Disclaimer: I do not own Rurouni Kenshin.
Loosely based on Mitch Ablom's The Five People You Meet In Heaven.
Warning: Slight spoiler… but not really. No pairing except Sanosuke/OC and implied Sanosuke/Sayo. This is also a friendship fic between Sanosuke and Kenshin.
On with the story!
Streams of Red and Brownooooooooooooooooooooo
They say we dream of what we last think about before we sleep.
To an old man of 70, who's past none would believe, this is both a blessing and a curse. This man, to whom this story belongs, only thinks about what he misses the most and what he is compared to what he was.
The old man's appearance was typical for one of his age. His hair was thinning, limp, and a mix of gray and brown that was held from his eyes by a strip of battered, fading red fabric. The man's eyes were of a dull brown that seemed out of focus at times. And he could've sworn that, in his younger days, women would swoon over his ruggedly handsome face and strong build. But, currently, and as much as his pride denies, no woman in her right mind would be attracted to the drooping face and his weak and hunched frame.
As he was when he was a young adult, the old man still is out-going. His current friends wonder how this is so and proclaim it nothing short of a miracle that he smiles even with the loss of so much—his precious wife who died not even two years prior due to old age combined with a simple cold; the death of close friends; and the evidence of time passed. The old man does—however—wish all three of these things never happened, and sometimes, in the middle of the night, he calls out into nothingness asking why they did anyway.
These moments are when the man dreams of his past. And in those dreams, he would see thin streams of bright red fabric. He would hear gunshots and something that he remembered as his own voice at the age of nine screaming for "Captain Sagara". Though, at no point could he see anything or anyone besides the red fabric.
Suddenly, the man, who is a boy at this point, would feel cold as liquid with the smell of blood pulls at his limbs and tries to suffocate him. He wouldn't be able to speak or see or even fight as he has been doing his whole life. Behind his closed eyelids, the kanji for "aku", or evil, shines a bright white in the darkness. It taunts, frightens, and angers his soul. He has a fit of wild rage and tries—yet, fails—to fight all his troubles and ill feelings away. He is just a stupid child with nothing.
Right when the child thinks he can't take anymore—when he thinks the liquid will swallow him whole—something soft grabs his hand and lifts him, effortlessly, out of the cold blood-water and into the warm air. He is flying and can now open his eyes to streams of red. But, this time, the streams are shining, soft, and thin, yet rich; like hair.
The now young adult never panics in this part of the dream. He smiles and laughs; though, there are no images or jokes—just the streams of red. There is so much love in his heart, so much happiness in his thoughts.
Voices instantly come from the red. A man's voice, who the young man identifies as his deceased best friend's; three female voices, who he fondly recognizes as the fox's, the raccoon's, the weasel's; and a child's voice who he remembers as the spirited ex-thief. Shortly, two other voices come after. He hears the former Wolf of Mibu's voice and the man's right shoulder aches temporarily, but his mind becomes clearer and his body becomes stronger. Then, there is a warm female voice and his heart feels like flying away with the streams of red. He smiles, but then that voice disappears and leaves another ache—this more powerful than any before.
Without warning, the red, the voices, and the ache fade away and the man, who is no longer young, is left alone again. The air is not cold, but it is pitch black and he cannot see anything. It is at that point, when he can smell death as he looks down and sees that the once gentle streams of red are mostly covered with dark brown dirt.
The man hears crying—the Missy's cries. He could swear that he hears other sounds, but the girl's voice covers them well. And he feels a terrible ache, so powerful and merciless that he drops to the dirty ground and wills the pain spreading in his chest away.
The man frantically gathers the red strands in his hands. He reaches out to grab those far and digs for those deep. He hopes he can save that delicate red; he hopes that doing so can stop the piercing cries of the sword-arts teacher; he hopes he can make the red fill the sky if he put his heart into it.
The pain and the crying vanishes in such abruptness that the dreamer feels the world spin and he can breathe again shortly thereafter. Flowers of light browns and dark greens grow out of nowhere. The dirty red thread in his hands lifts into the air without any support to flow once more; upon reaching the sky, it mixes with streams of brown—light like the flowers beneath his hands and stretched out as far as he can see across the ground.
The man smiles when a soft female voice fills his ears—coaxing him, soothing the pain of time and death, and giving him hope. He then notices that he is old like when before he fell asleep. He is no longer the child with nothing, but the man with everything he could ever want.
Finally, as in every night he has this dream, the flowers wither and die as the stench of death over-takes their smell and the unpolluted air they used to breathe in. No soothing voices or soft feelings fill his dream. But, the steady streams still remain in the dark sky forming an arrow and pointing forever forward.
The old man wakes as the dream ends. He is alone once again, left with the guide of those streams of red and brown that fills his mind. And he smiles despite the loneliness.
ooooooooooooooooooooo
Finished! Now, if you wouldn't mind, review, please.
Blue-Apple