Shindou woke. Early morning he supposed, but didn't bother to look at the clock. It didn't matter what time it was. He had no idea of the day of the week either. But somehow he knew that today was the day. If it didn't happen today—he put the thought out of his mind. It was too painful to think of.
He thought about showering, but that would be too much effort. Shaving, though—he felt his chin. By the feel of it, he hadn't shaved in a few days. He might as well. He wasn't going to look good. He knew that. But he should make a small effort at least.
He looked into the closet for something to wear. What should it be? Nothing shabby, which ruled out a lot of his clothes, when he looked at them carefully. Nothing flashy either, not today. That ruled out a lot more. With comparatively little to choose from, he settled on the pants from a suit he'd bought…when? Was it when he first challenged for the Honinbou title, or when he first defended it? He couldn't recall. At any event, he hadn't worn the suit much, so it was still in good condition. And, as far as his wardrobe went, anyway, somewhat subdued. He couldn't find a dress shirt in decent shape – when had he last worn one? – so he put on a plain black tee shirt. That would do.
He thought vaguely about Touya. Where had it all gone wrong between them? Maybe if he'd had the courage to confess when it still would have helped, told him everything, everything about Sai…. but he never had. Maybe Touya would have understood how he felt about the Honinbou title, how he just couldn't bear to lose it, not to anyone, but especially not to Touya. He just couldn't be with Touya after that.
He made himself a cup of tea. More from habit than anything else. As he drank it he couldn't help but think how absurd it was. How even now he did things which, when you looked at it, really made no sense at all? He finished the tea. He washed the teacup, dried it and put it away. That wasn't like him. But then, this wasn't a normal day.
His stomach felt a bit queasy. Had he had too much to drink last night? Probably. He might be headed for one of those "delayed reaction" hangovers, where you don't feel too bad when you get up, but after a couple of hours…all the more reason to get on with it. He could keep the pills down. Even when he felt like crap, he hardly ever threw up.
The pills were where he had left them, in the kitchen cabinet to the right of the fridge. After some struggles with the childproof cap he dumped them into his hand. It looked like quite a lot. Well, he'd gotten enough so that he could be sure. From here the procedure was simple. Get yourself a glass. Pills, water chaser. He carefully washed and dried the glass and put it away. Now you're just delaying. The pills might work quicker than you expect. Get on with it, you idiot.
At the back of the drawer which held the kitchen utensils was a bundle wrapped in cloth. He slowly unwound it, revealing what looked like an ordinary kitchen knife. Was one, actually. But a few months ago he'd taken out his grandfather's whetstone and slowly, carefully, put a sharper edge on it than it had had when it came from the factory. After that he'd just wrapped it up and put it back in the drawer. But he hadn't forgotten.
He threw the cloth the knife had been wrapped in into the trash. Holding the naked blade, he walked slowly, deliberately into the next room and sat down at the goban. He held the knife firmly in his left hand. He wasn't sure how to do what he had to do. His left hand was so clumsy. But a solution immediately occurred to him. Holding the knife steady, he jabbed out quickly with his right index finger. Then his middle finger. It was over before he had time to think about it. So sharp. He'd done well. He'd meant to leave just a few drops of blood on the goban, but this was, well, more than enough. A lot more, really.
Would Sai be mad at him for failing to find the hand of God? If there was anything that scared him – and a lot of things did – it was that he might be sent back to the living world like Sai had been. Well, if he was, it wouldn't be any less than what he deserved.
His fingers were hurting a bit. Without thinking, he plunged them into the bowl of white stones. The cool stones felt nice on his fingers. He was relaxed, for the first time in, well he couldn't remember. He could probably play a decent game of go, if only there were someone there to play. If only he
A/n : Sorry that my first effort is so depressing, but I have other stories in the pipeline, including some happy ones.