Disclaimer: I in no way own X or Tokyo Babylon. Don't sue; I'm simply an E-5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.
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I've seen so many ceilings lately.
The stucco-coated ceiling of the apartment I used to dwell in back in Shinjuku. It's been nearly a year since I last saw that white spread, but it's one that has been burned permanently into my mind. The faint lumps of hard material forming strange patterns visible only to my deceptively active imagination, shaping grand dragons and pentacles in my visions before I fell into the depths of dark dreams. A sakura petal drifting past a smiling face, a shikigami with a spear in its sharp talons, a screwdriver spearing a feather, all these were images I could find unconsciously in a single moment of staring at my ceiling. More observation would bring to light the continent of Japan and a bird's egg circled by a serpentine dragon who's breath erupted into thin rays of petals and shards of glass. That ceiling held so much potential for amusing a child's mind. It had a personality of its own, garnered from the joy that lived under its surface, from the riotous presence of my constant visitors who shared my life and sometimes my bed.
It was so memorable, so vivid, so very beautiful. So burned into my mind thanks to the happiness I knew under its protective span. Maybe that's why I've avoided it of late. Maybe the knowledge that none of the livelihood that brightened the rooms below that ceiling exists any longer, the knowledge that those who lived with me and would be there to welcome me with a cheerful shout of my name and a smile wouldn't be present, is what's kept me away. Maybe it's that knowledge that's driven me to know other ceilings.
It's rather amazing how the ceilings of my current dwellings all seem alike. Smooth, fresh, unmarred by the stains of years of cigarette smoke brushing their finishes or the marks of decorations' nails in their perfection. Plain, unadorned. No wild patterns awaiting an equally wild imagination to find them in a sea of pebbly stucco.
Smooth.
Dead.
Like me.
Perhaps that's why I seek these ceilings now. Because I can relate with them. Because when I stare at them, I can see myself and I can witness what I've become.
The Shinjuku apartment is lonely and desolate. The pebbled ceiling there still holds its decorative patterns. Here and there, some sections of that stucco are missing thanks to nails that were carelessly hammered into place to hold fruit baskets or dangling charms aloft. The joy that was once there is missing, gone, forever destroyed by the waves of time.
It brings too many sad memories to stare at that ceiling. Maybe that's why I avoid it. Because looking at those dragons and those sakura that glimmer from the pebbly surface make me remember what once dwelled there, what I have lost. What fate has cruelly stolen away.
I can't bring myself to the other apartment I knew so well, either. Many nights I spent under that apartment's roof, staring at that ceiling, wrapped in warmth and silken softness without anyone else's knowledge. Many nights I lounged in comfort under that ceiling in the heated embrace of the one my heart flew to, secreting ourselves away from prying eyes, sharing precious moments together without anyone else's knowledge of our intentions for one another.
That ceiling, smooth and dark with its mirrored surface reflecting the floor and all that sprang from the lush carpeting that spanned the living space, also held too many memories. Memories of staring into my own eyes, watching beads of sweat glisten as they ran their course down my lover's back, watching silken sheets wrinkled and wrung by clenched, shivering fingers. Memories of staring at myself as I crossed dark burgundy carpeting, my feet sinking into its plush thickness and surrounding my toes with luxurious comfort. Memories of staring at that ceiling, watching that apartment's owner as he hummed merrily in the kitchen while cooking udon for us to enjoy while watching television, to enjoy while lounging in our reprieve from my own dwelling space which was so ridiculously dead without the presence of the other, the other who was either out shopping or visiting relatives or friends.
I can't bring myself to that mirrored ceiling. The memories hold me back as much as the fear does. Fear that he'd still be there. That he'd be what I had last seen before my world became a cataclysmic swirl of darkness and pain, before my soul plummeted into the abysmal depths of my psyche to remain hidden forever. That he'd be the monster that smiled as the sakura drifted past, his hateful words pouring as freely over his lips as his cheerful questions and light-hearted proclamations of love had earlier that year, rather than the man I had looked into the ceiling's reflective surface to watch. Rather than the man I had given my heart to.
These ceilings have memories associated with them as well. They're simply not my own.
To them, I'm not a focal point as I was to those other two. To the stucco, I was the main inhabitant of that dwelling, the one who knew every pattern that swirled through its maze of textures, the one who appreciated and loved it. To the mirrors, I was the one who brought warmth and joy to the lonely nights, who brought love into a loveless household.
These ceilings have seen far to many to care about me.
Mine is a story that's undoubtedly been repeated countless times, a story that is certainly so boring and dull to those spirits that watch from those plain spans that it is entirely overlooked.
These hotel rooms and their empty ceilings – they're oddly comforting to me.
They don't pass judgment as those other two ceilings would. My apartment with its stucco ceiling would cry for me, pitying me for what I'd allowed myself to stoop to and become, mourning the death of the boy I'd once been and screaming against what I was forcing myself to turn into, what I was allowing to be done to me. My lover's apartment with its mirrors would loathe me for doing what I was doing, for not keeping myself faithful to him or my own being.
These ceilings don't care.
A soft groan drew my attention away from the white ceiling I had been staring at. Blinking once to moisten my dry eyes, I swung my empty stare to the one who shared the stiff hotel bed with me.
He was a nice enough man. A strapping build, a smooth voice, a gentle touch. Dark, wavy brown hair that fell loosely around his face and reached for his shoulders complimented a strong jaw and a narrow nose. Dark brown eyes, closed now under their veil of thick black lashes, had reflected nothing but care and perhaps concern for me.
I remained still as his beautifully muscled arms tightened their grip around my frail frame, clutching me close. His hot breath raced along my collarbone as he nestled his head into a comfortable crook by my shoulder.
My eyes stared without care or remorse at that head, that dark tanned cheek against my almost ghastly pale shoulder, that dark brown hair lightly brushed against my own black locks.
I'd met him at the subway station earlier that evening. I'd finished my work for the evening, and was determined to return to the apartment I was dwelling in. A nameless apartment, far from the Shinjuku site, with a plain ceiling that was barely beginning to show the tinge of black that came with the gentle caress of cigarette smoke touching it. A ceiling that was barely beginning to acknowledge my presence after nearly a year of me dwelling beneath it, nearly a year of my cigarette's cloud pressing itself against that same spot every night and every morning.
He was curious as to why a boy as young as myself would be out so late and on my own.
A nice enough man, I suppose. A gaijin college student from across the ocean, here to study in the ways of the Japanese. Someone who was here to experience a different culture and have a good time doing it. An innocent man who was concerned as to why a boy who had yet to reach his eighteenth year of life would have such a haunted, melancholic expression on his face and such dead eyes watching the world.
He was the same as the others I've met over this last year. At least, he was the same in my eyes. I couldn't see him for the sweet individual he might have been. I couldn't see him for the crass person he could have been. I couldn't see him as the user he was.
He was a tool.
A tool in so many ways – he paid for this room with its empty ceiling, as ever other I've encountered as done. He pleasured himself completely with me, as every other has done.
I lightly traced along his back with slim, pale fingers, letting the touch of his naked skin seep through my pores. Closing my eyes, blocking the blank ceiling from my mind's eye, I reflected instead on what my body was experiencing.
The hot touch of his sweat-dampened flesh against mine. The soft pressure of his flaccid manhood against my thigh. The huge weight of his frame overlapping my own. The rough texture of his hands against my back, holding me firmly to his body.
The pain between my legs, the heated warmth that my mind was telling me was oozing slowly from my sex-beaten body.
My eyes drifted open once more. It was the same as before.
The ceiling had seen this before.
Many other ceilings had witnessed the same scene.
Lifting my hand from his frame, I stared at its back. The bare, pale skin glistened in the faint light of the street lamp that was outside of our room and slithering between the drapes tauntingly, laughing at me.
This stranger had experienced the touch of my bared fingertips. The one I love never received that pleasure. Even my sister hadn't known the touch of my hands for seven years.
I was hoping that the one I loved, the one who's mirrored ceiling reflected his body and my gloved hands, could feel what was happening. I was hoping he could feel my betrayal. I was hoping that it would spur him to complete what he couldn't complete before.
I was hoping, praying, that perhaps this would anger him enough to see me as an entity worth his time. That he's acknowledge me, that he'd look at me me, that for once he'd actually see me with those smiling eyes instead of associating me with the world that surrounded him.
But my hands taunted me. Before my eyes, my skin appeared unmarred. The blue glow I prayed to see, the inverted pentacle that was the mark of the Sakurazukamori, refused to light.
His attention wasn't on me.
He was ignoring his prey.
His prey wasn't worth his time, worth his acknowledgement.
My lover stirred and stared with concern at me, even as I felt the heat of wet tears slither down my cheeks. "What's wrong, Subaru-kun?" he softly murmured, lifting a tear with a kiss.
My blank stare was his only answer.
He could never understand my pain, my fears, my memories. He would be here for tonight, a presence to relieve the physical neglect my body had been subjected to. He would serve his purpose, marring and sullying me as I saw fit for him to do. He would assist all those who had touched me before, making me unfit as prey for the Sakurazukamori, making me something worth seeing if only from disgust. Something worth touching and caressing if only through murder.
He would help to summon the one who could ease the ache of my heart, the worthless throbbing of my shattered soul. He, or perhaps any who dared follow, would bring the one I longed to touch me if from love or hate, feel for me true emotion meant for my person alone.
The one I sought had no chance of being touched or touching another in any conventional means. I recognized that from the moment I learned his true identity, from the moment my deepest suspicions were confirmed.
After all, he was the Sakurazukamori. He could only be reached through killing, through murder.
The man wrapped in my arms in the hotel room would help me join my dear sister, even as he would help force the object of my true desire to acknowledged my presence. He would help me escape this lonely world where the one who held my heart couldn't love me in return.
But he could never understand his purpose, as he could never understand my determination. I used to explain it. I used to seek comfort in these embraces. I used to spill my soul to any who would listen.
I've long since given up. No one understands. No one can understand.
Only the ceilings ever could.
The ceilings that stare back at me, their white surfaces as blank as my green eyes.
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