Authors Note: written as a drabble for before Michiru met Haruka - 13 years old, an 'old soul' who's just struggling to breathe, to keep her head above water. Drowning, and no one knows it. Yes, there are a few references in here you might recognize.
Disclaimer: The usual - I own nothing but the plot bunnies. And an actual bunny. Named Remy. But that's about it.
Plea: Please read and review? ^_^ Authors like reviews. They make us want to write more.
The bow in her hands vibrated slightly with the friction of dragging it skillfully across the strings of her beloved Marine Cathedral, her mind slipping once again into the dreams - both asleep and waking dreams - that had slowly begun to take over her life. Dreams of another place and another time, where she wasn't just a spectator in her life - she had purpose and drive. She had strength. She had respect. And oh, but she had love. Only thirteen now, and far more innocent than the woman she'd been in those dreams, she knew full well just how loved she was.
Soft touches in shadowed corners. A stolen kiss or two. Waltzes to music that seemed ethereal to her, like something pulled from another world. A hand on her back, lips against her cheek or her neck... or her own lips.
A few tears trickled down from the outer corner of her eyes, but she ignored them, pouring the emotion into the bittersweet melody drawn from her instrument. The ghost of arms she knew too well wrapped around her waist, and she felt the surge of warmth flow into the music. Charging it.
How had her life, if her previous had been so wonderful, ended up like this? Alone. Cold. She could scream, and she doubted anyone would care, except to wonder why the prodigy Kaioh Michiru was acting so unladylike. No one really cared about her, and after the death of her parents, she honestly didn't care much about anyone else. No one held her interest and, to be fair, outside of her music and her art she wasn't all that interesting to other people.
Anger. She felt it flaring, and her music became nearly percussive. Swift and harsh as she let the emotion boil through her body. What right did anyone have to judge her, after all! Let them call her cold. Let them say she didn't make friends. Not that any really tried! She'd be herself. She'd play her violin, and she'd paint, and she'd swim - and become one with the water she loved so much.
Fast and fiery, the tones coming from her violin were as aggressive as she felt, speeding along as she burned the bow across the strings. No one knew her well enough to judge her, because no one bothered to get to know her as anything more than 'little miss perfect'. No one asked her how her day was except to make polite conversation - they didn't actually want to know. They wanted to hear a 'fine, how was yours?' in return, and get past the pleasantries.
And yet...
She wanted someone - anyone - to ask her that and truly mean it.
Her bow slowed. Paused in hesitation as her mood shifted. Then sadness. Loss.
So much death.
Her dreams had it. Her life had it.
Everything she touched seemed to wither away, fading into nothing. Her parents. Her dog Horse . Her friends. And then there was the profound loss of her dreams, seeing everyone in her life sacrifice themselves. People she didn't know anymore, but she knew she'd been good friends with them before.
They loved her, and she loved them.
Then, wrapped up in the arms of someone who loved her more deeply and completely than anyone else, she died too.
Just as the song trembled off the end of her bow, whispering its lament into silence, she heard it. Somewhere to the back, in the darkness, she heard clapping - slow and measured, but meaningful.
"Thank you, Miss Kaioh. I believe that my colleagues and I have heard what we came here for." She bowed, trembling slightly under the stage lights, fingers not daring to wipe the tears that lingered on her cheeks.
"Thank you for the opportunity to play for you," she replied politely, keeping her bow low.
"We will work out the details of the contract with your agent, Miss Kaioh, but I do believe you'll be our next big star. I promise, we'll be in touch very soon." With that, the group of men and women that had been listening to her semi-impromptu concert rose and with bows of their own, left the auditorium. Only then did her hands come up to wipe the tears away, frowning a little as her gaze fell to the wet fingertips. Why was it she could only cry when she played? Why didn't she laugh, or scream, or cry anywhere or anytime other than this? Why didn't she feel alivewhen she wasn't swimming, or playing her violin?
Even her paintbrushes and sketchbooks felt dull in her hands now.
Wobbly legs took her backstage, and she lovingly set her violin back in its case. Then, with a harsh sob, she fell onto her knees and gave the intense emotions their release. She was tired of feeling dead inside, her only release during these moments where she'd play each dream, each frustration, each piece of joy or sorrow out on the strings of her violin. She was tired of dreams that didn't let her sleep, and tore her attention away during the day.
She was tired of the half-life she'd been existing through the past two years.
And she wondered when something would change, and let her feel again.