Learn To Fly
One - The Meaning of Being Lonely
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Life goes on, as it never ends
Eyes of stone observe the trends
They never say forever gaze
Guilty roads to the endless love
There's no control
Are you with me now?
Your every wish will be done
They tell me
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Their bodies intertwined they lay together under the rumpled sheets.
He was awake again, his sapphire eyes flickered to the ceiling as he put one arm behind his head and kept the other close to her body and leaned back, his golden hair falling in artful disarray around his head like a halo of sorts. Hardly believing that every tantalizing moment he now spent living was real. That he had finally found a reward worth living for. That after months of soul searching he knew where his soul rested. And that it wasn't a dream.
Turning his head slightly he breathed in the scent of her hair a moment, fresh wildflowers. It was his oxygen. She was still asleep, his sleeping angel, her golden-brown hair loose in slight disarray, some framing her face and the rest spread out like waves.
She murmured his name, still in a dream, and turned towards him. "Blue…Matt,"
"I'm not blue anymore," he said in a low whisper, his finger tracing her soft lips. "Not any more. I haven't been for three years. Not since I found you. And this time, I'm never letting you go."
Her amber eyes fluttered open slowly to meet his gaze, the strong, tender blueness. "You better not," she said in a half-teasing, half-serious manner. "Or else I just may die."
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The flapping wings of the birds is what stops him in his walk, and he finds himself lost in thoughts that he had two years ago, when there was no where else for him to turn. And he would often wonder how it felt to have wings, to fly away from the earth as it had nothing left to offer him. Yet here he was, still shackled to the earth. The droplets of water caress his face as he tilts his head upward for a moment; there is an autumn drizzle, or a tease of a shower. It was a gentle cleansing, as though it knew it would be his final visit to the grave. Whatever the case, it wasn't the call for an umbrella. The sky was not heavy with thick blackening clouds which promised destruction, but the graying ones, which were present, were reflected in his solemn eyes as he resumed walking, the stems of the roses tucked neatly into his fist slightly tickling his palm.
The grass here was richer. The lush green decorating the areas of the tombstones never seemed to falter after they had taken root. It was beautiful, even if it were a cemetery. He sighed, and continued his slow pace, his eyes scanning the other stones of the dead when he knew exactly where he was going. The stone was still fairly new, it had been placed there nearly two years ago, and already grass had been already pushed through the soil upwards around it, a small clear place in front of it, where other flowers had once rested, and then deteriorated. His eyes passed over to read the now all-too familiar inscription:
Hikari "Kari" Kamiya
April 25, 1988 - January 19, 2008
'Whose soul departed long before she did'
He sighed and laid down the flowers, the yellow roses which she had loved so much in her short life. He was free. Free to do whatever he wanted. He stepped away from the headstone, fresh tears sparkling in his eyes, azure pools of water. It would be the last time he came to see her, to pray for her soul, the soul that perhaps once loved him. That, maybe, she found her miracle on that cold, bitter day being hit by the car in the middle of the road. To be relieved of the endless struggles and tragedy's that she herself instigated. To hope that her soul would be washed clean and she would just be Kari again, alone and free with the night. It was too late for her now.
"Goodbye, Kari." he said, his voice breaking, the words soft and sad. In his mind he was recalling some of the good times they had. When they were younger and innocent, and less apt to be manipulated by events. When it was all about being TK and Kari, the bearers of Light and Hope. The light had dwindled long ago, and he stood alone in the dimness, as the minutes turned longer, and the sun slowly passed and it became darker.
He remembered being at the funeral. The news of her death had shocked them all, especially him, when he learned how it happened. He was in fact, on his way to begin his new life but was thrust back into that place where he was when he realized he lost her, knowing he never had her in the first place. They were supposed to be forever. How they all had been so wrong. Many people were there, but he distinctively noticed all of the missing faces. Daisuke, who had died nobly, was buried the day before, and Takeru forgave him. Forgave him for loving Kari but never really having her in the first place. It was his choice to risk himself in order for the other two to survive so that Hikari's tragedy wouldn't befall them all. Taichi didn't even show for his sister's funeral ['the bastard', Takeru thought acidly]. Yamato and Mimi were missing as well, and Takeru was struck with a pang of sadness. They were gone. They all were gone, possibly even dead. And he was alone, left to pick up the pieces.
He walked around in a fog on the knowledge of her death and the feeling that he would never love again. Now looking down at the roses he left on Kari's grave he gave another sigh. "I can finally move on now. I thought that I could before, but I was wrong. The illusion is completely vanished and my path is ahead of me, but to what I do not know. You're dead now and I'm still searching for my miracle." He stepped back, feeling a small weight lift from his burden as he did so, the remnants of his guilt that he had finally been able to let go. The roses a cheery color in the midst of the surrounding gloom.
"Nice," he heard a feminine voice waft over with the mist from behind him. He whirled around to see a figure wearing a periwinkle colored raincoat, the hood drawn over the occupant's face, though a hand was already rising to remove it, and as it fell back, tendrils of purple peaked out, and the glint of glasses became visible almost instantly. They stood, staring at each other, blinking as their eyes met.
"Miyako?" He asked, a name that hadn't been on his lips for years. The woman nodded slowly, staring intently into his face. "It's nice to bump into you. I've seen you here before, visiting her. I was just visiting with Daisuke," She fell silent for a moment. "It's so hard to let go of something you've never really had,"
He had seen her at Daisuke's funeral, if only briefly, and they hadn't spoken then, if he hadn't recognized her then.
She looked down. "Those flowers are really nice, too. It adds something to the décor, something Kari would have liked. She stopped talking to me a while back though. But you would know about that. I remember the last time I saw the two of you together at the restaurant. Daisuke couldn't keep his eyes off you. Remember?" her voice became harsh, words slashing through the light shower, through the seeping grey mist, her eyes rose again to his face.
And for a moment he did remember, if only a small glimpse, a kiss between the two of them before that awful rainstorm. They were on a date, weren't they, and he had abandoned her to drive Kari home. He remembered feeling somewhat glad that Daisuke was occupied, with the glances that Kari was throwing over at him… her words. 'Jealous, Mr. Ishida?' he was Ishida now, he always would be Takeru Ishida ever since his mother's decision all those months ago, years even, after she married that man… Takeru couldn't even say his name without getting chills up his spine. And yet there was more of bitterness, a harshness to Miyako's voice. Remember. He remembered everything now, everything except exactly who he was…and what he had become. Kari still ruled his life even though he was dust in her heart…if her heart even existed.
"What's wrong?" Takeru asked, concern flickering in his blue eyes as he continued to gaze at her, watching her eyes, as they slowly left his face and looked downward.
"You know me. I always say the wrong thing at the wrong time. There were times I envied Kari, you know," she stopped again, her eyes flickering over the headstone, mentally re-reading the inscription, sighing slightly. "They should have mentioned her being the bearer of light."
"Yeah," Takeru sighed for a moment, recalling the not so distant past, and yet that's what it was, so long ago, and then he shrugged his shoulders as he breathed again, slower. "But she really wasn't, in the end. She wasn't the Kari we all knew and loved. She nearly killed us all, but I've been searching in my heart to forgive her, because I really did love her. You wouldn't have envied her at the end, Miyako. Be glad you are who you are."
"I wish I could be," she replied softly, her voice carrying over a tinge of bitterness, "but to him I wasn't."
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She sat in front of the mirror, combing through her freshly washed hair, and halfway through she paused, and her eyes met up with the cold ones reflected in the mirror. "Not bad," she murmured to herself. Lips thin needed color, but perhaps the wearing of so much red had begun to give them the natural appeal. There were days she could look into the glass and actually be semi-pleased with the way she looked. After showers she was particularly refreshed, letting the cool water wash over her and wash away memories that haunted her otherwise.
There were times she could barely look at herself in the mirror. The house was new, her husband, with his handsome salary moved them out of their old apartment immediately after Kari's death, to avoid the old memories. 'I wouldn't be here without Joe.'
Staring intently into the glass, red eyes meeting up with one another, she wondered if she were truly looking into the face of a murderer. 'Perhaps the woman in the glass is,' she thought sadly, as she brought the comb down and placed it onto the desk. 'Perhaps I'm only living as my reflection now.'
Of course she knew that it was impossible. That day she had felt so much hate and acted on only her emotions which were leaving her all at once. Then she went home, to Joe's warm, safe arms. She was safe, here. Something to live for. She had escaped. She had lived. She was the ultimate betrayer. "I didn't mean to…" the words slipped from her lips, a gentle whisper.
Even yet, she was haunted by his words of the past, and they would whistle around her ears, sometimes seeming loud, or his soft, low whisper, a caress, 'you're not a murderer, Sora,' and sometimes it was her husband saying that, comforting her over Kari, or it was Tai. How would he feel, knowing that she was the direct cause of his prized sister's death, not to mention his own? But he had wanted that, he had relished each moment of his death with a smile. She couldn't tell Joe. He was too good, too honest, and it would break his heart to know that little boy whom he called 'son', his miracle, was really not his. That he was the son of a man she had long loved and lost killed in a moment's anger and then felt peace, of a haunting kind, something she would never escape from...Kojiro Kido, who in actuality was turning into the image of his real father.
'But I'll be damned if he turns out like him-'
"Mommy!" he son's jubilant cry shattered her train of thoughts as she turned to look at him, thankful for the brief interruption. He was holding out a piece of paper with a number of drawings on it, ['Our own little Pablo' she and her husband would often joke], but in truth, little Kojiro was very artistic. Very simple, and yet elaborate. A prodigy, already, at his age…Sora felt the corners of her mouth turn upwards. An actual smile. Tai would be proud of his son. Joe's son, she corrected herself. Only Joe's.
"Come here, Pablo." And she lifted him onto her lap, and they looked into the mirror together.
"We have the same eyes," the little boy observed. He was right; of course, their eyes were the same. Only his reflected innocence, while hers reflected secrets never told and guilt never unleashed. His hair was mahogany colored and was even beginning to spike up in that unnatural habit that Tai's did, and she made a mental note to give him a haircut before he grew into liking his hair like that. Sometimes she would see his face taunting her.
'Tell the truth Sora. Tell them all what really happened. How I…died, you know, and how you killed my sister. And how you conveniently forgot to tell your husband that you loved me, that you and I shared a night together, which still affects you today. Tell him how much it meant to you, how our destinies were inter-linked and yet apart. Tell him how you failed me.'
She never answered him, but on those days she would punish herself in some way, conveniently forget to eat or inflict pain upon herself when she knew no one else was home.
"When will Daddy be home?" He asked innocently, like he asked every day. Of course, all days were different. Joe always tried to be home early, tried to do so many things with his son as she stood off to the side, watching them, wondering if this really was to be.
If Joe really were her miracle, her saving-grace, would she ever love him in the same passionate way that she still loved…? 'No,' she thought to herself. 'I can't love him anymore. I can't. He's gone now and this is all I have. I have to love him. I need him.' and yet thinking this made her feel incomplete, and her son looked up at her, "Mommy?" but she didn't reply.
A sound at the door made her son jump out of her arms and she shook her head with a jolt as she heard his excited cry as he threw himself at Joe. "Daddy!"
And she could hear Joe's quiet laughter, and see his smile, his true smile, of uttermost joy, and she wondered how he could go around seeming so complete, how the two of them could go on living their lives in that same house while she remained in the same place. It was better that Joe was Kojiro's father, instead of Tai, she thought, as she smoothed down the folds in her light pink cotton robe as she stood up and walked out to the hallway.
"Daddy, you're late today." the child was saying, and Joe was looking at his watch, an amused look on his face. "What makes you say that?"
"Cause it's dark." Cawse. Sora smiled. Kojiro replied in such a way it was hard to forget he was only two. It was a game that he and Joe would play. Joe laughed, "Well, it's also raining. You know what rain is?"
"Water from the sky." Waa-tah. She felt like crying. Crying for thinking that she was incomplete with this. It was just so natural, so right. She had to settle down, she had to love her husband. It was the only way. She had to stop living in chains, shackled from the past. Moving forward had been hard, but she strove for three years, and hell would have to freeze over for her to lose this chance, and her beautiful son. She gave Joe a small kiss on the cheek. "Good day?"
"Better now," he replied with a wink. Sora winked back. "I'll go get dinner." It was something she always insisted on, getting dinner. Perhaps it was because of her nature to take care of people she cared about, and her instincts about family still setting in. Love was supposed to come naturally. There still could be time for that. Maybe her crest did have a meaning.
Love never had been so needed.
And even now the embittered eyes of the past turn away.
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There's nowhere to run
I have no place to go
Surrender my heart, body and soul
How can it be you're asking me to feel
The things you never show
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Takeru didn't know how to answer her. What could he say, to help her feel better, to help her let her feelings rest, to move on, if only slightly? She must be feeling guilt too, he thought. Not only because she wished she were more like Kari. If she were, Daisuke might have never left her twisting in the wind. Utterly forgotten. No one to ease her pain or call her name. Loneliness was a dulling pain that numbed the senses. Just alone in the darkness, and he looks and sees the tears clinging to her cheeks as they slip from her light brown eyes, though it's hard to tell, due to the rain and her glasses, and the droplets are scattering with ease.
"Daisuke. You must hate him," she said finally, and his surprise was revealed in his face.
"I don't hate him, Miyako." Takeru said quickly, to her surprise, without a trace of anger in his voice, but more of regret. "Not after all that happened. I forgave him, and wished him peace. He didn't deserve this. Neither did you. I'm sorry you lost him, and I know he's sorry too. Kari was acting under her own will to destroy each one of us, to play us, like puppets. Those of us who are still alive still suffer. We have nothing to go on, nothing to look forward to."
"Trapped in our misery," she said softly under her breath, and then caught his eyes as hers blazed into his with a look of possible yearning, there was a hunger, a deep need inside of her that could not be satiated. "I don't want to be alone anymore."
He offered her a small sad smile. "I don't either. And I've been alone for a long time."
"Can I buy you dinner?" she said quickly, then stopped again. "There I go, scaring away probably the best thing that happened to me today." Stragglers left alone often turn to each other for comfort.
Takeru found himself able to laugh with her. "I'm not the best," he said. "But I'd love to buy you dinner. It's time that we did something about our burdens. Something spontaneous."
"Let's go get blind, stinking, drunk." She laughed, the bitterness leaving her voice.
Noticing this, he reached his hand out, and she took it, and was an electrified pull between them both. "Whatever you say, Yolei." And a smile he gave her.
"My pleasure." Miyako smiled back, and they began to walk away from Kari, away from Daisuke and the memories, leaving them to be tossed around by the autumn showers, to be washed away, cleansed to they became pure again, and good.
At least, that's what they hoped.
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And over by the grave, the flowers already seemed to wilt, their beauty slowly being absorbed by the morbidness. The grey mist overhead flickered and then solidified, and was a form, woman-like, and it slowly dropped to the ground in front of the grave, bending its knees slightly as it touched the ground, then rose, standing unsteadily on small feet.
Leaning down again to pick up the yellow flowers, which once the smoky colored hand touched them instantly withered, became brown, dropped again to the ground. But the hands holding them became less smoke-colored. The form faded again, however it was clear that it had been there the whole time, as triumph seemed to surround its hazy aura as it drifted backwards, resting against the stone.
Words unspoken and unheard if not the wind blowing with careful ease, dragging the leaves around the stones, dragging the remnants of the deadened flowers away as they slowly disintegrated.
Somehow, monsters do survive to taunt us…whither from beyond the grave or nay…
The wind whispers softly to whoever will listen.
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