Author's Notes: This is hopefully going to be a series. It intrigued me
how Haruka seemed parentless. This series will be how she got that way,
the life that she lived before Michiru, up until the day she meets
Michiru.
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"The Disaffected Life"
by Monikku
A young girl sat in her bed. Her hair tied in a tight, low hanging pony tail, she flexed her hand. Over and over, she watched as her muscles contorted, her tendons stretched taut, then released like rubber bands, clenching and unclenching her fists. She was entranced by the suppleness of each finger, by the power they held. These hands, they could elicit ecstasy or suffering, as she had learned at such a tender age.
She was still a tender age, only fourteen years old. And here she was, a home of her own. A home? Would she really call it that? More like a place to stash away dirty secrets, disgraces. She was a skeleton. This was her closet.
She stood to her full height, just over five foot, seven inches tall. She was taller than many adult men. She often used this to her advantage. She walked from the bedroom to the adjacent bathroom. She fumbled through the medicine cabinet, just above the sink. Searching.
She was in search... for anything to justify this darkness, to embody all that she was persecuted for being. If she was to be a skeleton, then she would strip away all pretenses of flesh, and layer by layer, peel away skin and muscle until all that would be left was bone. Today would be the chiseling of a ghost.
After finding the object that would begin the carving out of her existence, she closed the medicine cabinet. She stared a long while at the face reflected back to her. "These are the eyes he loathes." She thought. "This is the face they fear." She raised her pony tail with her left hand, and with the right, commensed in cutting off that which now offended her. It was a limb that held no use for her.
"I masqeuraded poorly, and was caught in the game." she muttered to herself. She laughed derisively. "I sound so bitter and old." She proceeded to hack at her hair until a shaggy, short cut was left. She tilted her head, tensing her jaw, she stared at this new image, this new invention.
For every death, there is a birth. Today, her childhood was laid to rest, but the freedom of a new, frighteningly foreign adulthood laid before her. Part of her suffered, and part of her was exhilirated. Today would also be the end of games.
She stripped her clothes away, and stepped into the western bath. She turned the heat of her shower on, and allowed the kneading beads of water to relax her bones. She closed her eyes, and leaned against the wall, attempting desperately to dissuade her mind from recalling the day's earlier events, but some dams were destined to break.
The freshly burned memories cloaked her as easily as the steam rising from her shower: "Haruka," a woman with long blonde hair approached the young, tall girl. The woman, dressed traditionally in a yukata, had her long, silken dirty blonde hair wrapped in a tight bun. Tears burned the young girl's eyes, but she would never allow them the mercy of release. The woman approached her, and rested a hand on her shoulder. "Haruka, I'm sorry. Father can be ridiculously stubborn. It does not mean he does not love you." Haruka stood, her shoulder tensing under her mother's touch. "Haruka.." her mother came up to her, and embraced her from behind. "He loves you, and so do I." Haruka's teeth ground. She longed to scream the defiance in her heart, but she would not. She would never allow them the satisfaction of her suffering.
Haruka felt warm tears on her back. Her mother had always been such a strong woman, never had she seen her cry. Now, her mother embraced her, and burrowed her tears into her flesh. They felt, to Haruka, like a hundred tiny knives. This was the reality, the finality, of what was destined to be. Slowly, Haruka's tears began to drizzle, one by one they fell. Quietly, the two cried, mother and daughter, bound together in suffering, still, to the bitter end, hiding that which they feared; their own weakness.
Haruka pulled herself from her mothers desperate arms, ran towards the door, and never looked back.
Haruka found herself crying, the tears blending in with the drops of her shower. She turned the knobs, in hopes to cease as easily the aching of her heart, and stepped out of the tub.
This was her apartment. This was to be her new home.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
"The Disaffected Life"
by Monikku
A young girl sat in her bed. Her hair tied in a tight, low hanging pony tail, she flexed her hand. Over and over, she watched as her muscles contorted, her tendons stretched taut, then released like rubber bands, clenching and unclenching her fists. She was entranced by the suppleness of each finger, by the power they held. These hands, they could elicit ecstasy or suffering, as she had learned at such a tender age.
She was still a tender age, only fourteen years old. And here she was, a home of her own. A home? Would she really call it that? More like a place to stash away dirty secrets, disgraces. She was a skeleton. This was her closet.
She stood to her full height, just over five foot, seven inches tall. She was taller than many adult men. She often used this to her advantage. She walked from the bedroom to the adjacent bathroom. She fumbled through the medicine cabinet, just above the sink. Searching.
She was in search... for anything to justify this darkness, to embody all that she was persecuted for being. If she was to be a skeleton, then she would strip away all pretenses of flesh, and layer by layer, peel away skin and muscle until all that would be left was bone. Today would be the chiseling of a ghost.
After finding the object that would begin the carving out of her existence, she closed the medicine cabinet. She stared a long while at the face reflected back to her. "These are the eyes he loathes." She thought. "This is the face they fear." She raised her pony tail with her left hand, and with the right, commensed in cutting off that which now offended her. It was a limb that held no use for her.
"I masqeuraded poorly, and was caught in the game." she muttered to herself. She laughed derisively. "I sound so bitter and old." She proceeded to hack at her hair until a shaggy, short cut was left. She tilted her head, tensing her jaw, she stared at this new image, this new invention.
For every death, there is a birth. Today, her childhood was laid to rest, but the freedom of a new, frighteningly foreign adulthood laid before her. Part of her suffered, and part of her was exhilirated. Today would also be the end of games.
She stripped her clothes away, and stepped into the western bath. She turned the heat of her shower on, and allowed the kneading beads of water to relax her bones. She closed her eyes, and leaned against the wall, attempting desperately to dissuade her mind from recalling the day's earlier events, but some dams were destined to break.
The freshly burned memories cloaked her as easily as the steam rising from her shower: "Haruka," a woman with long blonde hair approached the young, tall girl. The woman, dressed traditionally in a yukata, had her long, silken dirty blonde hair wrapped in a tight bun. Tears burned the young girl's eyes, but she would never allow them the mercy of release. The woman approached her, and rested a hand on her shoulder. "Haruka, I'm sorry. Father can be ridiculously stubborn. It does not mean he does not love you." Haruka stood, her shoulder tensing under her mother's touch. "Haruka.." her mother came up to her, and embraced her from behind. "He loves you, and so do I." Haruka's teeth ground. She longed to scream the defiance in her heart, but she would not. She would never allow them the satisfaction of her suffering.
Haruka felt warm tears on her back. Her mother had always been such a strong woman, never had she seen her cry. Now, her mother embraced her, and burrowed her tears into her flesh. They felt, to Haruka, like a hundred tiny knives. This was the reality, the finality, of what was destined to be. Slowly, Haruka's tears began to drizzle, one by one they fell. Quietly, the two cried, mother and daughter, bound together in suffering, still, to the bitter end, hiding that which they feared; their own weakness.
Haruka pulled herself from her mothers desperate arms, ran towards the door, and never looked back.
Haruka found herself crying, the tears blending in with the drops of her shower. She turned the knobs, in hopes to cease as easily the aching of her heart, and stepped out of the tub.
This was her apartment. This was to be her new home.