The longing moonlight could only travel so far as it failed to reach the couch. Through the blinds, a window is fogged from the winter that battles the warmth. On the outside, the thief that is darkness has its clasp on every shadow, holding them hostage until the sun can rise again. At this hour, it was too late to be considered night, yet too early to claim morning. Whatever name the gray sky held, sleep was not its gift to all.
He sluggishly shifted his shoulder out from under the flattened pillow. Ants were hungrily marching toward his elbow as his hand and wrist had gone completely numb. For how long he had been lost in thought, he did not know. The trance that rules his soul comes and goes at any time. The inability to control ones mind—The abrupt absence of consciousness and time. In simple terms he was crazy, but there was of course a source to his perpetual madness. And unfortunately, he knew that he would never possess the cure.
Hissing as he flexed his sleeping fingers, he achingly swung his body forward, sagging towards the center of the couch. With his left hand bracing his temple, bare, slender toes hesitated as they sheepishly descended onto the ash tile. He curled his toes in response to the square slabs of ice. Taking a deep breath, he pushed off the rippled cushion in pursuit of a cup of coffee. He liked it black and didn't mind an old batch. Lifting the glass pot, dark tar-like fluid poured from the spout, steam-less and just as cold as the floor.
"I'm beginning to believe you don't care about yourself in the slightest."
He closed his eyes and breathlessly exhaled as the glass coffee pot clinked against the granite counter. This had been the sixth time in 2 months, too frequent for his liking. These apparitions were just making everything more difficult.
"You really should stop smoking you know…and now you're drinking old coffee?" her voice seemed to tease him, but still held a sense of concern.
He shifted to face the illusion, and she was just as he had remembered, but he never allowed himself to look at her for long.
Turning back to his desk, he flicked on the side lamp, "What are you, my mother?" Kougami replied in a passive tone, and then proceeded to fall back into his worn desk chair as he propped his crossed ankles on the edge of a filing cabinet.
"I'm simply—"
He interrupted, "worried, yes, I know…because you care…too much." He was curt and lacked compassion. He was tired, but couldn't sleep. He was exhausted, and never felt at peace. But mostly, he was sick of feeling empty. It was an emptiness that he was not aware existed until the first time he saw her illusion.
"You're upset," Akane's voice was fragile. He never understood why he painted her with such fragility. Maybe because he wanted to protect her from becoming like him, or at least pretend to shelter her.
He didn't respond, wishing she would just leave him to drown in his own dark thoughts. Yet, every second silent, he craved more and more for her voice to calm his feral soul. With time he cracked, "What will become of us...if we meet again?"
The ticking of the clock seemed to reverberate at a slower pace. Her response did not come in proper rhythm to his question. A sudden ache in his stomach galloped as he could no longer feel her presence. Swinging his legs to the ground, he frantically twisted in the direction of where he left her.
And as he turned, a gentle sensation on his shoulder froze his very heart. Completely still, he squeezed the arms of his chair. Facing forward with wide eyes, he no longer cared if he was haunted. As he stared into the hazelnut orbs of her ghost, Kougami at that moment decided he would welcome her image for the rest of his life. She looks so real, he thought. Circling her features with his own blue gaze, the question he had asked before was completely forgotten, until her soft response.
"If we meet again...I will know there is a god." Her lips pulled at the ends.
"You are always so optimistic," he scoffed.
A tickle sensation danced across his neck as he fought the raging desire to close his eyes and succumb to the touch of an angel.
"...and if there is a god, then I know what our fate shall be."
As if pinched, his drooping eyelids snapped open as he desperately called out, "what?"
And like the way in which she appeared, she was gone.
Forehead creased in frustration, his vision searched every corner of his efficiency.
Nothing- not even shadows stayed to keep him company.
"What!?" He screamed in anger. Standing he gripped the back of his chair and threw it across the room. "Is this what I am to be left with!?"
Glancing at his cluttered desk of stacked papers, in one swift stroke of an arm launched decades of files into the air. And with one final belt he screamed, "I'm trying my best!"
Echoes clashed with silence. Not even the birds could hear his plea.
As if a puppet dropped by its strings, his body slacked in defeat only rising up to lament again, "I'm trying." He wheezed through his teeth.
All anger, frustration, and strength had been spent and washed onto the floor around his ankles. Palms opens, head shacking, voice cracking, "I'm trying."
His anguished tone blanketed the stillness of his solitude.
Closing his eyes, he willed his chest to be still.
Suddenly, a ray of warmth gently kissed his eyelid. "I know." Her heavenly voice traveled to his ear.
"I know."
And with a smooth deep breath, he inhaled the remedy that was her existence.
"I'm trying."
"I know my dear...you'll come back to me."