A/N: I know, I know- I haven't even finished the next chapter of Play Fair. As a matter of fact, I haven't even started it. But oh well. C'est la vie.Here's the new one (story, I mean). It's sort of like my old story, Gravity, but a lot less vulgar- Rin is sixteen, so if you've got problems with that I'll give you a sound "fuck off" right here and now. I'm feeling sassy today! Also note that one of the parts in the story was yanked from Hunter Thompson's The Rum Diary, because I liked it vair vair much.

Throughout this chapter, notice that Sesshoumaru is seventeen.

Throughout his story, notice that he's relatively insane.

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Chapter One: Married With Absence

"The only charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception necessary for both parties." -Oscar Wilde

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If you could only see the pains I took to remain inconspicuous, to follow every single law I could; I'd never been the type of guy who goes out of his way to stir up trouble, oh no, not me. I'd already caused too much…but if you could only see me zipping down the highway somewhere around four in the morning, looking desperately for some way out, it would be no mystery to you why any of this happened. Some way out- from my wife, maybe. From everything; considering buying the Life on The Fast Lane record as I, indeed, zipped down the fast lane. Everything blurred horribly.

New York is a bad place to be if you are on the edge of reason, testing the waters of insanity to see if it suits you; the winter takes you on with the deepest depression, and then bursts into incredibly hot summers, raising tempers and hormones, increasing blood pressure, probably, as well…New York, and the whole East Coast, can never be good for a person with nerves like mine. Mix the noise and the bad crowd and you have a heart attack waiting to happen.

Sometimes there is the thin line which separates man from beast, clear and easy to see. A blaring signal, saying: STOP. WHAT YOU ARE DOING IS WRONG. In flashing red lights, a bright Hollywood sign. Other times, it was invisible as you charged blindly forward (in her words, "Huffah!"), and it was too late when you realized you were fucked.

This time there wasn't anything, no line, and no sight of it afterwards. There was an impossible need to get away from anything I'd known, and there was a sensation somewhere in there. No boundaries, though. No limits. You know when, where to cross.

If you could only see how I tried to steer clear of her- with her French-girl looks, her way of speaking. Her way of moving around. Various public television specials she was forced to watch. The faint smell of watermelon…all those incidents. Indeed. There was no way to stop it. Fate, perhaps.

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Sixteen hours after my wedding I was sitting in a shady bar in the lower East Side, watching the drinks mix. The song playing was slow and heavy on the bass, with the slow tinkle of the piano drifting through. The counter was of polished wood and the glaze of beer stains.

There was no sure way of tracking down a bastard who had just robbed you of your dignity and your life. This was my first marriage, and sure to be Hell on wheels. It had taken place in a large chapel in a murky downtown area; Shrine of the Holy Redeemer, with its pastel windows and the engravings of doves- oh! Redeemer! Is this the price I pay (you bastard)? I knew I shouldn't have gone through with it…

I drank my vodka shakily, occasionally flashing a displeased scowl, and rarely giving a tired smile, just to tell these people I was, indeed, okay. I was frightened to half-death, overly paranoid and feeling an unsteady buzz all around me. I was sure that these men and women, these bar-going nonentities, moving like shadows in the night, were out to get me, to hurt me. After dealing with Kagura, normal human interaction becomes impossible; every human you knew you suddenly see screaming and clawing and cursing through red painted lips. When a man loses his freedom to a whining hussy in a wedding dress, it shakes him up.

The people in this place seemed to understand; they picked this vibe up from me. I could tell by their eyes that they were frightened at me, frayed tux and bloodshot eyes, with a long and rough cut scarring the skin of my right arm. I was like a highway sign, flashing on the dark road: STAY AWAY. Did I look like a criminal? Perhaps. A mob boss, a conman, a murderer? Let them stare; they do what they like, and I do what I like- me, a married man, shaken, not stirred. Sesshoumaru Miyazaki, on the run from a wailing heiress demon.

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I won't go into my past too much. It's never healthy to elaborate on a childhood where you had four bathrooms and a football, in a place where you had a tan year round, where no one could stop you because you were a Model Youth. It was part of my job back in the Boca Raton to be an exemplary young man, generations and generations of illustrious French-Austrian-Japanese blood spilled into me, and it was all I could do to hold that football and slap some suntan lotion on, go to the beach with my rowdy friends.

I sometimes wonder how that would have turned out, if a reporter had come to me on that day I left for New York, with my two suitcases packed with clothes and a couple of hundred dollars in my wallet.

"Tell me, Mr. Miyazaki- may I call you Sesshoumaru? Tell me, then, Sesshoumaru, why are you leaving Beautiful Boca, a place where you are known throughout the area for your intelligence and well-known family, where you have riches and a large house and a sure chance? I mean, everything here is just fine, with all your admirers and safe bet of being married and happy for decades to come, and having wonderful, well-bred children who you will most likely start a family band with in your explosive joy. Am I wrong?"

"No, but…I…well, you see…this place, it, hmm…let's say it makes me…nervous. Anxious."

"…Can you elaborate on that?"

"Well, there is no sure way to explain the feeling…it's like…the feeling a man gets when he is trapped inside an elevator…it rises, but only to a certain point- and yet he was expecting it to go higher. I had to…flee. Out, I had to get out. Does that make sense?"

"Well, ha-ha, Mr. Miyazaki, I appreciate your trying to explain, but you see, I can't very well go to my boss and give him this story. I have to get something, you see-"

"Well, I'd like to help you, but it's inexplicable. I feel like…I feel as if this world is ugly. As if it can't come to anything good. It's nothing tangible. I get…the Fear from the Boca Raton. Is that understandable?"

"I can relate to a level, haha. I lived in- oh, look, Mr. Miyazaki, if I go back to my boss with a story about elevators and 'the Fear' then I'm out of a job. Can't you clarify this? You don't make any sense- leaving this beautiful place is just nonsensical-"

"Goddamnit, what do you not understand! This place is a living Hell! This man Sesshoumaru is not a Model Youth- he went bad after one score and seven years. Somewhere along the line he had the spine to figure out that this place is no good. He doesn't give a damn about his friends or his family. All he wants is Out, Flee. Can't you use that? Something like that?"

"Well, ah, you sound a bit hysterical, Mr. Miyazaki. I'm not sure I can get the story on you."

"Well fuck you then. Get out of my way! Can you not hear my flight being called, you imbecile?"

"You're deranged! You'll end up in Hell! Leaving the Boca Raton! What kind of psychopath are you!"

The kind of psychopath who wants out.

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I was seventeen when I left my home, but home was determined to follow me wherever I climbed. I arrived in New York in mid-fall; the leaves of the trees were crisp and dead, gold and red and orange. Most of them were, in reality, brown- but brown isn't a bold color amidst the warm fall tones that grace your mind.

New York, then, didn't excite me. It never did. I had never had high expectations for this city, but then again, I didn't expect it to have the awful effect it did on me. I bought an expensive apartment overlooking Central Park, nearest to all the things I needed- my office, coffee shops, food. I had New York at the tip of my fingers, but it only gave me a more fulfilled sense of how spoiled I was.

My mother had called me about three weeks after I had boarded that plane, handing me the exciting news that an "old high school chum" of mine was moving to New York, or coming to a visit, or something like that- Kagura Kumo. Now, this wasn't happy news to me- Kagura Kumo was the last person, aside from my mother, that I needed to deal with. She was a pretty girl- long, blown-out, feathered black hair, bright copper eyes, and red lips. I was convinced that she bought red lipstick in bulk- her supply never ended. She was pretty, and pain in the ass to boot.

I was sitting in my apartment, lounging on the couch with a newspaper and attempting to call a client of mine about a closing on a building I owned, when she came knocking at my door.

I had gotten up hastily, and, agitated beyond belief, flung the door open- to see Kagura, arms crossed and scowling impatiently. I stared at her for a moment.

She glared at me. "Are you going to just stand there and gape like an idiot?"

"I intend to," I spat. I regained composure. "Why are you here?"

She rolled her eyes. "Your mother invited me."

"It's not her house."

"It's not mine either," she answered, "but if you're just going to stand there I'll shove my way in. It's freezing, dammit!"

I moved aside. She flashed a newswoman smile at me. "Thanks," she snorted, with a hint of uneasy politeness, and went in, sitting down on the couch and holding her jacket with her.

"Would you like coffee?" I asked, pouring myself a cup.

"Yes," she answered. I poured her a cup and gave it to her, situating myself on the armchair near her.

She exhaled and inhaled, taking in the coffee smell. She smirked and leaned back on the couch. "This is a nice apartment you got yourself, Sesshoumaru Miyazaki. The type of place some girls would kill for."

"Two," I answered, sipping some of my coffee.

She raised an eyebrow. "What'd you say?"

"Two," I repeated. "Two girls. Have killed for it."

She paused, blinking her almost red eyes. "Anyway," she said, taking a greedy swig of the Peruvian stuff, "your mother said we needed to talk. She said something about your wanting to see me. Is that true?"

"Not in the slightest," I replied. "She's spoken to you?"

She scrunched her nose and scowled deeper, repulsed at my bluntness. "Yes," she replied, "obviously you haven't been filled in."

"I haven't," I answered. "How long has she been talking to you?"

She leered at me. "Oh, look at us. Look, Sherlock, I'm not here to be interrogated."

"I'm trying to find out a decent amount of information," I answered, agitated, "Are you a damned fool?"

"Are you? You sure seem clueless," she quipped.

"Look," I said, flipping through the newspaper, "aside from your occasional wit, I find you agitating and cruel. If you can't be a little less irritating, you may as well go."

She stared for a minute, alternating between pursing her lips and clenching her fists in sheer anger. She got up in a jerky and almost funny movement, fists at her sides. She threw her jacket on, and said through clenched teeth, "Maybe I should. You bastard."

She threw the door open and left. My apartment looked instantly brighter without her in it. A slight smile crept up on me and a heavy burden lifted off me as I looked around in the aftermath- and realized my cup was gone.

"That bitch," I muttered, running to the window in a mad frenzy. I lifted up the heavy and usually stuck window pane and leaned my head out, looking around to see if she was there. I saw her walking hastily away from the building in her red pumps. "Hey!" I shouted, flustered, "My cup!"

She turned around jerkily. She cocked her head at me, as if to say "Oh?" for a minute…And then she lifted up the hand with the cup in it over her head, and, with a sleek and mechanical movement, threw it, high, like some kind of champion dodge ball player. The cup spun and spilled coffee on the sidewalk. Her aim wasn't off- for a second I winced as it smashed against the brick next to my face, scattering into a million white porcelain pieces of ten-dollar coffee cup, raining into the sidewalk. "Fuck," I muttered, and glared down at her. She gave me the finger and walked off. People stared. I saw red. I didn't care who got stuck with the pieces- I cared if someone didn't.

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Soon after the incident I received a phone call from my mother. "You made her very upset," she said, chidingly. "I'm very disappointed with your behavior."

"This is ridiculous," I answered, irritated. "If you don't recall, Mother, you invited her to my house and thereby caused this string of events. It was your plotting, or lack thereof, that upset the girl, not my predictable actions."

"Blaming your poor old mother," she answered. My mother's tone was always more hard than maternal, stony and jagged as flint. "What else is new. You've always blamed me for everything. But that's beside the point- the point is that that is awful behavior towards your future wife."

I choked on the water I was drinking. "Excuse me?" I inquired sharply.

"Your wife," she repeated. "I know you'll oppose me and rebel against me, but I am your mother and therefore know what's best for my child. I do hope you remember that you are only seventeen years old, Sesshoumaru, and not a full-grown adult."

"Wait- Mother- I think there's someone at the door-" I said, making noise and walking over to the door where no one was knocking. "Holy shit!" I exclaimed. "They're here for me! The goons have come!"

"That is not funny and will not get you out of this conversation," she said, stonily. My mother was one of the only people who I pulled a trick with every so often. "If you wish to be treated as an adult, Sessh-ou-ma-ru, act as one. Now, stop this childishness-"

"Ah- no! I paid the rent, I tell you! No! Leave me alone- ahhh!" I slammed the phone down on the cradle and got up, still staid and stone-faced through all this merriment.

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My mother, I knew, would be infuriated with me for a week or two before she started to push harder. She, like Kagura, was plotting, sneaky, scheming, and not worth the energy she wasted. But more importantly, she was unlike Kagura in that she had absolutely no heart.

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When my mother did push, she pushed hard. She was almost like a big playground kid, intimidating and ready to get what she wanted. She irritated everyone around her, aside from me, including Kagura, my father (who she had divorced earlier), and everyone else affiliated with me. The pushing came to a dangerous extreme.

Kagura showed up at my door in late winter, with barely anything on, as per usual- a tight red mini skirt, a white shirt- her calf high boots and black coat. I stared at her for a second, and she at me, like strangers. She cleared her throat. "You gonna let me in?" I paused for half a minute and then moved to the side, and she walked in quietly.

She stood in the entrance and took off her coat. "It's a nice place you've got here, Sesshoumaru."

"So I've heard," I replied, locking the door. I sat down on the same leather armchair. "Do you need something?" I asked. I smelled cranberry vodka as she walked past me.

She sighed, and sat down. She took out a cigarette and lit it with a Zippo. I glared at her. She put it between her lips. "What're you looking at?"

I inhaled and exhaled, frazzled and tense. "Do you need something?" I persisted, biting my tongue to keep from strangling her. Oh, Lord.

She blew a puff of smoke out and I winced. "Your mother is a goddamned annoying woman," she said bluntly.

"So you noticed," I answered.

"Not only did I goddamned notice, I'm haunted by it!" she said, balling up her fists and gritting her teeth. "She talks to me every damn day! She won't leave me the Hell alone!" She blinked, and shook her head, smirking. "I see how you got so damned annoying."

"You said 'damn' three times," I pointed out nonchalantly, still bearing a grudge against her for my cup.

She pursed her lips. "Look, pretty boy," she sneered, "the only thing I'm saying is that you have to do something about your mother."

I leaned back in my chair. "Why would I help you?" I asked, snobbishly.

She glared at me. "Because I'm busy taking care of my father."

"Your father?" I asked, leaning forward. Her father was a conniving sonofabitch named Naraku, who closely resembled my mother.

"Well, duh," she said, rolling her eyes. "Do you even think? He wants us to get married, too. Don't think you're the only one suffering under a tyrant of a parent."

Jesus Christ- first my mother, and now Naraku. This would never end, and if it did, Kagura and I would have to be married…my head spun. I got up and went to the refrigerator. "Would you like something to drink?" I managed to sputter.

"Don't give me that changing-the-subject bullshit," she snapped. "We need to find a solution and we need to find it now."

"There is no solution," I answered, coolly, and poured myself a drink.

"There is so a solution!" she yelled, standing up. I cringed at the acuteness of her screaming voice, like nails on a chalkboard.

I whipped around. "Must you be so loud?"

"Must you be such an asshole?" she asked, leering. She tossed her hair back exasperatedly. "You don't even seem like you care. I thought you were the 'manly-man.'"

"The fact that I don't care doesn't have anything to do with my masculinity," I said, defensively.

She sighed. "Look," she said, frowning, "all I'm saying is that if you really want out of this, then we have to cooperate."

I paused contemplatively. I tapped my fingers on the kitchen counter and shook my glass of soda, staring around for something to say- but the only thing I could say was something offensive. "You can't imagine just how much I want out of this."

This time was not like last time, though- this time I could see pain in her instead of real anger. Her eyes reflected an injury done by words, my cruel way of telling her the truth. And for a second, I thought those were tears welling up in her eyes, a crystalline glaze over that red-copper. She bit her lip, and narrowed her eyes at me, and let out a broken, "You bastard." She gathered her coat and cigarettes and looked at me impatiently.

I immediately understood, and, in my cold demeanor, got the keys and unlocked the door. I opened it. She looked at me. "You're…this is your last chance," she said stubbornly. I ignored her and went to the living room again. The door slammed shut.

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"Of course she had a crush on you, Sesshoumaru," my mother said, almost comfortingly. "I'm not that stupid of a woman- it would be lunacy to pair you up with a woman who despised you. Because you're a petty boy, Sesshoumaru, and you'd kick a person you didn't like to the ground."

"And it's all genetic," I answered, holding the phone against my cheek nervously. Kagura- that bitch, that stupid woman. I'd kill her. She should have said something- well, it wouldn't have helped her it could, but I would have been less cruel. Or would I? It was all confusing and stressing and now I was a true New Yorker.

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We were married in the spring, when I was twenty and she was nineteen.

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And now here I was, in this putrid bar, stuck with the images of Kagura in her torn wedding dress and winter in New York. Only sixteen hours earlier we had argued and yelled in the apartment- she had torn most of it apart, if I remembered rightly, her own wedding dress included. God knew what the crazed woman would do when I was gone, but right now I didn't care- right now I needed to relax, and clear my mind.

"So what's with the tux?" the fat Hispanic bartender asked, handing me another vodka tonic.

I scowled. "Is that any of your business?" I asked, taking it gladly.

He shrugged. "I guess not. Was there a wedding or something?"

"No," I replied, staring him down and not in the mood after reflecting, "I'm an international man of mystery."

He shrugged again, stupidly, and snorted. "You must've been the groom." A couple of men chuckled.

I frowned. "It's not your place, but if you must know, the bride died on the way to the hotel." Good- mess with them. Set them straight. This was when I was young and immature and in the mood to piss people off.

The bartender's face fell. "Oh, man, I'm sorry- are you serious?"

"Do you think I'm kidding?" I asked, leery-eyed.

He wiped his face with a dishrag. "Oh, man- how'd she- you know- die?"

"Car crash," I snorted, and downed another glass. "She died, and I'm dead, as well- and if you don't stop asking me questions, a few more will join us."

He stayed quiet and let me have another three drinks free- a nice man, if he wasn't so ignorant and mildly retarded. I stayed for another thirty minutes or so and drove home, the time nearing four in the morning. I arrived at the apartment at around seven, having stopped for coffee and candy to give the bitch so she wouldn't throw a tantrum. Truth be told, I was, after that incident, expecting her to be shaken up, or ignore me, and I felt somewhat bad after having argued with her on her wedding day and thus forth ruining it.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open quietly, box of chocolates in hand. I walked quietly, in case she was asleep, and crept into the living room.

I looked at her, silently, sprawled across the couch in her pouf of a wedding dress, with her hair down and messy around her face. She must have heard or sensed me near, because she looked up, eyes glazed over and with a dull look on her face. Her lipstick was smeared. I noticed she was holding an almost empty bottle of spice rum. Finally, she spoke. "Oh. It's you."

I was silent, too aggravated to deal with her. Much too aggravated. I tossed the box of candy onto the armchair and went into the kitchen to make breakfast.

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A/N: I'm not really sure if all of that made much sense, but I don't really care because it took me a long time to write. I did about three rewrites of it before this, and it's damn well good enough. Whatever. Oh, and, post scriptum, the part about the fake interview with the reporter? I took that from Hunter Thompson's The Rum Diary.