Hello there!
This is the second one shot of a little series I'm planning. Said series is going to consist of four more or less independent stories.
The first OS is called "Red" and can be found on my profile.
I wish you a good time reading this one and please keep in mind that feedback is much appreciated! :D
He didn't know how many times the words "Train Explosion" had appeared on the TV screen that evening, but it was quite late when a pretty newscaster announced for the first time that the accident had not claimed any casualties.
After that, Gin turned off the TV and drained his remaining drink.
Whatever the authorities said, there was no doubt that Sherry was dead. Nobody could've had survived the explosion, not while being as close to the bomb as she had been.
He tried to imagine her final moments.
Had smart, composed little Sherry been very afraid when all her silly hopes had died with the sinking countdown?
Had she despaired upon realizing that nothing could've saved her then -no equations, no reasoning?
Had she finally accepted that she'd played a game she'd been doomed to lose from the very beginning?
Gin savoured the idea of her anguish, even though it was more likely that Sherry hadn't seen the sudden blast of the explosion coming at all. In one moment she'd been there; in the next she'd ceased to be. That was all there was.
It had been the perfect kill.
He stared at the blank TV screen. And yet there was no body…
"Of course not." He said out loud. There were no remains of her because she'd gone up in flames. Whatever parts of her had been left after the explosion were now ashes in the wind. Sherry was gone for good, wiped out by white light.
He'd won their little game, but why had the feeling of victory yet to set in?
Annoyed Gin got up from the couch to pour himself another drink. What did it matter if he felt something or not? That damned woman was dead as she'd been supposed to be for the longest time. Wrongs had finally been set right; so why did the already fading memory of her face keep haunting him?
Gin emptied the glass in one gulp only to fill it anew immediately.
The sudden urge to actually see her face overcame him then. Yet there was no body to look at, no physical proof that she'd ever existed.
Except… Gin remembered that one photograph. He walked over to his desk, which was still a mess since he'd moved places in a hurry after Sherry's betrayal. But he knew it was there somewhere.
Gin began digging through some loose papers until he found the picture he was looking for.
He regarded the woman in the blurry image. It didn't show the expressionless mug shot that could be found in the Organization's database. He'd taken it himself only a few months ago; weeks before everything had gone to hell. He took the picture and went back to the couch where the memory of the night it had been taken returned to him.
The city is painted white that evening; another snowfall has just set in. She has linked arms with him on their way home from some late dinner together. They walk in comfortable silence until she suddenly stops dead in her tracks.
"Take a picture."
"Of what?" He follows her gaze to the window display next to them and almost groans when he spots the root of her excitement. It's some life-sized cardboard cutout of that stupid football player she likes so much.
"Take a picture of me standing next to Higo!" She demands again.
He raises an eyebrow at her but he's already taking out his phone.
She looks left and right to make sure there aren't any witnesses before she places herself in front of the window display. Then she puts on one of her rare girlish smiles. He takes a picture of her and the cutout, then another. There's snow in her hair, her pale face and nose are flushed; the light from behind the shop window illuminates her slim figure in the dark. It's a rather silly picture, but she's smiling and what else could the night offer to capture but her?
"You're blushing like a little school girl." He comments while she is changing her pose.
"It's a survival response of my body to the cold. It constricts my blood flow to non-essential areas -like the face- and redirects it towards more important organs -like the heart- in order to preserve body warmth." Her smile fades into the solemn features of a teacher lecturing her pupils. It coaxes a low chuckle out of him.
"Why, I think your face is definitely one of the more essential areas of your body."
She frowns at him but he knows it's just a way to hide her amusement. "You're so shallow."
He shrugs. "Do I need to take more pictures or are you done?"
"Only if they've turned out good." Slowly she's coming back towards him. The snow crunches beneath her careful steps, while her breath raises up into the air like the cigarette smoke she despises so much.
"They would've turned out better without that ugly cutout."
She gives him a dirty look. "Jealous, again?"
Just then he takes another shot of her. It turns out blurred but it captures the natural elegance of her movements; the slight blush on her cheeks which is now coming rather from the cold than from embarrassment. Yet, she's looking at him with that not yet vanished half smile.
Blurred or not, he thinks this picture is perfect.
She comes to a halt in front of him and reaches for his phone to inspect the taken images. Instead of handing over the device he grabs her by the wrist and pulls her to his body.
"What would I be jealous of," He asks laying his hand around her chin. "I think I've far more qualities than that piece of cardboard."
"Oh?" There's mischief in her eyes when she angles her face towards his. "Keeping me warm seems not to be one of them."
She shivers to emphasize her words. Then he bends down to kiss her.
Her lips are indeed cold as a ghost-touch against his own, so when he breaks off the kiss he lays his arm around her waist to keep her close.
"Let's go home and change that."
Covered by darkness they walk through the white city.
Gin snorted before crumpling the picture in his hand, with the other he drained the remaining drink. What a fool he was for chasing ghosts.
It was true; once he'd desired her. He'd respected and cherished her. For whatever it was worth, perhaps he'd even loved her. Once.
But it didn't matter now and it would never matter again. She was dead and even if he hadn't taken her life with his own hands, he'd killed her. He'd murdered her the second her sister's heart had stopped beating. A life for a life, that's how it always was; it was a currency he understood.
Yet it was all wrong. He'd never intended it to be her life that restored the balance but now she was gone.
And even though there was nobody left to mourn over it, there should at least have been a body that could be dressed in white.
But there was none and it bothered him more than he would be able to admit with less alcohol in his system.
Gin threw the crumpled picture on the coffee table and walked over to the window.
It had become late, but it was a special day and he didn't want to waste any minute of it. Or so he told himself.
He looked out of the window, the memory of a winter's night still clear on his mind. For a moment he imagined a light snowfall to set in, which was foolish since it was summer. There wouldn't be any snow, it was impossible.
And there was no body either… No proof that she was dead.
Overlooking the city he allowed himself the idea of her being there somewhere -alive!- even though Gin doubted she would stay that close around. He wondered where a dead woman would go and if he knew, would he follow?
"Fool." He said and pulled the white curtains shut.
Deep down, Gin knew the answer the same way he knew why there was no cursed body.
The last bit of alcohol went down his throat when he opened the Organization's database and went to her profile. Sherry's austere face greeted him but he didn't look at it for too long.
As expected, they hadn't changed her status yet.
Deleting the word "alive" next to her name, he considered replacing it with "unknown".
It would be the sensible thing to do, but instead Gin watched the black characters of the word "deceased" fill in the blank space.
The dead should rest undisturbed, especially when they were ghosts.
After all, white was the colour of new beginnings and they started off best concealed by darkness.