Memory as a Fever
dead man on dying
Between his ribs, the place where the collapsed heart thumps against strapped flesh, is a fine sleek sword wedged in. He placed it there (for safety reasons) to serve as a reminder. And so, when he inhales sharply—every time he sees her twin—the sword digs further.
Makes its way into the core, and there (once burrowed) it can never be removed. It is a placeholder for an ersatz heart.
And so, Byakuya dares to move, to shift, to hold her down (pinioned tight against his chest). Like a lunatic roaming wild and endless—full moon lurid, perfect—his mind does not work straight and the world is a pitiless, pitless cavern.
He composes a poem, arbitrarily, inside his head and nearly mad (breathless from shock). She smiles while he recites. And they both smile inwardly, never revealing hearts and thoughts to the other.
Rukia is pale and flat like a plain dusted with snow, her chest is constricted and words cannot be said.
And somehow, he found her awfully pretty, lying—half-hidden by shadows drawn under the paper screen. He hovers over her, casting his own silhouette to dominate hers. She squirms like a fish against the hook, but he's already got her tied and captured.
She whimpers (he enters). She shakes (he sighs). She is unbearably tight and small and flushed with embarrassment and aching dreads. He digs fingers into flesh.
Her skin breaks, porcelain against glass, slightly (he does not stop). Her eyes wander to his and see another woman's face reflected back (he pretends he does not notice, the amazement, the resentment).
Byakuya continues, and the pain does not subside. Rukia grows sick and nauseous. They don't cease, skin against skin, sweat drops trickling down her forehead. A black out, white-flushed.
And she keeps pretending (like he suggested) she is someone else.
Just that night.
Because he's already like a dead man, partially buried, dirt piled over the stomach and legs trenched in stone. She humors him—curious.
plum wine in spring
He pours her a drink, no drop spills. Drugged and frenzied, they unfold limbs, relaxing, unwound and eager. He is graceful and deliberate, she is svelte and light. A nymph or demonic sprite, she gently glides and dances across the room and toys with him. She kisses him and retreats.
Byakuya goes crazy (eyes glazed, hazy).
She laughs.
They play.
He pushes her down, she struggles, retaliates, and falls. He is rough tonight, stronger, more determined. She doesn't mind, doesn't notice. Instead, Rukia drags him down too and straddles him, pushes back his hair, and searches his face quizzically.
Impassive (bored) he lets her touch his face, neck, shoulders. And slyly guides her hand to his shaft. She giggles, he pauses. She shakes her head, he pursues.
Clothes pooled around knees, kicked, circled, feet entwined together, overlapping.
This time is smoother, more natural. There is no mortification: she doesn't shy away, doesn't act the part of a coquette—he likes that, he thinks.
She is direct and tells him what she wants. He obliges, she buckles and disintegrates into butterfly flakes.
Breaths deep and uneven, thunder rising from the throat. Mouth dry and cottony. Prickles in skin, arms and legs glistened over, head churning (burning), throbs and throes. They dissipate—
She exhales softly, content.
morning dew with blooded paint
The sun rises over the horizon, cloaking the house, courtyard, and them. Beams shoot into their spines and jars him awake. Byakuya inspects his (fake) sister, observes every inch (every damage) every naked surface artfully colored golden.
She turns to face the wall, hair tousled, messy feeling, teasing.
Night dies, air warms and dawns to suffocate them, and he makes sense of what happened. And what it meant (nothing). And what to do (he couldn't care less).
When she wakes and leaves—slips out silently, like mist settling in, intangible and torpid (torrid)—she will understand. And nothing will change.
Byakuya closes the front of her robe and exists—scene ends.