record of a weather-exposed skeleton
I.
—
i. "Hm."
"What do you think?"
"I think I need to see your real draft."
"That is my real draft."
"…You're kidding me, aren't you?"
"No. So what do you think?"
"I think you can do better than this."
"What do you mean? It's—"
"Kurosaki-san, I will give you two weeks to present another draft. I know you can do it. Go out. See the world. You'll be inspired."
—
ii. And so he went out to see the world and waited for a jolt of inspiration.
Nothing came.
He decided to take a walk. It was June and the clouds above were gray. It will rain soon. As soon as this thought crossed his mind, it began to pour.
"Damn it." And Urahara and writer's block.
Ichigo ran and stopped under a waiting shed. He stood, shoulders hunched, flanked by two people, glaring at the rain and muttering about the inconveniences of said weather under his breath. He ran a hand through his damp hair and buttoned up his coat.
The heavy water created a mist as it hit the ground, turning the street black. Traffic backed up for blocks. Car lights appeared blurred in the heavy rain. Gazing at the blanks between passing pedestrians, Ichigo felt the passage of time decelerate.
For a while, he watched as raindrops shattered, creating small circles of water on the ground. A bolt of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a clap of thunder. Ichigo looked up and stared right ahead.
He frowned.
On the other side of the road was a figure. At first, Ichigo thought he imagined it. Soon the blurry edges sharpened. It was a woman. She had no umbrella, and she was already soaked. Thick and wet wavy hair covered her face.
Ichigo's eyebrows cinched. What on earth was she doing? Had she not notice the dismal weather? Didn't she feel the need to protect herself from the rain?
The woman lifted her chin, wet hair parting in the middle. One bright eye peeked out from behind the sodden hair.
Ichigo jerked back, startled. Despite the distance between them, the intensity of her gaze felt like scalpel scoring his flesh. Like claws digging—
—
iii. He blinked and the eye was gone. Her hair was covering her face again.
What the hell was that?
The woman took a step forward. Another step, and another, and another.
A red Honda came out of nowhere.
The car didn't stop.
The woman didn't stop, either.
—
iv. He began to run.
Behind him, people stopped and stared, some were flabbergasted, some yelled. But he did not hear them. His focus was on the woman. He needed to save her. The rain blurred his vision, and the road was slippery but he would not be deterred.
He was too late, however.
The red Honda struck the woman. There was a squelching sound followed by a crunching noise. The car went on as though nothing had happened, disappearing behind the rainy mist.
"Shit!" Ichigo skidded to a halt with difficulty. The rain had gotten worst, falling like a ton of bricks, heavy and loud. He dreaded seeing mangled corpse. But he looked. And what he found chilled him.
There was no blood, no body.
No woman.
Ichigo gaped, stupefied.
"The fuck—"
Unnoticed by him, the traffic light flashed green.
High-pitched screeching of tires, frantic honking of horns, and then a shout: Look out!
He looked to the side. A pair of lights hit his face.
Then, total darkness.
—
v. He woke a day later.
"So you're still alive?"
He knew that voice.
"Ishida," he hissed, eyebrows drawing together.
The doctor said nothing and continued reading his chart. The room was square, white and immaculate, smelled of bleach and void and death. Ishida's pen scribbling across the sheet was loud and annoying, like sharp nails scratching glass.
"You suffered right shoulder dislocation. It wasn't serious. No concussion. No rib fracture," said Ishida, looked up from the chart, and added, "You're lucky." The chart was flipped close, the sound sharp and abrupt. He then put it back on the table and slid his pen into his coat's breast pocket.
The silence annoyed Ichigo. "Spit it out. I know you've got something to say," he grumbled.
"Do you need prescription," asked Ishida instead, putting his hands inside the pockets of his white coat.
Ichigo gave him a dry look. Ishida kept his cold professional façade. It was a bit unnerving but Ichigo will not admit it aloud.
"Lack of sleep may have caused you to see things that weren't there."
A surge of hot anger tore through Ichigo and blazed in his eyes. "I'm not fucking crazy," he hissed between clenched teeth, eyes narrowed.
"I'm not saying you are."
Fists clenched, spine straight, Ichigo sat up and bellowed, "Then don't look at me like that!"
"Ichigo."
The use of his first name helped calm him down. Still heaving with anger, Ichigo shoved a hand through his hair, grabbed a fistful and tugged.
"I don't know how it felt like to lose an important person," Ishida began, a flicker of Uryuu peeking out from underneath his cold doctor visage. "What I understand is that you're having a hard time. Take it easy and sleep."
Ichigo let out an irritated sigh, laid down and stared up to the ceiling. Closing his eyes, he said, "Don't tell Dad."
Ishida said nothing and left.
—
vi. Urahara gave him reprieve. Another two weeks, Kurosaki-san, he said. I know you can do it. Go out. See the world. You'll be inspired.
He grunted as he stepped out of Urahara's office. He lingered there, thinking, face sullen. Several passersby glanced at him cautiously, careful not to step in his way and attract his attention and ire. Ichigo noticed the stares, the way people avoid his path. He did not care; he had stopped caring about his appearance a long time ago, grew accustomed to the eyes that wondered if he was a thug who recently gotten out of jail. He never cared about what other people say and think of him. What they think was their business, not his.
He decided to take a walk. It was June and the clouds above were gray. It will rain soon.
As soon as this thought crossed his mind, it began to pour.
"Damn it." And Urahara and writer's block.
Ichigo ran and stopped under a waiting shed. He stood, shoulders hunched, flanked by two people, glaring at the rain and muttering about the inconveniences of said weather under his breath. He ran a hand through his damp hair and buttoned up his coat.
The heavy water created a mist as it hit the ground, turning the street black. Traffic backed up for blocks. Car lights appeared blurred in the heavy rain. Gazing at the blanks between passing pedestrians, Ichigo felt the passage of time decelerate.
For a while, he watched as raindrops shattered, creating small circles of water on the ground. A bolt of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a clap of thunder. Ichigo looked up and stared right ahead.
He froze.
His hands clenched into fists. This was too familiar.
Back stiff, he watched the people under umbrellas pass. The road was empty, and the traffic light was red. Heart racing, he looked straight ahead.
No one was standing on the other side of the road. Still, he waited with trepidation.
The traffic light flashed green.
He went rigid, suddenly unable to breathe. His body was frozen, his lungs were frozen. He could not see anything—everything was a blur. He could not feel his hands, legs and feet—he had become nothing. The void itself. He felt as though he stepped into an entirely different dimension, a black hole, where there was nothing but emptiness. The sound of rain disappeared, only the wild thump of his heart was audible, like the tick tock of a clock in an empty room. The volume increased until he felt like he was drowning in sounds and beats, driven mad by the sound of his own heartbeat. The world spun, making him dizzy, and there was a wild whirring in his ears.
oh her hair is so brown, her eyes
are so yellow
"I'm sorry. We did our best. I'm sorry."
People saying sorry, so sorry for your loss. Oh her hair is so brown, her eyes are so yellow, we're so sorry for your loss.
Fuck off.
I don't need your pity.
oh her hair is so brown, her eyes
—
vii. "Are you alright?"
—
viii. He blinked. Then.
What–
It was raining. The weight of his briefcase he held in his hand was familiar.
Eyes wide, wild with confusion, he turned his head to his right. There was a fork of lightning piercing the sky and it lit up the street, giving him a quick snapshot of the stranger's face.
"Are you alright?" the soft voice repeated.
Another lightning. A flicker of blue light. The stranger moved closer.
A girl, it was a girl with long hair and unforgettable face—a Titian painting that came to life.
She smiled, and it was incredible.
"Are you okay?"
She wore a gray toggle coat that was two sizes too big. Her hair was thick, her face almost hidden by it. Two periwinkle hairclips twinkled from each side of her head, but some hair escaped and stubbornly curled around her cheeks and between her eyes. There was an air of charming innocence about her.
He cleared his throat and looked away upon realizing he was staring.
"I–I'm fine," he grunted.
"I'm glad. For a second there, I thought you're going to collapse."
Ichigo inhaled deeply, nodded, distracted. He can still feel the frantic beat of his heart, the odd beat in his ears. What had happened?
"Oh. The storm's over."
He glanced at her; she was wearing an odd expression, one that was sad, contemplative, tender and happy all at the same time. There was a strange smile on her lips. Surprising him, she looked him straight in the eye; her eyes were golden honey.
She blinked, gazed away, staring somewhere past his ear, and then she smiled at him; just a quick quirking of the corner of her lips before saying, "Be careful on your way home."
With that she walked away, stepping on puddles, and he found himself looking after her.
—
ix. He met her again, under the same waiting shed. Like before, it was raining. It rained every day in June.
When she turned towards him and recognized him, she smiled, and Ichigo was charmed. It disarmed him. He was usually wary of strangers, expecting stereotypical quips about his unusual hair color and brooding face, but there was something about her that strongly drew him to her. It was strong, and it was alarming. Alarming because he did not know what it was, did not know how to deal with it. He had never felt this way before. It felt as though his soul was starving and only her presence could alleviate the hunger.
Despite his initial reservation, ignoring his cynical inner-self mocking him for daring to talk to a beautiful girl, Ichigo asked her name. He noticed her hesitate, averting her gaze, biting her lip. He almost told her to forget about it but she smiled up at him. This time, it lasted a second too long.
Inoue Orihime, she said.
He told her his. Kurosaki Ichigo.
One who protects.
It was rare to meet people who knew exactly what his name meant. It made her even more endearing.
When the rain stopped, he said, I'll walk you home.
She looked surprised. He, too, was surprised at his audacity. As they stared at each other in silence, Ichigo felt his heart thud violently. He did not know where it came from, this reaction to her. There was something in her wide eyes, something strange—something that made her fascinating, lovely.
The corners of her lips lifted. A lovely smile.
She turned to face him fully. He cannot see her eyes for she was standing with the streetlight behind her, casting a shadow over her face. But he knew she was smiling.
You're too kind.
He did not know what it was or if it was just his imagination. It was in the way she said those words. Perhaps it was her soft, hypnotizing voice. But there was something about her—about this encounter that gave him a sense of inevitability and fate. Something great was about to happen to him: immense and equally devastating. He will never recover from it. It will leave him in ruins. A part of him hesitated; there was a voice warning him that this was not a good idea. That he should walk away now before he got too deep into this. But he wanted it so much. He did not know why he wanted it so much.
Eventually his hesitation faded away as Ichigo walked beside Orihime. They spent the rest of the walk not touching, but he was aware of the space between their hands. And the wanting to hold hers.
—
x. They reached her apartment building and took the elevator. It looked and felt airy due to the white ceiling and sparsely decorated walls. A crammed bookshelf was against one wall. An afghan was draped over an arm of the cream sofa. On the floor was a large rug of many different patterns, squares and small pieces, sewed together so it looked like an archipelago of complex designs and colors. It was striking and odd, but visually pleasing. A small pot of mint made the area around the low table smelled strongly of the herb.
Despite the warm colors and lighting, the apartment reeked of loneliness. A loneliness that felt familiar, but he cannot define. Nevertheless, it didn't stop the anticipation and the subsequent satisfaction from cropping up whenever he saw her. He did not know if running into each other at the waiting shed was plain happenstance or intentional on his part. He stopped wondering eventually. He walked her home each time. He could not explain why he felt the way he felt whenever she smiled or laughed, said his name or looked at him. She looked at him as though she felt the same. Whenever that thought surfaced, he chided himself, embarrassed and cross at himself for being so quick to assume reciprocation.
Perhaps he was curious; he had never met a woman like her. Certainly, he'd seen beautiful women whose grace and charm augmented their physical loveliness. Orihime—she too had striking beauty and charm—but there was something about her that he could not decipher. A familiarity, a sense of inevitability. A soft shattering revelation, a quiet settling in his bones. An interruption in the measureless infinity of the present. Wanting, and wanting, and more wanting. He wondered how it possible to feel at peace and full of hunger at the same time.
One night, as they talked, she touched his hand for a fleeting seven seconds. She had lost her balance for the briefest moment when she reached up for a mug in the cupboard, and his hand was there on the counter, positioned perfectly to catch hers when it fell to steady herself.
A spark.
Their eyes met.
In that moment, he knew he was doomed.
When he kissed her, everything began to spiral out of control.
—
notes. something old and weird i found on my junk folder! 8D 9 chapters max- I hope? Gosh why is it hard for me to finish things /clutches face
ok I've been writing this for weeks as a some sort of therapy because i'm in the middle of writing crisis D: ahh it's really frustrating y'kno? /rolls over; i'll head back to brutally editing my major projects once my writing improves yey
disclaimer. (the) record of a weather-exposed skeleton – is the title of the first journal of Basho
edited/2016 edited this chapter to correct errors and inconsistencies. The original concept was a ghost romance or horror, but things deviated at the 2nd chapter; I realised this was some sort of writing therapy and therefore it should be light-hearted and easy (although things, once again, deviated!). Thank you v much!