Papercut
By. Bento Box
01/08/02
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Nagi was alone in the train station by himself, not counting the ticket master or the guard who was currently nodding off a few hundred feet away, near the entrance into the station.
He watched as bits of trash blew by gently on the ground at his feet. He could feel the bitter wind through the material of his gray uniform.
His book bag was perched on his lap; a heavy unwanted dead weight. He had felt something similar before. After he had killed a man and had the dead body pin him down.
The weight of the book bag seemed to grow heavier at the fleeting memory. He felt a flicker of desire to toss the book bag onto the train tracks and watch the paper scatter and tear into shreds and pieces. The desire seemed almost uncontrollable for a brief moment, but it subsided in a matter of seconds.
His breath was calm and even.
There came a dull whistling in the distance. It was a slight roar that began to grow louder and louder with each passing second.
The bench on which the dark-haired boy sat shook and quivered as the train came thundering by with an almost explosive greeting into the silent station. It's wheels lurched and churned as gusts of hot air surrounded Nagi and tugged at his hair; the strands whipped across his face, striking him in the eyes and clinging to his lips.
Gradually the hot, gusty wind died down, and the train sped onwards to its destination. The suffocating heat left him and the cold arms embraced him once more. He felt the flesh along his arms rise into goosebumps.
His lips were parched.
He parted them and dragged the tip of his tongue across the dry skin. For a brief second he could actually feel his lips, and then the biting wind blew by and everything felt numb once more.
He shifted in his seat and slid the book bag off his lap. The numbing warmth it had created faded into hot and cold prickles. He unclasped the buckles of his book bag, and took out a sheet of paper and a pen.
He placed the paper onto the covered surface of his thigh and ran pale, slender fingers across the smooth surface.
He had no clear words he wished to write down when he held the uncapped pen in between his fingers. The tip hovered over the blank surface.
Ink spilled forth as the pen glided, creating erratic and meaningless swirls along the edge, a chaotic bored around the paper.
He had recently taken up English in school, mainly out of boredom than anything else. He could have taken Chinese or German but there was something stiff about the German language, a stiffness that his tongue would only make even worse. Nagi couldn't understand how Schuldig could make the language so... flexible. So pleasing to the ears.
But not everyone can purr in an everyday voice the way Schuldig could.
As for Chinese...
Well, the language was so similar to Japanese already and there wasn't really anything "foreign" about it.
English on the other hand had a rather pleasant lilt. At least from some speakers. Sometimes the language was harsh and sharp in his ears, making him wince. But that could just be because the speaker was harsh and sharp.
He didn't particularly care. His mind was wandering.
The black ink continued to flow gently from its top as he dragged it across the paper methodically.
He wondered briefly if Crawford would be returning that night from the meeting in Hong Kong with a potential client. It had been days since their last assignment. Months since any "real" action had happened.
There was a tug at the corner of his lips. Perhaps he should have taken Chinese after all.
The pen drifted across the paper.
It was getting late. He didn't have to look up from his paper to see or note that.
Where was the train?
Nagi didn't care. It was as if there was anyone to become concerned or worried about his whereabouts.
No one at all.
The station's light flickered briefly, turning dim for a second before reviving and going back to its normal glaring brightness. He squinted down at the paper in sudden concentration.
His lips felt dry again. He frowned slightly, and ran his tongue over them once more. He unconsciously began to chew on his lower lip; this letter was so difficult to write. He couldn't quite....
Ah. He remembered now.
The frown cleared from his face and features. They were again a concentrated blankness. An outside would have thought of him as innocent and childlike, so intense within his world and focused.
Something fell onto the surface of the paper and he blinked in mild surprise.
He stared at the perfect circle, the damp sheen beginning to dry into a dark stain.
A dark stain the color of blood.
He blinked again and ran the tip of his tongue along the bottom of his lip. He tasted a salty copper.
Blood tasted a lot like tears.
His lips stretched into a mirthless smile. He liked the taste of tears although it had been so long since he had last shed any.
The pen continued to glide across the paper, as if his hand were a separate, mechanical entity.
There came another dull roar in the distance. He heard the faint blowing of the whistle.
The pen continued to move slowly and without harry.
The platform shook as the train drew near and when it came to a shuddering stop before him, he was already capping the pen and slipping it into a pocket in his book bag
He placed the paper on the bench without giving it another glance and rose to his feet, slinging the book bag's shoulder strap over one shoulder he began walking towards the train.
Minutes passed by.
The train let out another scream and departed. Nagi had been the only one to board; no one had gotten off at the station so it was now even emptier.
A shadow shifted among the darkness around the corner of the station. The lights flickered again and stayed dim. The shadow moved towards the bench, gaining form and shape with every step it took into the now dim light.
The glints in the red hair burned even thought the light was not as intense as it had been. The strands seemed to come alive in bursts of flames with every shift caused by the slight breeze.
The piece of paper fluttered, shifting from its place slightly, but was not carried away by the breeze.
A gloved hand picked up the paper the bench's earlier occupant had left behind.
Shadowy eyes flitted across the letters written in English. He knew some English.
They were written in a clear and concise print, carefully bold and all capitalized. It looked typed rather than written.
HELP ME.
He gently stroked the dark stain on the paper with his thumb.
He suddenly turned, walking back towards the shadows from which he had come from and as his figured melted into the darkness, the lights in the train station flickered and sputtered to its glaring brightness once more.
The paper had disappeared with the figure.
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Author's Notes: Papercut isn't even a word in the dictionary. O.o; Someone needs to update dictionaries and get in papercut. XP It's such a common phenomenon (I think that word is too big to explain it, but whatever *enters Squally mode*)... heck, they even have paper CUP. Why not paper CUT? *shakes head*
More stupid notes that are actually the original notes when I initially typed/wrote this in school: Ah... that was a pointless rambly fic. ^^; You SHOULD know who the *cough* mystery guy is at the end, but if you don't know (o.O;) feel free to email me/review and I'll tell you. This fic had no point basically... I wrote it outta boredom during Creative Writing class. :P How I love this class and it's boring-ness... I get more fics spitting outta me during this class than I do at home. @_@
In any case, I don't know if there will be a sequel (because the ending is like, a major, "Whaaaaaat the heeeeck just happened?!" type of cliffhanger with a, "I want to know what this fic is supposed to be! It doesn't make sense! Diiieeee Box, dieeeeee!!!!" effect) but there can be one if you guys are interested in what my twisted little head can come up with. During Creative Writing class of course. ;D
Disclaimers: I don't own any part of Weiß Kreuz. Please don't sue me. ;;^^