A/N: REVIEW! This was the exception to my new rule of "don't post until story is completed" code!
Just fall, My Dear
Chapter 1: You Had This Coming
She had no idea where she was. But she didn't care either. It hurt….all of it hurt. Like she was stabbed in the chest. But that wasn't it. It felt worse. Ten times worse.
Like she was having her flesh torn from her body. Like she was having nails driven through her joints. Like she was having her internal organs ripped from her pitiful form. Like her eyes were somehow or another rotting from the inside. Like she was being stabbed over and over by splintering shards of some metallic object.
There was so much to register, it was almost too much. In a way, it was too much. Her mind was a muddle of trying to properly conceive the mass input of sensory information. And yet, she was still there. Ever more, it continued: these curses of touch that claimed her attention of mind and ripped her unintelligible fathoms of anything else asunder as it went on with its throes of passionate indulgence of physical dissection. At the very least, she later thought, she'd give it credit for how it went about its torturing of her.
It took a very long while for her to have her sense scramble and stumble to something reminiscent of consciousness. It was hard, very hard, and almost impossible, for her to struggle against that seemingly infinite tide of merely a single sensory aspect. There were times when she confused trickling blood with the scrape of sharp metal, or the feeling of nails being ripped off from the pressure of drills into her head. Of insides being slowly heated to magma temperature and of her veins expanding and ripping apart. Even when she gained an unsteady foothold onto something more than what she currently had, she never decoded of what came when, or what was what, or what was when.
It took even longer for her to properly see anything. Her mind was too preoccupied with what it deemed more important to pay attention to. So indeed, it took longer for her mind to take precedence of her virtual situation. For her virtual situation was perpetually crazed in its very perception.
It wasn't of a plain of land comprised of soil and earth, nor of buildings of neat tile and plaster. It wasn't a room of white same-ness nor a scenery of pitch black-ness. Rather, it was of something much more…distorted in nature. If distorted is what you would call it. It was almost an ever-changing scenery, one where colors were almost never the same and where scenery switched from complex to simple all in the same moment. Perhaps it was because of the landscape's ambiguous temperament that her consciousness decided that attention should be paid to the visual miser, rather than to the sadist feel.
Trees of only white outline and stemming vines, and skies of purple mists. What can only be described as clouds drifting high above, their red mist writhing in angry torrents, lied haplessly in the shattered glass of a world. They warped into heavy falling clumps of bright green lead, some of whom in turn, turned into pure black drops of no distinct form. The sky seemed to shatter, only to revert to a dank brown sea of wasted colors. Was this the world of her current occupation? If it was, then it didn't last long. Like a mirage, the view was decayed ever so slowly. Colors blended into proper pasture and forms took proper structure. It took a while for her eyes to begin to see a floor of black and purple stone, each pebble random in its move and permanent location. Along with it, a sky of distinct light grey. The high contrast, of unlikable quality to her eyes, squinted promptly at the recognition. The landmark of a building, notably gothic in its stature, stood glitteringly white in the distance. Yet somehow, the air around it was dark—like an unfettering black fog. Uncanny how it all seemed as though it was already there. Was she so misconstrued in her contemplation that she truly lost that much grasp?
She looked up—or looked where she though was up. Her eyes were dizzy from all of the drastic transformation of hues and of texture and of depth. Her mind was in decrepit condition after the feeling of liquid, solid, sharp, tough, rough, metallic, sand-paper, rust, acid, burning, itching, cracking and of creaking inside her body, among other things. So shame on her brain for being distracted to not even realize the direction of perception. Or of contemplation to realization.
She saw herself, quite literally, above herself. They sky somehow provided an accurate depiction of her current grandeur: Small, frail, unsteady in frame, brown hair in content-ual disarray, skin in pale waste amidst what was assumed to be dank dirt and rancid dark waste and clothes in either tatters or fetters. Her shihakusho was practically singed by an unknown source of flame near every crease in her hakkama and every fold of her kosode. Still fully shrouded of most skin she may be, she still had the look of a beggar's trash. Her hair was untied and left unrestrained, thereby allowing it free reign to go ahead and make a mess of itself: knots of tangled stands—some small some big-, little branches of the material sticking every which way and the hair stands themselves wired, twisted and perpetually non-flowing as they lingered mostly downward. Thank whatever heaven for the dark blue overcoat; the waist length clothing structure provided much needed decency-however small and humble—to the overall appearance. Any warmth and shelter it provided for her was merely an added bonus.
She had barely even registered the essence of the outside condition before she started to actually know of her own condition. Muscles were strained with stress, bones were creaking with cricks and cracks, the throat distinctly dry, parched and deprived of sustenance. Her eyes were strained, mainly toward overuse and overload. Her nose was fine, I suppose; but the mucus and snot coming from it was unseemly and probably riddled with dust particles and other miniature trashes of the air. Her overall appearance in size was quite lacking also; if one were to remove the clothing, they would probably compare her to a skeleton—albeit, a well-structured, possibly thicker skeleton- her skin clung opaquely to whatever bone and muscle was left within that nutrition deprived frame. Not as mortifyingly thin as, for instance, a subject of oppression during the holocaust (truly, that was the definition of walking sticks!) but still nonetheless a rather heinous sight.
She lingered there for a bit, neither really having the urge to move nor the normal motivation of conviction. She really needed to move on. It was not like there any eminent danger. Except, there was. It took no physical form, nor of any scent, touch, sound or tingle on a taste gland. But still, though it had no form, or any real proof of it really being there, it was still there nonetheless. It still existed, and no one or nothing could deny it—though they could try. Then, as if her body already knew, as it could not rely on neither mind nor subconscious premonition, took a step forward. Then another. Then another. The only hesitancy was in uncertainty, reasonable in its situation and continuation. Her eyes were hazy, as if she could still not get through the cloud of formerly swirling masses of tints and shades. Her mind was still fogged up with irresponsible attempts to make sense of what should not make sense.
Yet like everything else as lunatic as she, Momo Hinamori eventually started to see, and feel, and hear and taste. But like her lunatic nature also, the transition was both slow and painful, even more so if the change came suddenly—in which case she'd occasionally backtrack in progress within herself, only to dragged back by a much more stern of a force. Like a dog that had to constantly be kicked or punished, it took a while for her simply stop doing such things. But her anger and frustration marred her desire for a time—as well she should. The arrogance of this state was quite incompetent. But it was incompetent for a reason, nothing unusual about it. In fact, had she not felt like that, then something would be terribly wrong.
She continued on the path, going forward for a bit, then stopped to maintain balance, then continued. However, though she was hardly paying attention to the closeness, the building never really seemed as if she was getting any closer. And as if this meant the end of the world, her heart was corroded with the feeling of sadness and longing. Did she really wish to reach that building so badly? Or was she really that delicate in temptation handling? She really should be forced to rip a flowers petals one by one.
"Welcome back. Though I know you never left." Said a voice.
Her gaze shifted. Toward the direction of the sound and toward the sight of ember. Her eyes registered the sight quite faithfully, finding no doubt in this vision. The fiery wisps of feathers, the red eyes of fire and the body of a slim bird—prominent in its standing—all of which were of a familiar being. She had no need of a memory to recall this being. All she needed, is what she was. Same for the figure in front of her. She found herself at a loss of a name, or even in what manner to address this being in terms of familiarity.
As if knowing this—which it did—the bird titled its head a tad bit lower, as if it was addressing a small ruely child "Perhaps I came too early. I will meet you at the path's end, then." It said. It quaintly flew away, only leaving behind orange fiery round specs in its wake. They quickly dimmed till they could not be seen.
There was nothing green in this world. There was nothing even remotely lime or light green, it was all supposed to be darks and lighter darks with only one light object. But there was. When the transition came she did not know. But came it did. Probably when she was in the bird's inquiry of eyes, its little slits trying to spot even the tiniest of kinks in her being. Its eminence was quite enthralling, even to the lush forests of green in front of her now, with a canopy too full to see through its branches, the appearance seemed dull. The path of which was presumably the one mentioned was there, somehow apparent through the green grass and leaves. So there on, she walked to what she hoped was its end. She heeded not the sounds of "life" around her; not the sounds of scurrying, the gentle hum of what could be an insect, not the single incessant chirp of a pheasant nor anything else for that matter. Shadows appeared here and there, some of horrific apparitions, others of normal intentions. There were even some as looming as a giant, well over the top of her head-aweing the world with its adamant size, slender of motion, and regal of inhibitions. But she paid even that, no acknowledgment.
Perhaps in recognition of this however, the noises stopped, along with the hints of movements among the branches and grasses. Any inhabitants of this place were simply not going to be acknowledged by her right now, she was either unable to or simply was not in the mood to. It was best for them to leave, they could be doing something better than trying to attract this girl's attention. Though it is worthy, in theory however, that only a few remained; though stalking without acting was hardly a way to be productive or effective.
She did not pay attention to time, nor should she. She just continued walking. That was good; standing idle or continuously stopping would not be good for her at all. Her feet scraped against the soil, sending little clouds of dust in every direction. Her breathing was hoarse, her lungs somehow unable to provide their proper function. Her movements were simply ones that move, no bounce in her step, no prescribed enthusiasm, not even the signs of heavy drudging. She just moved to move.
The time that passed by did so slowly, if there existed a sun it would surely have risen and set by now, perhaps more than once. Her limbs felt no lingering knots or coercions, as they have already been driven numb. In the torrents of her head, the waves of pain alone was enough to distract her. In short; time did not matter at all. She could have grown old and died, and it still would not matter. Her body and mind were already in conditions bordering collapse, falling now versus falling later seemed irrelevant. Ah, but just that alone was not enough for her to give in to despair—despite the numerous temptations. If she did just that, then this pain she was feeling would only linger for eternity, and continue till even her soul was wrecked numb and unresponsive to what would have become a normality. Despite how dim, and forlorn that position is….that is what is happening right now. In actuality, the only real difference was that she was moving. And moving, was the only real shard of possibility that something would relieve her of the burdens she was feeling. However, strangely enough, that relief was not what she was searching for; rather, her moving was merely an excuse to move, to live, even if living meant the pain of the seas of anguish.
Though somber and forlorn in being, she was not completely hopeless—even though she was. Contradicting? Indeed. Unusual? Never. But she was looking for someone, anyone,-anyone who could watch, or at least acknowledge her and her suffering; even though absolutely no one could ever, ever, even begin to comprehend what she, the person, felt. For now, at least, the 'someone' she sought for was the bird—er, phoenix. Yes, the phoenix was the only thing worth searching for right now, as it is the only thing that knows why. Why is she here, in this condition, in this time? So many questions which have not even formed in her head, but only so many answers. Only so much of which, she can reach. And fewer, she can comprehend. And only one, as many have surmised, she can use.
So onward she traveled, and onward she suffered. Onward did Tobiume wander, and onward did memories sever. And onward also, did preservation begin to tremor.
-END-