fandom - Wild Adapter
title - never repair.
rating - pg
pairing - kubota + toki
description – Kubota is waiting for his cat to wake up…
Disclaimer - Wild Adapter doesn't belong to me. never repair.
By miyamoto yui
It's flooding.
The heat is permeating into the room through all the open crevices like little metal nails and bullets sticking to a single magnet. It's as if it knows that hell is supposed to be simulated somewhere here. It really does know its destined target marked by fate.
Animals have instincts that work to that degree, you know.
Though I would have asked for nothing but rain, the weather never listens to anything you tell it to. Like humans, it wants to defy its own wants just to spite the person who asks something of them. It's a perversity of nature that hangs onto each person's like razor-sharp fingernails ripping through without any other weapon, instigated only by the weakness of a human heart.
The more you try to remove the restraints of chains and web-like binds, the more securely they wrap around you, don't you think?
I hold the drowning cat in my arms. The sweat drips onto my body, covering more of the scent that's supposed to be mine like gunpowder after a kill.
He doesn't have a name yet, so I don't know what else to call him. I almost don't want to give him one. It'll mean that there's something to bind us. Naming something is just an artificial label that's supposed to distinguish one thing from another. The difference and gap between us is our skin.
The heat makes our sweat melt into one another as if mixed in molten lava burning our only means of escape…
But as I wipe his watery forehead, he's making a face and these sounds that are a mix of terror and arrogance. He's feeling and unfeeling at the same time. His calm lips and clenched eyes appear as if he's fighting to protect what's his and yet he wants to displace and dispose of it at his own convenience.
Looking at this pained face, I'm reminded of my own self.
So, at the same time, I'm repulsed and curious of where his dreaming will lead to…
Knock knock knock.
I look at the door, but I realize that it's the next door neighbor's. It seems ridiculous, but they all sound the same. We're compartmentalized into boxes separated by walls anyway. There is no one who will come through that door voluntarily if they knew what was on the other side of it.
I lift up the deformed hand to peer at it more closely.
I kiss it with my lips to test the texture and then I hold its lifeless, cold fingers in between mine.
I've brought him to the vet. I think I've done everything I can do. Why I've gone this far, that's what I'd like to know.
Pushing forth, pulling back…walking forward while waiting. That's all I seem to do.
Yes, always waiting, I wonder where things are going outside and inside my head.
But unlike what I've done, that man kissed my lips. I don't like to taste familiar things, but it was new at the same time. I didn't understand what he wanted and why he still wanted.
I wonder if he's looking for something to put his affection into?
Humans are like that. They freely talk of love. They equally say they are able to hate. But what's worse than giving nothing is only giving less than your all. That is the core of regret, after all.
Scared to give your all and afraid to take anything as well, you squeeze into the shape of your tiptoeing fear or you become squeezed out of what you've been trying to salvage and think is important.
I'm waiting for him to wake up. I don't know why, but it amuses me that there may be something exciting everyday if he's here with me.
I don't like the start or the end of things. To remember is troublesome, so an endless beginning with no apparent end is lonely yet suitable for me.
I know it's selfish to suddenly say, "You will be what I invest into, so you better be able to take it. You'll have no choice but to do as you're told." I am no better than that man who kissed me in his black car with that vanilla tobacco and pear flavor mixed together.
Every time I try to push myself away, the more I'm immersed into it.
My eyes open a bit in response as the hand I'm holding onto is gripping back just a little.
I look up to the ceiling.
I wonder what it means to feel.
I feel the moistness of the cloth in between my fingers and continue to hold him closely while patting his half-naked body. The more I look at him, the more I'm caught by something that I've tried to run away from.
Possessions have a habit of doing magical things like that. You claim them by some kind of material and emotional equivalent.
Then, you find out, they're not yours at all. You've become theirs.
Somewhere, probably the traces of a deadened, steel heart, will carry the wound that deepens. And I will look like it doesn't matter at all.
It's not that I can't.
My face didn't learn how to…
Before I know it, yet again,
I've found another thing that will tear me into stringy shreds and leave me again
with no evidence of the mortal damage that'll never repair.
But something broken can never be restored to mint condition after all. The more you're used, the more your value is depreciated?
Who knows? It doesn't make any sense at all.
Does the heart taste as metallic as the blood it pumps to keep my rotting soul alive?
Owari.
-
Author's note: I'd always loved this story and wanted to make a short reflective piece for it. I hope I can do more in the future.
August 12, 2005, 5:44 PM