Angel of Faith
By Kysra
He doesn't know why he's here, why he comes here every year. It's a burn that sears the brain, spreading and writhing into his gut where it sits and intensifies until he gives it a name.
Grief.
Heavy and merciless, it weighs him down, makes him sluggish until he has no choice but to renew a ritual that should not exist. Its bite is deepest always on this day, always at this time. It's a need, inevitable and assuaged only by coming here, watching her . . . thinking.
The flowers are a bright splash of color against the drab gray stone, they seem to radiate a much needed light against the dark shadows invading the engraved symbols that spell her name, mark the numbers that signify the duration of her brief life.
After that first year he had brought her white flowers, but it only made everything more real. He swore he would never bring her white flowers again. She was colorful and exciting in life. She would have the same in death.
He stares at the little hyphen that is meant to span the nineteen years that passed between her birth and unfortunate demise. It says nothing of her smiles he remembers so well, the little tilt at the tip of her nose, or the graceful flow of her movements. That stupid little line communicates neither the passion she was so adept at injecting into every action, every word, nor the energy she seemed to exude so effortlessly whether riled or calm. It cannot show the beauty of her face, the near perfect symmetry of her body, the way she would tilt her head slightly while listening to her friends, or the intent look in her blue eyes when she was focused.
He had held her lifeless hand, stared down upon the unnaturally still face – pale against the somber black of her dress. The dark color mocked her, he thought. It was not what she would have chosen for herself, he knew. There were a million unknown regrets, but he wasn't ready to acknowledge them; so he had held her hand and said his goodbyes silently. There was a thought, a barely formed wish, but just as it was born, it disappeared into the barely contained despair.
Kneeling upon the grass, he takes a tour of his memories as he has done for the last three years since she was commended to hollowed earth. It is amazing at what the mind can recall when it is no longer bound by fear or contempt. He wishes he still had reason to fear and push her away. He can admit that now.
Wheeler's sobs were like needle-sharp knives stabbing those parts of his heart that were not iced over or walled in. Taylor's whispered words of comfort cracked with emotion as tears passed from glassy, red eyes to drip from his chin. Motou was unsteady on his feet, his small hands holding onto that golden puzzle like a lifeline. He had held Mokuba tightly when they lowered her into the ground, and he imagined her eyes looking up at him through the polished wood of her casket. Her image frowned at him. She knew his inner-self now that she was not of this world, and he was afraid.
His hands find and trace the etched epitaph: She was an angel on earth/The Lord has taken her Home/She will be missed by all who knew and loved her. The words hold no meaning to him, just as they held no meaning to him back then, when first he read them. If she was an angel, he remembers her as an angel of protection and faith, forever coming forward to protect her friends and encouraging them to have faith in themselves. He has always secretly believed it ironic and fitting that she had chosen the Magician of Faith as her signature card.
He had stayed behind when the rain began to fall, settling down on one knee to touch his palm to the newly turned soil covering her. There were a few moments of disbelief, when some numb area opened just between his eyes and filled his stomach, when the reality of what he was seeing would not connect to the words and pictures filtering into his brain. It was an echo of what he had felt when the news of her death had first reached him.
The Lord has taken her Home, it says. He takes exception to that statement. Her home is here, on this plane where she travels the city streets and holds her diploma proudly, where she dances among peers that are lackluster compared to her flawless skill, where she can dream and work for her goals, where she has friends who would miss her should she leave and enemies she seeks to befriend. What is there for her in Heaven, if such a place exists? She has not had the chance to accomplish what she should have. He has not had the chance to know her as her friends do. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, but regret is perfect vision with comprehension.
Just a few weeks before she was gone, they had been on clean-up duty together. She was mopping the floor while he swiped the chalkboards in silence. They dared not acknowledge each other. Avoidance had become their favored form of communication. She had stepped forward to grab the mob bucket when she slipped. He had seen her fall but was too late to save her from it. Still, he noted the awkward angle of her foot as it twisted under her and knew she would suffer a sprain if not a break. She had refused to look at him, and he had given serious thought to pretending nothing had happened; but there was a flash of pain evident on her face as she struggled to stand without placing her weight on the injured foot. He had moved before he had realized what he was doing, and as he carried her – silently – to the nurse's station, he heard the trembling quiet, "Thank you," and was inexplicably glad to have been there.
He knows it is stupid to miss her. After all, he barely knew the one often designated as "The Cheerleader," but there is a barren place where she once was. The hole is a small one that once entertained a promise of becoming more if he had been more open, more honest. He has had years to identify and accept the 'If onlys,' but he is not yet ready to let go of them. He is not ready to let go of her.
The first year without her - her desk always empty, her little group drifting aimlessly, despondently without her there to cheer and rant and rave, to breathe life into the world – was hard. Sometimes, he would just stare at that empty space where the veil of her hair and the slight bulk of her body once distorted his view of the window. Other times, he would watch Motou, Wheeler, and Taylor (oftimes joined by Bakura) as they commiserated quietly in their designated corner of the classroom, taking note of the long faces and still-shadowed eyes. And still other times, he would lie awake at night, imagine she was still alive – safely tucked in her own bed, and wonder if he would have done anything differently had he known he would lose her when she was never really his. These moments were punctuated by the frequent necessity of comforting Mokuba. She had been a surrogate sister. His brother's abandonment issues had risen to the surface with her passing.
That she was important is without question. He takes a week off from work to prepare himself for this visit every year to remember, question, and attempt to understand. Her image haunts him sometimes. He will be looking over some trade agreement, feel eyes upon him and glance up to see her misty form watching him just a split second before she disappears again. She gazes back at him from the mirror, standing at his side, as he brushes his hair in the morning. Her eyes are sad always. They reflect the sadness he has yet to acknowledge, but the tightness around her mouth has relaxed over the years. He is making progress, and he knows that she is patient.
He had just returned home from visiting her grave when someone knocked upon his door. The servant was left to answer it, and soon he was informed that the visitor was asking for him. It was her mother. She had inherited her looks from the older woman, was his immediate reaction when faced with her. They had shared the same face, though the mother's brown hair was graying and the once-smooth skin of her hands was showing signs of wrinkling. She expressed her thanks for the flowers. He had not known she knew of his visits. She told him of her daughter's journal, that he was mentioned quite frequently. She wanted him to have a copy of it. He had taken the bound pages out of courtesy and nothing more, but as the days passed and her ghost refused to leave him, he knew he had to read it.
There is a small smile ringing his lips, a soft look in his eyes as he places his palm to the place where he imagines her heart must reside underground. He imagines he can feel it beat against his skin. There are secrets whispering to his soul, and suddenly he knows without knowing that she is there. Here are her hands, pausing before resting upon his shoulders. There are the errant strands of her hair, flying about her face and playing upon his cheeks as she leans over him. Even in death she seeks to comfort where there is pain, reason where there is only irrationality. She is a rock upon which she encourages all to place their suffering so that she may bear the burden with them. She is a foundation, and though he has thought her weak and useless in the past, he has realized over the years that she was the strongest of them all.
She had been with him as he read her innermost thoughts, feelings, and hopes. Her voice echoed in his head, and he could picture her sitting at her desk, working furiously to somehow verbalize and record her emotions into mere print. The entry recounting the tirade against him atop Duelist Kingdom Castle was easily his favorite. It had given him insight into the workings of her mind and opened his eyes to the true spirit of her interest in the people around her. Simply put, she saw something inside people, something inside him, that attracted her – some unattainable quality buried within every soul that demanded her faith. She had to believe in the good inherent in the human spirit in order to preserve her own.
Her mouth opens and closes though no sound or word escapes, but he doesn't mind. She has spoken to him without speaking for a long time now. He understands her just as she understood him without knowing she understood. He has come to accept her even though he has not yet accepted her true significance in his life.
White feathers seemed to fall in a shower of glimmering white around them. It was a dream he had suffered through before, quite frequently. She stood away from him, her face worried and drawn, and he reached ineffectually for her, their hands always a centimeter apart and never touching. He realized they will never touch. He did not allow contact when she lived. It was not possible to achieve the too-late yearned for contact across the barrier of death.
"I think I understand now," he whispers, shaking fingers coming first to his lips before resting upon the letters of her name, "You are an angel, aren't you?" She smiles for him, the apparition watching him with something akin to happiness.
I've always had faith in you, her voice reaches him through the sound of his own wrenching sobs.
He suddenly knows that she will always be with him. She will always exist where her friends are.
*Owari*