Hi~! Again, thank you sooo much for supporting "Wanna Bet"! Judging is still going on, so if you haven't read it yet, and you've got nothing better to do, then read it now!
As for this fic . . . I don't know where it came from. It just randomly appeared in my mind, and so I started writing . . . during our World History class. Am I such a nice child?
Anyway, please enjoy!
Oblivion
Blank.
Everything felt blank.
I feel nothing but inevitable emptiness.
I could feel the softness of my bed, yes, and the occasional pains in random parts of my body, indeed, but how come there's this uneasiness looming over my entire being?
Why do I seem so restless?
Like there's something missing in this surreal utopia I am in as of late?
What should I be feeling now?
Maybe, I feel sad. It could be that I feel mad. Although, whether or not I am denying these emotions, I know not of.
I fixed my gaze up the ceiling, like how I did every single time I opened my eyes.
The still whiteness of the top surface, with an orb of blinding sallow light as its center, has become my only view ever since I first found myself in this room. Back then, this image sent chills to my bone, as if there was something inside me that did not want to see any of this. But now, I don't find the light as blinding as before, nor was the ceiling as white as it was then.
Everything was tiresome to look at.
It was like living in a rut of some sort.
Perhaps I want to shout.
Maybe I desire to cry.
Although, after assessing the past few days of lying in my bed, I know I'll never find out which is which.
Predictably, my head began to throb. I didn't give much attention to it though, for I was used to it. I stayed tranquil, still watching that immovable illustration of my ceiling.
What's the use of trying to avert my gaze, anyway?
The only movement I could do seems to be the act of blinking.
Open.
Close.
Open.
I blinked as much as I could, but nothing happened. Everything was still the same. The feeling of nothingness is present, as if I could already tell what might happen next.
The door will open, and in will come a handful of footsteps. A voice will say something I cannot comprehend, and the footsteps will continue.
Then, I'd feel my surroundings initiate in quaking.
At least, that's what I used to think.
After the many days of staying still, doing nothing but inspecting my environment, I realized that it was just the movement of my own bed as someone climbs on.
The bottom-line would be the feeling of a couple of strong arms wrapping around my cold, almost lifeless body.
Then I'd feel his warmth.
"Good morning, Lal," will come a low yet curiously comforting voice, and subsequently would I feel two soft lips brushing into my scarred cheek. "How are you feeling now, kora?"
I've expected that question. He kept on asking me that, even from the start.
And, like before, I did not answer that.
I couldn't.
"You still can't speak to me, can you, kora?" he commented, and I swore I heard him let out a cold chuckle. "Either that, or you're just refusing to."
I blinked my eyes in response.
Close.
Open.
Close.
I grew tired of staring into nothingness, and felt the urge to close my eyes again.
"Are you sleepy, kora?" he inquired. I felt his hand brush away a lock of hair off my face, stealing a caress that sent tingles of tenderness throughout my body. "Don't you want to eat at least? Or . . . talk to me, perhaps?"
I gave no answer, like how I always did.
He didn't care, like how he always did.
"Okay, go to sleep then, kora." I felt the pressure of his hand land on my head, and heard the gentle, emollient humming of a familiar song.
The song I never got tired of.
I don't know the song, now do I know where I first heard it.
If truth be told, I don't even know who this man was.
Yet, something inside kept on insisting that I knew them. Knew him.
All this time, what kept me pushing on opening my eyes amidst the dreariness this wholesome background gave me was trying to know, to remember, or at least to identify who this man was.
What was his name?
How was he related to me?
Was he . . . someone important to me, judging by the intimacy his touch delivered my barely numb senses?
He keeps on saying that he loves me . . .
. . . Do I love him?
None of these questions I can provide an answer to, but I'm willing to battle against Death himself every night and do my best to open these eyes again; to wake up every meaningless morning and stare up at that ceiling, enduring this blankness that brings me upon my despair every single moment it can, if it means I can feel him and his affections in the end.
I can't remember anything.
But maybe, just maybe, I might know why it is that whenever I feel his soothing warmth around me and hear his succulent voice saying my name, a sense of joy, of happiness, and of contentment would temporarily reside inside my restless heart, enough to last me through my own oblivion for at least a short while.
-FIN-
Okay, before anyone reacts, let me explain . . .
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. . .
Actually, I have no idea how I should explain XD See, I've programmed this fic to be open-opinioned, that is, let the readers interpret it in their own way.
So, good luck!
Me? I'm just going to kill myself with tons of homework.
See ya'!
Thanks for reading!
LoveLots~
P.S. : If you have an FB account and is a fan of KHR (which I'm guessing you are), please join the Katekyo Hitman Reborn Committee where you can find a bunch of wacky people (to which I am included *ehem*) roleplaying KHR characters, and where you get to interact with fellow fans who just love to bring this fandomness to a whole new level. Just search "Katekyo Hitman Reborn Committee"! You'll even find me there! I'll be the Lal Mirch roleplayer!