ALIVE ;- connections
You stare at the ceiling above you, vision blurry without your glasses. You blink. You swallow the thick saliva that's accumulated in your throat. You inhale. Hold it. And...exhale.
They told you it would take time to get used to being alive again. They told you many things, you think. You didn't understand most of what was said, the words rushing over you like water, but the word "ALIVE" somehow piqued your attention.
Alive. Alive. Breathing. Surviving. Existing. Serving. Serving. Servitude. Life. Sacrifice.
[Tools don't feel.]
Two realities collide together in the vortex of your mind. In one, you died. In the other, you...
( des pa ire d )
You stare at the ceiling above you, vision blurry without your glasses. You blink. You swallow thick saliva. You inhale. Hold it. And...exhale.
There's no denying that you're alive, even if just barely. You can't feel your fingers or toes, and there's a chill deep in the core of your body, encompassing your meridian as if your entire body had been frozen and thawed. You move your head slowly to your right.
He's still there. He's staring at the floor with an expression of...
...It's something complex, a hazy mixture of relief and deep sadness, and your tired mind can't process it. You can't feel it, but you see he's holding your hand. He has been for awhile, you realize, maybe since you were first moved to the cot. He'd sat down in a chair beside it and picked something up off the bed. You hadn't felt anything, naturally, because tools don't feel.
But that's not important right now. The wave of relief that passes over you when you realize he's still there is intense. Your vision is further distorted as tears accumulate in your eyes. As his troubled expression is washed out, you're not sure what you're feeling [tools don't feel] that's causing you to cry.
In an instant, he snaps back to attention, and things become difficult to process again. It takes you several seconds to realize he's wiping your tears and speaking to you. Focusing all your energy on understanding his words, you begin to tune in...
"...okay, everything's fine, alright? ...going to be...make sense soon, once...focus on getting better, then...going to have to let me help you, got it?"
No. You couldn't even pick up half of what he was saying. But your lips part and the faintest sound escapes your throat. You can't believe it's your own voice.
"Yes, Bocchan."
Those are the first words you've spoken since...
(dangling like a marionette and you SLASH SLASHSLASHS LASH and you turn and you don't see him you don't see him but you see the blood and you see his face. no. no. no no nononononono this isn't happening this was your punishment, not his, and you pull his weakened form close to your body a nd you do what you've always done. the only thing you've ever been able to do. the only way you've ever expressed yourself the only purpose for your very existence. You Protect The Young Master.)
The tears... Why the tears? You never cry. Mounting frustration reddens your face and the chill in your body becomes hot. But it doesn't matter. You're still immobile. The Young Master grips your shoulders and leans over you, and you can hear his voice. It's almost like he's shouting... That doesn't matter. It's his voice. His. voice.
You slowly blink. The rivers down your cheeks have dried, still gleaming where the tears had rolled down. You're once again rendered catatonic.
He slumps down in his seat, hand over his mouth. You simply lie there with your head turned, watching him. With all the strength you can muster you speak again. "...Bocchan."
He reaches over and takes your hand again. You think you can feel it, this time. Or maybe it's just your imagination.
Corpses [tools] don't feel.