Morbidity
When he met her, she starved and yearned for food and so, he fed her. She took from his hands, grubby and greedy, grasping for the cakes—snatched, devoured, in rapid bites. He smiled down at her, so small and pathetic. Gin shoved sticky buns and flaky biscuits into her hands.
Mouth white (rice flour), teeth chipped, and cheeks sore and torn (abscess). Still, she ate and ate. Gin laughed, was amused, was thinking: she will die (or whatever happened to souls left wandering) in a few days' time. And when that day came, he can take her body and sell it for a price.
There were rumors of a scientist—mad and incensed, diseased and gaunt from years of self-surgery—who bought bodies and dissected them. And heartless gossip was always right.
. . .
They met again when she was older. He had already aged, antiquated (premature, he explained). An oneiric, spasmodic image she stored away that emerged, and echoed promises unfulfilled. But she had changed too. And so, she took what he stole and offered nothing back.
Along sun-swelled streets of Rukongai, inside a little make-shift, leaf-dappled hut, she led him inside and stripped him of mortal ties—stirring clothes.
"I don't even know your name," she mused.
Gin (was said).
"Rangiku. Matsumoto Rangiku. I am—"
Shhh…he silenced her, ran kisses down—over—her throat, jaw, cheeks. She was supple and stiff, small and strong (every antithesis he imagined at once). Slowly, she untied the strings (holding their insides and confusions and unbearable restraints in place) and ran long, cold fingers over his body.
"I've never done this before," Matsumoto confessed.
"That's okay."
Hands—mouth—brushed over her breasts. Shuddered. Tangibly, something crept in and lodged itself there.
Matsumoto leaned back against the crumbled, littered sacks—filled with old sawdust and trashed balloons of dreams. Her spine bent, curved sharply (spikes poking out), and dug deeply into the cloth as he entered.
"I really don't even know you."
"That's okay."
Gin held tight against her legs, smooth and wispy-drawn (kicked up, dangling shakily). Nebbish, she had perceived him. Foolish, he thought of her. But they continued, and he was fully in now.
She pushed against him, struggling (the pain seared through flesh and bone). Breath heavy, erratic and raspy, she twisted and turned (oh, stop).
"Wait—I…"
Nothing.
Matsumoto waited.
The room ruptured in sweat and blood. He disentangled their bodies, limb peeled from limb, and fixed his robes. Thanked her kindly and left—
(left her with the dread-dead feeling of being abandoned and used, like a prostitute.)
. . .
This was what morbidity looked like…
It is ravenous, mountainous, unscrupulous. Matsumoto scrubbed her body clean of black and dirt. In absolution, in ablution, purity is still just an ideal.
. . .
She learned to defend and fend for herself. But sometimes, he still visited her with gifts (mostly food). And she would always ask him why they were so hungry, so famished, so deprived.
—only it sounded more like depraved to him—
Gin sighed but did his best to answer, "Because we have reiatsu. Because we're meant for more than this hellhole."
And she would pretend like she understood perfectly, every pitch, every description painted under thin clear varnish.
And somehow, the sex changed too: more tender and less raw, almost sweet (if Gin were capable of sweet). She liked the feeling of embracing, holding, him close against the tiny concave part of her still-palpitating heart.
He made her feel alive, like for a small moment—a lapse in time—she could remember her human-days.
. . .
His announcement came abrupt and unwelcome: somehow, Gin was to become a shinigami.
Matusmoto pretended to be happy for him, because all his dreams (the obsessions which consumed him) came true. And she was no one to stop him.
Burden. Hindrance. The old hates rapidly jumped to snarl as of late.
"That's…terrific."
. . .
He left days at a time now, never revealing the locations or his exact actions. Always something like: don't worry, Ran-chan, nothing to fret over, just you wait.
Just you wait.
And what should I be waiting for?
He kept grinning, and she kept retreating further into chagrin.
. . .
The one day, he vanished all together. Left no word, gave no advanced notice (as if he ever had the consideration). And now, Matsumoto was alone again.
But deep inside, she had suspected this—had prepared for this all the while she stayed with him. Because he was elusive and furtive, and she resigned long ago to never try and catch him. Nothing permanent, nothing promised. Someday, sometime again, they will meet.
. . .
She enlisted in the school, graduated with honors and applause, and rose quickly in shinigami ranks.
And when they did meet again, there was no trace of surprise in his face. It was like he had known all along.