"Talk of Dreams"
by Acey
Disclaimer: I really don't own anyone but myself and my dogs. My value is debatable; my dogs are purebred-- mutts, but oh, well. Needless to say, this goes for all chapters...
Note: Mild A/U in that there is no stopping the ultamite equalizer this go-round... or is there? We'll find it out.
One--Guilt
Romeo: Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk'st of nothing.
Mercutio: True, I talk of dreams... -Act I, Scene IV, "Romeo and Juliet"
Oh, the others had their hatreds in the ordeal but none like her own, what with no one she could turn to in blame, point a finger at, shout "You did it, you did it!" in some strange black magic chant until the doer begged for mercy. Nothing anyone said could change the fact that for all practical intents and purposes she had done it.
They said it was the fault of someone else, but it was empty, vapid consolation, like dull textbooks assuring that no matter how you tried, pi would never come out even, as though they thought you would go home immediately afterward and attempt it. It was Pilate washing his hands after ordering Christ's execution. The Romans had done the deed but it didn't change that he had told them to do it.
Logic had departed long before, dry Logic telling her that was extreme, that hadn't been anything like what had been her role in it-- the ordeal, the nice word she called it in her mind, the lying word, ever so lying-- Logic left her with the memory of the world falling about her ears as some book said.
'Stop it, Keiko, stop rambling. Say it. You killed him.'
Yes, she had killed him, killed him in every way but ramming the car into his body. She knew it, there was no denying it, just as there was no denying that he was dead, that there was a new headstone in the local cemetery that people had donated money to help his only relative pay for. A great granite thing, it had been, and she had barely noticed it at the funeral. Carved up in block letters with his name and the dates, and then in large, curved script below, "But he is dead, so wherefore shall I fast? I shall go unto him, but he shall not return to me."
The words were archaic in nature, a Middle English mix that sounded like something more likely to be on a gravestone of a hundred years before. They did not seem to fit him. She had known him almost all her life, and he had always had such an energy about him, so very much unlike the languid, hopeless writing on the granite block that would seal him forever.
'It wasn't meant for him. It was meant for everyone who went past his grave.'
But he's not dead, he can't be dead-- we--
'He is dead--'
No. No, it's just a joke, see-- just a prank. They're all doing it to me; it's the best one they've ever pulled-- see how they've cried? They're just waiting for me to nearly drop dead on that little tombstone so he can jump out from behind me and say "Hey, Keiko--"
'You know he's dead.'
No...
'Keiko, Keiko. You're cracking. You're cracking! Brave little Keiko admits to killing one of her friends and then mere seconds later doubts that he's dead. They have a name for this, you know-- and a place for those like this--'
No...
'Yes, they do, they have a place for those like this and it is not called Hell, and it is not called Heaven-- it is called the mental institution and you can see it sometimes passing long one-lane roads. They have people to cater to everything, there is a long, iron fence encircling the place, and they--'
Stop it! Stop it, please-- he is dead. He is dead! So what shall I do-- what can I do-- anything, I can't save him now-- can't save him now--
'You couldn't save him then. You couldn't save him then, because of your own selfish decision when the four of you were walking down the sidewalk. You signed the death warrant with that insistence, you know... If it had not been for you he would still be here, still be able to joke and fight and grin, not for you, but for her-- the one he gave up living for.
'He died for her because of you, Keiko. Because of what you decided to do, because you were gone, and so they--'
There was no stopping the voice that had come when Logic departed. And oh, how Keiko had begun to welcome it.
'You remember that day, Keiko. You remember?'
Yes. Of course she remembered.
...
Yusuke came over a few hours later, and she let him inside the house, her parents at a movie. No smart-aleck remarks, no flips of her skirt, no comments on anything at all. She knew why he'd come and knew there was little point to the coming.
How would he open up now? There was something terrible in lightheartedness only two weeks after-- after the ordeal, something hypocritical inside that swallowed hard whenever thoughtless words were spoken or said in one's mind. None of the old ease would be between them, not today.
He'd been coming over more often than he had ever done since they were little kids-- in fact, the last time he had come to her house was back then, back before everyone had labeled him the punk he so outwardly was, and her a near-goody-goody, if not, a goody-goody entirely. She knew his reasoning and the fact that it was pointless. She saw the pain, the anger on his tanned face and part of her enjoyed, welcomed it, because of where it had come from-- herself. Part of Keiko enjoyed hurting him like this while another part flinched wildly, and still another said to make him leave, make him stop this--
She spoke, staring hard at a spot on his white T-shirt. Blood or ketchup? It was all the same, all the same...
"Hi, Yusuke."
"Keiko."
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. He looked at her face, at the big brown eyes-- no more than vapid and bottomless pools. That day had stolen her soul-- not just, but had stolen Keiko, a thief in the night, leaving only a broken doll as a cheap replacement. A Silas Marner-like devil, one that took the life out of man but did not see fit to restore any decent semblance to it, not even lending one of his darkest angels to inhabit what was left, but leaving the mind to consume itself.
They had tried to make her a zombie once. What she had done to herself now made that attempt pale.
She turned away from his gaze, a vague hint of embarrassment on her pallid face. It was not a stunningly gorgeous face even when in the best of circumstances, when the world was sane and she was well within it. The prettiness there had always been of a homegrown kind, a girl-next-door type of look, the type in manga romances and T.V. shows for preteens. A nice face that up until now had sometimes had its moments of near-beauty.
Yet now the hair was disheveled, the eyes red with dark shadows like bruises underneath. The image was faded, worn, a picture rudely torn out of a magazine and left forgotten under a stack of files.
"Don't say it. I know what you're going to say. You say it every time you come."
The tone was a dull monotone, words more short, to the point, than any the former Keiko had ever said. It had been weeks since he had seen that Keiko, the cheerful, overachieving Keiko, the old childhood friend. It was as if she had almost never truly existed now, and he only latched onto the memory of it like a tick to an animal, grabbing hold for all it was worth and then some.
He had loved her then-- he still loved her now-- more than as the only friend he had until he was killed, more than as one of the few that had cared when he was killed. The brown-haired girl who thought enough of him to tell him off for skipping class when most were grateful he hadn't come in the first place he had thought enough of to end his chance at living for, that day so very long ago, when his house burst into flames and he saw her struggling with his body-- carrying him-- dragging him--
Yes, he had loved her, and so he was there now as he had been every day since the ordeal, trying to convince her, over and over, a broken record to a deaf ear, hoping vainly for the brightest of miracles and the Keiko he knew to return-- Keiko of hopes and dreams and brightest visions, Keiko of the plain, brown eyes that nonetheless glimmered, Keiko to slap him hard for some lewd comment he made, Keiko to cheer him on and Keiko for him to cheer on, someday, for some wonderful reason. He was not a man that would be supposed by any to stay with her so when no one else would-- the valiance of the white knight had never been in high reserves for him to the cockeyed perspective of the world. Yusuke would no more be suspected of playing such a role than reading Lancelot's lines in the next school play, would not have even suspected himself of playing the role. Yet there he was.
Valor was for those knights, not for delinquents like him who were underage smokers that cursed excessively, that came to school less than one day a week, that fought everything that moved, who forty years down the road would be nothing more for them than the welfare program if they were lucky. The knights weren't smart-alecked; they held their ladies in high esteem, would save them from everything-- cowardly suitors, wicked enemies, fires in castles and magic. They were supermen before there was Superman, they were symbols of what was good and fair. Valor was for the one that died, misjudged as he, too, had been.
And he, Yusuke? All he could ever try to manage to save her from was every demon that attempted to lay his hand on her. As though that would really save her from anything, when this time it was the demon inside her-- the only one that wouldn't be silenced by a thousand blasts from his spirit gun. The demon of a guilty conscience, and that he could never conquer for her, no matter how many times he came or hours he spent trying.
So he was there now, at her house, playing the broken record again for her with a new near-plea, wondering if the white knight ever really existed in anything but the mind of a cynical teenager, and, if he had, if he had ever lost two people to one death.
...
by Acey
Disclaimer: I really don't own anyone but myself and my dogs. My value is debatable; my dogs are purebred-- mutts, but oh, well. Needless to say, this goes for all chapters...
Note: Mild A/U in that there is no stopping the ultamite equalizer this go-round... or is there? We'll find it out.
One--Guilt
Romeo: Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk'st of nothing.
Mercutio: True, I talk of dreams... -Act I, Scene IV, "Romeo and Juliet"
Oh, the others had their hatreds in the ordeal but none like her own, what with no one she could turn to in blame, point a finger at, shout "You did it, you did it!" in some strange black magic chant until the doer begged for mercy. Nothing anyone said could change the fact that for all practical intents and purposes she had done it.
They said it was the fault of someone else, but it was empty, vapid consolation, like dull textbooks assuring that no matter how you tried, pi would never come out even, as though they thought you would go home immediately afterward and attempt it. It was Pilate washing his hands after ordering Christ's execution. The Romans had done the deed but it didn't change that he had told them to do it.
Logic had departed long before, dry Logic telling her that was extreme, that hadn't been anything like what had been her role in it-- the ordeal, the nice word she called it in her mind, the lying word, ever so lying-- Logic left her with the memory of the world falling about her ears as some book said.
'Stop it, Keiko, stop rambling. Say it. You killed him.'
Yes, she had killed him, killed him in every way but ramming the car into his body. She knew it, there was no denying it, just as there was no denying that he was dead, that there was a new headstone in the local cemetery that people had donated money to help his only relative pay for. A great granite thing, it had been, and she had barely noticed it at the funeral. Carved up in block letters with his name and the dates, and then in large, curved script below, "But he is dead, so wherefore shall I fast? I shall go unto him, but he shall not return to me."
The words were archaic in nature, a Middle English mix that sounded like something more likely to be on a gravestone of a hundred years before. They did not seem to fit him. She had known him almost all her life, and he had always had such an energy about him, so very much unlike the languid, hopeless writing on the granite block that would seal him forever.
'It wasn't meant for him. It was meant for everyone who went past his grave.'
But he's not dead, he can't be dead-- we--
'He is dead--'
No. No, it's just a joke, see-- just a prank. They're all doing it to me; it's the best one they've ever pulled-- see how they've cried? They're just waiting for me to nearly drop dead on that little tombstone so he can jump out from behind me and say "Hey, Keiko--"
'You know he's dead.'
No...
'Keiko, Keiko. You're cracking. You're cracking! Brave little Keiko admits to killing one of her friends and then mere seconds later doubts that he's dead. They have a name for this, you know-- and a place for those like this--'
No...
'Yes, they do, they have a place for those like this and it is not called Hell, and it is not called Heaven-- it is called the mental institution and you can see it sometimes passing long one-lane roads. They have people to cater to everything, there is a long, iron fence encircling the place, and they--'
Stop it! Stop it, please-- he is dead. He is dead! So what shall I do-- what can I do-- anything, I can't save him now-- can't save him now--
'You couldn't save him then. You couldn't save him then, because of your own selfish decision when the four of you were walking down the sidewalk. You signed the death warrant with that insistence, you know... If it had not been for you he would still be here, still be able to joke and fight and grin, not for you, but for her-- the one he gave up living for.
'He died for her because of you, Keiko. Because of what you decided to do, because you were gone, and so they--'
There was no stopping the voice that had come when Logic departed. And oh, how Keiko had begun to welcome it.
'You remember that day, Keiko. You remember?'
Yes. Of course she remembered.
...
Yusuke came over a few hours later, and she let him inside the house, her parents at a movie. No smart-aleck remarks, no flips of her skirt, no comments on anything at all. She knew why he'd come and knew there was little point to the coming.
How would he open up now? There was something terrible in lightheartedness only two weeks after-- after the ordeal, something hypocritical inside that swallowed hard whenever thoughtless words were spoken or said in one's mind. None of the old ease would be between them, not today.
He'd been coming over more often than he had ever done since they were little kids-- in fact, the last time he had come to her house was back then, back before everyone had labeled him the punk he so outwardly was, and her a near-goody-goody, if not, a goody-goody entirely. She knew his reasoning and the fact that it was pointless. She saw the pain, the anger on his tanned face and part of her enjoyed, welcomed it, because of where it had come from-- herself. Part of Keiko enjoyed hurting him like this while another part flinched wildly, and still another said to make him leave, make him stop this--
She spoke, staring hard at a spot on his white T-shirt. Blood or ketchup? It was all the same, all the same...
"Hi, Yusuke."
"Keiko."
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. He looked at her face, at the big brown eyes-- no more than vapid and bottomless pools. That day had stolen her soul-- not just, but had stolen Keiko, a thief in the night, leaving only a broken doll as a cheap replacement. A Silas Marner-like devil, one that took the life out of man but did not see fit to restore any decent semblance to it, not even lending one of his darkest angels to inhabit what was left, but leaving the mind to consume itself.
They had tried to make her a zombie once. What she had done to herself now made that attempt pale.
She turned away from his gaze, a vague hint of embarrassment on her pallid face. It was not a stunningly gorgeous face even when in the best of circumstances, when the world was sane and she was well within it. The prettiness there had always been of a homegrown kind, a girl-next-door type of look, the type in manga romances and T.V. shows for preteens. A nice face that up until now had sometimes had its moments of near-beauty.
Yet now the hair was disheveled, the eyes red with dark shadows like bruises underneath. The image was faded, worn, a picture rudely torn out of a magazine and left forgotten under a stack of files.
"Don't say it. I know what you're going to say. You say it every time you come."
The tone was a dull monotone, words more short, to the point, than any the former Keiko had ever said. It had been weeks since he had seen that Keiko, the cheerful, overachieving Keiko, the old childhood friend. It was as if she had almost never truly existed now, and he only latched onto the memory of it like a tick to an animal, grabbing hold for all it was worth and then some.
He had loved her then-- he still loved her now-- more than as the only friend he had until he was killed, more than as one of the few that had cared when he was killed. The brown-haired girl who thought enough of him to tell him off for skipping class when most were grateful he hadn't come in the first place he had thought enough of to end his chance at living for, that day so very long ago, when his house burst into flames and he saw her struggling with his body-- carrying him-- dragging him--
Yes, he had loved her, and so he was there now as he had been every day since the ordeal, trying to convince her, over and over, a broken record to a deaf ear, hoping vainly for the brightest of miracles and the Keiko he knew to return-- Keiko of hopes and dreams and brightest visions, Keiko of the plain, brown eyes that nonetheless glimmered, Keiko to slap him hard for some lewd comment he made, Keiko to cheer him on and Keiko for him to cheer on, someday, for some wonderful reason. He was not a man that would be supposed by any to stay with her so when no one else would-- the valiance of the white knight had never been in high reserves for him to the cockeyed perspective of the world. Yusuke would no more be suspected of playing such a role than reading Lancelot's lines in the next school play, would not have even suspected himself of playing the role. Yet there he was.
Valor was for those knights, not for delinquents like him who were underage smokers that cursed excessively, that came to school less than one day a week, that fought everything that moved, who forty years down the road would be nothing more for them than the welfare program if they were lucky. The knights weren't smart-alecked; they held their ladies in high esteem, would save them from everything-- cowardly suitors, wicked enemies, fires in castles and magic. They were supermen before there was Superman, they were symbols of what was good and fair. Valor was for the one that died, misjudged as he, too, had been.
And he, Yusuke? All he could ever try to manage to save her from was every demon that attempted to lay his hand on her. As though that would really save her from anything, when this time it was the demon inside her-- the only one that wouldn't be silenced by a thousand blasts from his spirit gun. The demon of a guilty conscience, and that he could never conquer for her, no matter how many times he came or hours he spent trying.
So he was there now, at her house, playing the broken record again for her with a new near-plea, wondering if the white knight ever really existed in anything but the mind of a cynical teenager, and, if he had, if he had ever lost two people to one death.
...