a/n: AU. Like, really AU. But I was watching Girl, Interrupted this morning, and the plotbunnies attacked.
This is vague for a reason, and an entry to Zanisha's Renegade Monkey contest (just thought I'd slip it in there.)
The words in bold are by Matthew Gilbert.
- x -
i. dying is half the fun of living, if the living's not in fear.
Everyone would tell you that poor Naminé was crazy. Naminé, on the other hand, would tell you that she was perfectly sane, thank you very much.
Or she would, if she could tell you anything at all.
But poor Naminé had not uttered a word since she met Ashes (ashes, we all fall down).
If she could, she'd say that it wasn't her fault.
If she could, she'd say that she didn't mean to, honest.
If she could, she'd say that she needed another pencil.
But Naminé was full of couldn'ts, wouldn'ts, won'ts, and can'ts that Ashes carried in his backpack at all times. They were cold, and sometimes hurt, but Naminé loved Ashes, so she kept her lips stitched shut (sit tight and look pretty, love).
And Naminé was left in that tiny white room with the large white wall and the corpse of a pencil that lay on the cool white floor. (White, white, white like her hair, her skin, her teeth.)
"Paint it black. Black and red. Like fire."
Naminé liked her clean canvas and empty spaces, but Ashes didn't, so Naminé drew.
She took a paint brush dipped in fear and smeared it in a quivering streak along the purity that wasn't so pure anymore.
She grabbed a crayon soaked in hate and colored in the innocence that once gone, she could never get back.
And Ashes smiled. He smiled and he laughed and he kissed her cheek.
"Good girl."
But Ashes' smirk faltered, and for a moment, he let himself feel (remorse, pity, uncertainty); it was gone in a flash of green that stained his eyes and fingertips.
ii. "hate" is a strong word, but darling, so is "love."
She wanted to see the world.
She wanted to draw the places she'd read about in the coffee-table books that were stacked in a neat little pile on her doctor's desk. She wanted to feel the sting of the ocean on her face, the scorching heat of the sand between her toes, and the chill of the water around her body.
Want, want, want.
Can't, can't, can't.
Naminé would never see anything outside of the institute; never feel anything other than the scratchy sheets of her bed and the dry swallow of pills down her throat.
She tried to tell this to the young man waiting for her in her room (smelling of smoke and warm to the touch), but he only scoffed and said that "I'm all you need, sweetheart. You love me, don't you?"
Manipulative grin, breath hot on the nape of her neck.
Did she? Did she, really?
Naminé often stole glances at the cute boy named Roxas who she usually saw reading Renegade Monkey comic books in the 'living' room (not living, dying; because no one was living here) when he wasn't looking, and felt like smiling (almost, almost) whenever Riku, the older boy who resided in the room next to hers, caught her gaze in the hallway.
So did she really love Ashes?
The man in question was a bit hurt by her hesitation, but did not show it.
Yes. I love you.
She nodded.
He planted a kiss on the top of her head.
"Of course you do."
iii. 'cause you love to hate, and hate to love, and nothing in between.
As Kairi saw her standing there, she fought back the urge to cry. Her sister (twin, other half) came as close to a grin as she had in years and waved, the smudges of ink under her familiar blue eyes threatening to swallow them whole. And though she couldn't speak, Kairi heard her voice.
Save me.
Kairi's answer got caught in her throat, hardening and making her voice squeak. "I'm trying to save you!" she wanted to scream; "Can't you see that's why you're here?"
But all she said was,
"Hello, Naminé."
iv. i'll hold you like the booths at church, and listen to your confession.
The hole where his heart should have been started to hurt more and more each day.
His green eyes wandered over to her sleeping form, and the dull ache turned to a sharp pain.
No.
He wasn't falling in love with the girl. It was impossible. He couldn't feel anything to begin with. It was impossible. Impossible. He had been assigned to the girl, the artist, Naminé, around two years ago. He was to coax her, control her, use her.
Destroy her.
Why, he didn't know, but he didn't question his orders. Not anymore, anyway.
It was business. Strictly business.
Right?
His emotions were as fake as the name he used.
(Listening to Naminé's steady breathing, he watched his ribcage fill with ash.)
v. so, I'll belt it out, an unfamiliar sound; the truth, how it really is.
They said she was getting worse.
It wasn't spoken to her sister as she asked how she was doing, it wasn't written in the folder that held each aspect of her life.
It was said through their eyes as they surveyed her progress (or lack thereof). Each nurse that told her to take her pills, the doctor with the permanent smile. It was whispered loudly – a secret that no one was meant to hear, but people heard anyway.
She was dying.
vi. you're glad that you're not dead yet, and I'm just happy to be alive.
Naminé cried when the new nurse – Olette – told her that Riku had ran away. She didn't cry because she missed him, or because she knew he might die.
She cried because it wasn't fair that hecould leave, when shecould not.
The boy named Roxas (with eyes like the sky Naminé wished she could reach) sat beside her on the couch as she wept for the injustice of it all. He gingerly placed a hand on her thin shoulder (her bones were hollow, like a bird's) and parted chapped lips to say, "I know."
And Naminé stopped crying, because she understood.
The man with the name that nobody knew watched the scene from afar, and the hue of his eyes deepened in jealousy. He should have been the one to comfort her. But he couldn't and he wouldn't, because according to the world, he didn't exist.
And as the burning man continued his not-life of nonexistence, Roxas took out his comic book and read Naminé the story of Renegade Monkey and his slightly demented (albeit noble) adventures. He used his voice to help each character come alive as Naminé used his shoulder for a pillow. It was subtle, it was sweet, and for the first time, they were living.
vii. the man on stage who shouts and sings as if he could prove something.
"Axel."
A puzzled expression greeted him as he turned to face her, his lack-of-heart filling with dread and IknowI'mgoingtoregretthis.
"My name is Axel."
viii. it is most sensible to smile and cry at the same time.
Ashes – no, Axel – looked almost concerned when Naminé didn't get up that morning. He pulled back his hood and ran a hand through his hair (red for the blood he didn't have, the blood he took from others), taking a seat at the very edge of her bed. She was so small. Had she always been that tiny?
I'm fine, Axel. Really. Just tired.
Naminé was dying. He knew that, everyone knew that.
But what he had just realized was that he was killing her.
He had been sent to weaken her mind, and had succeeded. It had taken a while (she was a smart girl), but it worked out in the end.
The end.
Was this the end?
Yes, he had demolished her mentally, but he had no idea that it would affect her physically. Her body was responding to her brain's faded state, and was fading right along with it.
And it made Axel want to sob. He wanted to lie next to her on that creaky cot, to hold her close and let his tears soak into the softness of her hair.
But he didn't.
Instead, Axel laughed.
He laughed and he cried and he felt, but he shouldn't. It was wrong, it defied everything, this shouldn't have been happening.
Naminé looked at him curiously, the Alice to his Cheshire Cat. His face was wet and she didn't understand why, why was her Axel chuckling if his eyes were so sad?
But she didn't have time to question her grin-in-a-shadow, because she was suddenly falling backwards into a rabbit hole of dreams and slumber, and she was much too tired to be inquisitive.
ix. there is nothing more wasted in this world than life.
The funeral was small, attended by only her mother, father, sister, and friend with eyes a somber blue. Her killer was there also, hidden in the darkness he knew so well.
Not much was said, as not much was known about the enigmatic sixteen year old who spent a good portion of her life painting in her bedroom. Kairi would have given a speech, would have taught her family what they had missed in their daughter, but the tears had her in a chokehold, and all that came out of her mouth were strangled cries. Roxas would have shown everyone the sketch she drew of him when he wasn't looking, but the shouts of "look at what an amazing girl she was!" were drowned out by the hammering of his heartbeat.
And Axel?
Axel would have chosen to be buried right along with her.
But his not-life didn't work that way, so he took a step back into the portal of shadows, his mind haunted by the color white.
(Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.)