Out of Sight, Out of Mind?
Summary: No matter how much one tries, can you really forget everything?
Soft, sliding right through his fingers. The corner of lace fell from his palm into the little wood box on his dresser. It fit perfectly in the square container and he closed the lid to shut the image away. As he inserted the key and turned to keep it locked he did the same in his mind with the image of a little girl.
A little girl with bright red eyes in a white blouse and red skirt-
No. He needed to lock that image away.
With a few more locks added, turned and twisted to be thrown into the dark corners of his mind it went away like a mirage. Just fading slowly, wavering in the darkness that engulfed it.
He found himself looking down at that box. The surface had an image of a rose etched into it, carved in thin and thick lines to add texture to it. Considering his usual canvas was an empty white and his tool a brush instead of a knife he thought it had come out well enough.
That was a year ago though and he still hadn't caught sight of Ib anywhere. There were no red eyes in the crowds no matter how he had searched, particularly checking in malls and other stores around schools with children that he figured would be around her age now. Likely thirteen and just starting a new year at school tomorrow. Alone.
He turned away from the box, walking out of the room and closing the door behind him with a brief sigh, leaning against the wood. To put some distance between him and that box that was suppose to be containing these thoughts.
He needed to forget about the whole thing. The incident at the gallery, being chased, his time with Ib and the portrait, Mary. All of it needed to go away. Garry knew this so he had put the handkerchief in the box, to close that chapter of his life. Especially when it was so obvious that he would never see Ib again. He lived in Tokyo, with thousands upon thousands of people. What was the likely hood that he would meet her in those masses again? Next to none.
Still... he remembered gripping her hand and helping her back through the portrait into the real world, out of that freaky gallery.
"Ib! I finally found you! Sheesh... I was looking everywhere! Don't just go running off too places on your own! Your father's waiting for you too, see? Let's go, Ib!" A woman shouted that looked strikingly similar to the little girl still standing in the dark hallway.
He felt a surge of panic rush through him when Ib turned away, looking to the woman, her supposed mother. It sank quickly into his bones and he reached toward Ib, shouting through the painting, "Ib! Hey, what are you doing? Hurry up and come over here!"
That woman, thing - whatever it was, it wasn't her mother - stepped closer to Ib and it practically sent his heart racing out of his chest to see it closer to her. "Ib! How many times have I told you? Don't go following strangers!"
Him? A stranger? She was the stranger! Probably not even real! Not even breathing.
"Hey," he spoke more softly, "It's not scary, okay? You'll be fine." He watched as her head turned towards him, red eyes looking back at him, confusion swirling in the depths as she rocked back and forth on her tiny feet.
"Ib!" The gaze turned from him, back to the woman. "Listen to your mother! Don't go with some stranger! Do you want to never see your mother and father again?"
She took a step back and he leaned forward, reaching for her. "Ib! I'll pull you over!"
"Come with me..." That woman was closer to her, reaching out a hand for Ib's arm. To pull her back into that hell.
He wouldn't let that happen. "Grab my hand! Ib!"
His shout sounded at the same time as that woman. For her, by name.
Ib met his gaze, hand outstretched and he reached past to her wrist, fingers circling around to clasp onto her as he pulled her forward, toward him. But that woman was still reaching for Ib.
He gave a forceful tug and Ib fell toward him. Only the wall stopped her from going straight through the painting and into his arms. She had her palm pressed against the edge of the low wall, pushing up to get over it, skirt bunching up to hug at her upper thighs when she was sitting on the wall. Then she was swinging her legs over, crashing right into him in her hurry to get out of reach of those other outstretched hands.
His arms closing around her and then... nothing.
Just nothing. That's how the memory went. To black. To find himself in front of that statue once again and his fingers itched for another slab of wood so he could carve it down into a rose for her. Like the box, just for her.
That is, if she didn't somehow grow a dislike for the flower. If she somehow remembered the gallery and what had happened there. He wished she would remember him at the very least. That when she saw him next it would all come back to her like it had for him when he found that handkerchief.
It would be better than any other option. The one thing he didn't want was her remembering when he wasn't there. With no one around to tell her it wasn't a dream and not be afraid. To not feel alone.
That was all.
He didn't want her to be alone, wondering if he remembered her. To be having nightmares that he could do nothing to get rid of when he was so far away.
Unless they were actually close in proximity. He wished they were. Maybe then he would have found her by now.
Garry stared down into the palm of his hand, still holding the key in his fingers. With a shaky breath he turned slowly and opened the door to close it behind him before walking slowly over to shelf partially hidden by his dresser. He slid the key in to the lock, turned it, and flipped the top open.
The lace gleamed back up at him, clean and white with no more blotches of red on the surface.
He picked up the box, moving across the room to set it on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the fabric in the box. At the leaves and petals adorning the boxes sides.
With a sigh he slumped back into the comforter, head resting on a pillow as he continued to look.
He would find her if it was the last thing he did.