki-san.
I couldn't believe what happened next. Kurosaki-san's blank expression turned to a bored scowl as he extended a single leg again and flattened the charging idiot with a kick of the same strength and speed he had administered to Yama-rin.
The three remaining skaters completely freaked out.
"AAH! Toshi-rin's down!"
"Don't know what's going on, but this is dangerous. I've never seen such irrational violence."
"If we fight him, we'll be killed for sure!"
Apparently, Kurosaki-san had quickly tired of their pointless chatter because he forcefully bellowed, "Shut up already! All you guys look over there!"
My classmate savagely twisted his body behind him and pointed to an area beside a telephone pole where a glass vase laid on its side, leaking water onto the flowers that had been placed inside the vase. I was opposite the fallen container, thereby compelling me to hug my body closer to the building concealing me from view of everyone. A few tears cascaded down my cheeks. This yurei was one of the few I'd befriended due to the fact that I'd known Hanako-chan before she'd met her untimely end in a tragic card accident a week or so ago. I'd already placed flowers there once before, but I had no idea who'd supplied the current ruined offering. Could it have been Kurosaki-san? Why? Did he know her, too?
"Question one! What the hell can that be? You there, in the middle, answer me!"
Though jittery down to his very core, the middle guy of the remaining trio could not refuse to placate a fiery master like Kurosaki-san. "Um...an offering to the kid who died here recently..."
"Correct!" Kurosaki-san yelled, performing a surprise reverse roundhouse kick on the terrified respondent, who dropped like a sack of potatoes.
"Mit-rin!"
Locked in the final crouching position of his reverse roundhouse kick, Kurosaki-san glared up at the pair left standing to demand, "Question two! Why is the vase knocked over?"
"Th...that's because we knocked it over skateboarding..."
This feeble explanation by one daring skater was cut off as the both remaining skaters went flying to the ground with each receiving a devastating kick to the abdomen. "Right again! You pull off something like this again, and people will be offering you flowers!"
At that threat, all fiver skaters practically sprinted away, shouting, "Sorry!"
Kurosaki-san simply stood there, arms crossed, dark brown eyes carefully watching his antagonists' escape. "I don't think they'll be back again," he announced softly, his sharp-featured face relaxing. Somehow, I knew he'd meant to direct his statement toward Hanako-chan. He turned around to face the telephone pole, where Hanako-chan's small form had been hiding. Naturally, I already knew it was her favorite place to retreat to. "I'll bring you fresh flowers tomorrow."
"This is incredible," I whispered, still in astonishment that Kurosaki-san could also see the young green-eyed, redheaded yurei in pig-tails, shorts, and pink-striped tank top.
"Thank you for getting rid of them. Now I can rest peacefully, onii-san."
My heart ached at witnessing Hanako-chan flash another person the same exact joyful and infectious grin she'd also bestowed on me when I'd given her my offering of flowers. God, it must've been a sign that I was acutely feeling the paradigm shift in my world which had just transpired. Should I show myself and let Kurosaki-san know I shared his gift? After all, I'd always longed for a comrade in arms. Within seconds, my innermost self knew I would strive to win Kurosaki-san over at any cost. He'd taught me something valuable today: one can reach out to yukei with nothing more than pure heart and respect of the common experience of life lived. Unfortunately, luck was not on my side that day. Clumsiness robbed me of my chance to make a graceful entrance. I slipped on something, launching me to an awkward spill on the ground where I was in plain sight of Hanako-chan and Kurosaki-san.
My classmate's eyes widened in amazement. "Yamamoto-san!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
"I know, onii-san! Sumire-chan is here to see me again!" Hanako declared blissfully, her smile widening even more, if such a thing were possible.
As Kurosaki-san did a suspious double-take toward me, I knew my life was about to change with whatever he next said.
Author's Note: Please tell me what you think of this chapter. Constructive criticism is welcome, but I kindly ask for no flames please!
