Fixation

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He had, miraculously, been cured. Like the touch of god on a believer, he was finally reborn, no longer forced into spiritual servitude in limbo, no longer wailing with the other tortured souls over his sins and obsessions. Finally, with little ceremony and barely any preamble, he was free. He remembered vaguely how humans would talk about 'rehabilitation' and 'steps to recovery.' Well, there was nothing more potent than a few centuries in hell to speed along the recovery process. In fact, he felt a million times better; more alive (pardoning the pun) than he had since the beginning of his past life. The spirits of hell had driven home rather well the simple fact that if he allowed his soul to wander down that particular path again that he'd be in deeper water than he'd been in before, and that was deep.

He didn't need to worry about it, though. He was cured.

Cured, at least, until he finally wandered away from home far enough to see cherry trees. The forest he'd lived in with his new family in his new (frail, human) body was evergreen; he hadn't seen one flowering tree since the day he was born. Indeed, the entire county was dominated by snow, and they were far enough from civilization that he'd been sheltered from any outside influences. His parents liked it that way; they thought he was strange enough when he talked to the giant black birds that frequented the forest around their home, not to mention his strange affinity for anything incendiary. They'd kept him at home, mostly, building things to help the family, making little explosives every now and again to help dig wells or pits or whatever they used them for. His father had even gone so far as to convince his mother that homeschooling would be more appropriate than trucking him the fifty miles to the nearest city for classes.

He didn't mind at all, really. He loved his family. They were quiet, simple, clean folk who worked for a living. Not vagabond, half-mad demons that killed everything they could get their hands on. No, he liked it here better.

But for the trees, he perhaps could have gone through his life without remembering, without latching on to that last gasping breath of insanity from the final moments of his previous life. He could have gone on forever not thinking about scarlet hair and bright green eyes and blood-stained milky white skin.

Going to the city was an accident. It was late spring, and his father was sick with some kind of virus that mother was starting to catch as well. His two brothers were too young to drive, and his older sister was busy with other things that he didn't care much about. It left him, then, to take the beaten-down old truck over the muddy dirt roads the fifty miles out of the woods and into the city to get medicine and food. It was a simple, general task. He'd been to the city before, but mostly during the long, dominating winter and always at his mother or father's side. It would have been a short, easy trip: In, get meds and food, out, go home and fix dinner for the family.

Even seeing the trees themselves was an accident. He'd managed to get to the store just fine without noticing them, for they were mostly blocked by buildings and not exactly the complete center of attention. If he hadn't caught the brief flutter of soft pink petals in his peripheral vision, he might have gone on home, completely all right.

But he did, and he didn't. He was loading the last of the groceries into the back of the truck when his head turned ever so slightly to catch colors he hadn't noticed before. Then he saw them, blossom-laden trees swaying in the soft breeze, just a few branches peeking shyly around the corner of an old building at the end of the street. Later, he would be surprised to realize that he'd kept his wits with him enough to close the door and lock the truck before letting himself get pulled into the softly perfumed heaven of those beautiful, magnificent trees.

The first memory was the scent of blood. Beautiful, hot, let by his own hands. The second memory was a voice, pain-wracked and wickedly beautiful, lovelier than an angel's choir. The third, hair like silk between his fingers. The taste of fear in the air, the feeling of utter control, all of these sensations flush with the petals drifting serenely from dark branches. There were couples in the park, gazing at the trees as he did, remembering love and nostalgia not quite in the same way he did. And, like them, with the torrential petals he fell right back into love again, holding out his hand to catch the drifting blossoms. So much for having no interest in botany, he thought, staring at the petals that had landed on his open palm. He turned his wrist and let them drift to the ground. Then, he turned on his heel and strode back to the truck. The odds of his fox still being alive after all this time were slim, but not nonexistent. With his hand on the door handle, he paused and glanced back to the cherry trees.

By the time they bloomed next, he vowed, Kurama would be his again.

"Karasu," He murmured to himself, sliding into the seat and turning the ignition "You are a disgrace to everyone who has ever gone through rehab." He chuckled and pointed himself home. His parents were still counting on him, and it wouldn't do to keep them waiting.

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December 2, 2007 To Be Continued

For Sekah