"What is the meaning of life?"
"Death."
"The whimsy of prayers?"
"Despair."
"The naivety of dreams?"
"Disappointment."
"The bonds of love?"
"Heartache."
"The ties of truth?"
"Betrayal."
"The significance of friendship?"
"…Life."
Silent as the Grave
Chapter One: Curiosity…
Death. For such a small word, it has such a large, broad meaning. Five letters, nothing overly grammatical or difficult. Perhaps the word was created knowing many would be forced to deal with it very early on in life. By definition, death is 'the act of dying; termination of life'. It is not thoroughly surprising that something as multi-layered and relative as death would be summarized as something so simple. Simple, cold, heartless. Words do not feel, but that does not dismiss the fact that the one who dispenses them can. Words can be the death of someone- words can be as cold and unfeeling as the sharp, smooth, metallic steel of the executioner's sword at your throat. And, in that moment as the smooth katana is drawn back, the metal gleaming in the sunlight, bitterness can control you at the thought of a few mere words. This bitterness will seep through your veins, into your bloodstream, through your cursed heart. As the sword befell, all that is heard are the ringing, echoing taunts of words in your head. Like the silent screams that torture him every night, like his lost innocence and sanity- everything is relative in the end. He kneeled there, awaiting the blow that would surely end his life, the blow that would send another demon into the underworld. His mind was both begging and rejecting the thought of death, one moment pulling it closer, the next retracting like a small child from a flame. The looming shadows, the mad laughter, the revolting visions that unceasingly flashed through his mind… It was too much to take. He felt the very edge of the forgotten sword penetrate his skin, sending white-hot pain ripping through his flesh…
Steel blue eyes snapped open, his right arm gripping the untouched material that covered a completely uninjured left shoulder with animalistic instinct. A mixture of relief and wariness coursed through his mind as he reached a shaking hand out towards the sword laying loyally beside him. Lightly fingering the hilt before firmly gripping the weapon, he steadied himself and walked silently towards the well house.
Splashing another bucket of cold water over his head, either ignorant of or ignoring the sharp bite the ice water left, he relished in the numbed state of both his mind and body. Dropping to his knees, his eyes open yet blind, he hung his head, feeling a wave of exhaustion consume him. His scarlet hair shone as liquid diamonds clung to the bloody strands, almost mocking in their intensity. His softly curved face was flushed a paler shade than usual, giving him a ghostly appearance as his eyes softened to a deep indigo. His empty violet gaze never wavered as thick black lashes concealed the tears that were beginning to gather. Opening his eyes just to stare at his reflection in a mood of complete apathy, he blinked. Shaking his head lightly, his stood, grabbing the wooden handle of the water bucket, and headed back to his room. Cat-like steps fell deaf upon the ears of his comrades. Why would they hear his silent footsteps when they couldn't hear his silent screams?
.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.
The soldier paced awkwardly in the dimly lit corridor, loosening the collar of his gi as he bit the inside of his cheek. Fiddling his hands in anxiety, the young man adjusted his glasses and then fingered the small, leather-bound book that his right hand was securely gripping with unnecessary force. A cold sweat running down his brow, the boy shuffled his feet and tried to transfer his nervous look into one of confidence, and only succeeded in looking half-crazed. Just as he was midway into giving himself the 'be a man' speech, the western-style wooden door squeaked open with a quick swing, causing the disoriented teenager to jump and drop his glasses in the process. Quickly dropping to all fours, he fingered the floor until finding said desired object, then looked up at the man who had cause his frenzy. At the sight of familiar slit-like amber eyes, the young man gulped, flushed, and diverted his attention to the floor as he bowed. "Sumimasen, Saitou-sama!"
"Get up, Daigoro. There is enough filth on this floor without you to contribute." The man, who's name has been disclaimed as Saitou, stated coldly. His sharply handsome features, high cheekbones, and fierce, calculating eyes made him an imposing figure, though he couldn't have been in more than his mid-twenties. Pulling a cigarette from the pocket of his navy police uniform, Saitou smirked arrogantly as he brought the nicotine to his mouth.
"G-gomen!" Daigoro immediately clambered back up, but was thoroughly shocked when, quicker than a cobra, Saitou reached out and snatched the thick brown book from his grasp.
"Well, what do we have here?" Saitou mentioned, flipping casually through the book, his unlit cigarette hanging limply from the corner of his mouth.
"Kudasaimasen ka…?" Daigoro inquired, his arm held palm outward and awaiting his treasure.
Saitou glared at him, then snorted and flung the book at his junior. "Very well, Okuma. Be sure to keep everything you care about as safe as you do that book. As interesting as your company is, I would like to know why you were sneaking around my office?"
Daigoro's eyes widened and as it was in his nature to be honest, he quickly yelped out a reply. "I wasn't sneaking around, sir! I was supposed to report to you!"
"And then your explanation for waiting around?" The senior cop lit a match and cynically raised the flame to his lips, his brow raised in awaited response.
"…I-I'm sorry." Daigoro looked down in shame, and Saitou sighed in wariness, taking a deep drag.
"Just get on with it."
"Oh! Ah-Yes sir! Well, Lieutenant Colonel Aoshi-sama received word that he struck again. He got five of our men this time." The report that started strong ended in a near-whisper, making apparent to Saitou just how green the young man was to the face of death.
"Please elaborate. Who is 'he', and what squadron did he get?" Saitou blew a ring of smoke into Daigoro's face, making his eyes water as he coughed slightly.
"The Battousai… and he got…well, he got your squad, sir. Five of the Third Shinsengumi unit." Daigoro's expression darkened, and Saitou could see the shadows in his eyes.
"Battousai… a formidable opponent. Arrange so I meet him." Saitou adjusted the katana on his waist, and started to walk slowly and fluidly through the hall.
"W-wait! How? Why?!" Daigoro's wide, emotional gaze locked onto Saitou's back with a mix of bewilderment and respect.
Saitou closed his eyes, allowing himself the time of another drag on his addiction. Spewing out an elegant line of gray whispers, Saitou's eyes reopened, now seized with determination. "Aku. Soku. Zan."
.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.
"Harley! This is about the stupidest thing we have ever done!" A young woman of about seventeen whispered impatiently into her friend's ear. Harley raised an eyebrow and gave her a look. "Okaaaay, maybe not the stupidest thing we have ever done, but definitely the most likely to get us detentions for life."
"Stop worrying about it, Whitney. It's my job to be the responsible one, remember?" Harley reminded, though the thought was a bit amusing seeing as she was two years Whitney's junior. As she lead the way through the bookshelves she tried to strain her eyesight and failed miserably seeing as the library was nearly pitch black at this time of night.
"I still don't see why you don't just rent the book?" Whitney asked, taking small steps and swinging her arms around as she tried to feel her way through the aisles.
"First, I have a very large tab for all my late fees… Second, it isn't for rent." Harley stated the next sentence a little quieter than usual, though Whitney still picked it up.
"Not for rent? This is a library, everything's for rent! Well, except the dictionaries…" Whitney strayed off subject, "You're stealing a dictionary, aren't you?"
"No! And it's not stealing, it's just borrowing with no intent to return it." Harley stated in a matter-of-factly tone of voice, which was ruined when her head collided with the sharp corner of one of the wooden shelves. "Kuso!" She muttered as Whitney started laughing. "Shh!"
"Where and more importantly, how are we going to find this book? I want pancakes!" Whitney glowered, and Harley sweat dropped. She wouldn't have gotten her friend out of bed at two in the morning for anything but pancakes.
"Just a- aha!" Harley grinned, though it was hardly discernable in the darkness. Plucking a small, leather bound brown book off a secluded and almost hidden shelf, she held it triumphantly in Whitney's face.
"Wow. An old, dusty book." Tick tock tick tock… "PANCAKE TIME!" Turning about-face and marching back the way she came, Whitney left a very 'knocked-off-her-pedestal' Harley to hurry in her wake.
"Wait! It's not the book exactly, but the history behind the book!" Harley clamored as the two girls slipped out the library window and made their way across the commons to the dormitories. Tokyo Township High School was rather prestigious, and you either had to have a sizeable amount of money, contacts, or intelligence to gain entrance. It just so happens that both Whitney and Harley were extremely lacking on the first two requirements. The only reason they had been able to transfer from their slightly run-down public high school to this one was because of their writing abilities.
"What is it? It doesn't look like it has a title." Whitney said, her eyes roaming over the battered literature critically. Harley flipped the pages like a deck of cards, wrinkling her nose at the smell of must that emanated from it.
"It's the French version of 'Around the World in Eighty Days'. The older version." Harley stated, not noticing the piqued look that crossed her friend's face.
"Harley. You. Do not. Know. FRENCH! BAKA!" Whitney growled, punching the 'baka's' arm.
"Ow! Nani?!" Harley jumped, her startled emerald gaze locked onto Whitney's cerulean one. They held a silent staring contest for a moment, then broke out in laughter.
"But really, what do you expect to do with a book you've already read, not to mention the fact that it's in a foreign language?" Whitney prodded the book with her finger, as if it may suddenly spring to life and bite off her hand.
"But this is one of the first prints of this book! It's original and unabridged, and in it's native language." Harley said enthusiastically, hugging said object to her chest.
"That still doesn't explain why you wanted to steal-
"-Borrow-"
"-it." Whitney finished. Harley gained a knowing twinkle in her eyes as a smug smirk made its way onto her face. "Well, since one such as yourself would have no way to be as knowledgeable as this almighty Harley, than I shall share with you the tale of the Book of Death." Whitney was caught between curiously prodding for a continued explanation and rolling her eyes at her friend's arrogance, so she settled for a slightly sarcastic yet still interested snort. Taking this as a good sign, Harley continued. "You remember how my sister saw that ghost a few days ago, right?"
"Yeah, how could I forget. You were saying how we should see if ghosts were allergic to corn and then throw holy water at it!" Whitney raised her eyebrow in remembrance. Harley was usually rather monotonous, but get her excited about something and heaven forbid…
"Well anyways, I was online, looking up ways to get rid of ghosts. So, after about ten minutes, I find a website with about how ghosts are sometimes related to an object instead of a person or home. So I was reading about it, and I learn that the object can be just about anything- a doll, a teddy bear, a piano. The ghosts seek refuge in these objects, but are eternally trapped within and around these knick-knacks. I was reading about a particular book with a gruesomely damning history when I had an onslaught of déjà vu. The book's original owner and true history was never discovered, but they say an old man was going through the well house on his shrine one day, when he found a package wrapped quite simply. It was stuck behind many other boxes and loose boards, but the old man was extremely curious as to the significance of the package. While he unwrapped it, he never saw the small note fall to the floor. Seeing a small book, the old man casually flipped through it, and then noting it was nothing special, set it atop the well and continued his cleaning. That night he brought it with him to read before going to sleep, and everything continued as normal. Two years later, one of the elderly man's friends found him dead, collapsed outside the well where he had been heading. This was last week. The book, which was found in the well house, lying neatly near the doorway, was donated to the International Literature Foundation, which distributes books randomly from estate sales and such. The medical examiners say there was no reason the elderly man should have died. He was in great health for his age. But the strangest thing of all, is that his heart was still beating. His heart is still beating. But he's dead."
Whitney stood in awed silence at the serious tone of Harley's voice. They had stopped midway up the stairs to their dorm, to caught in the story and their own thoughts to notice they had halted. "Does that mean… that book?" She eyed the book that was clutched protectively over Harley's own heart. Her look took on an expression of fear tainted by unsustainably dark curiosity. Harley nodded, her face replicating Whitney's.
"Yes… I'm positive. The answer to the old man's death… it lies in this book. It has to."
"Wait… you said something about a note." Whitney probed, her interest spiked at this turn of events.
"Yeah… they found it after he died. It was next to his bed… the only way I know so much is because his friend… the one who found him, posted on a website about it. The note… it was the most convicting thing of all." Harley lowered her tone, as if the very shadows around might be spying. And it did feel that way; tension hung in the air like a heavy, suffocating blanket.
"Well… what did it say?" Whitney whispered, her straight tone itself telling of the extremely somber mood of the moment.
"It said," Harley started, pulling the book away from her slightly to caress the worn cover. "In old-fashioned kanji, 'Curiosity killed the cat'."
A/N: Please review!!! Onegai!
Translations:
onegai- please
sumimasen: I'm sorry!
gomen: sorry
nani- what?
baka: idiot
Kudasaimasen ka: would you please...?