I liiiiiiive! My apologies for never updating anything or submitting anything new. > ; How low can an authoress get? Anyway, this little one-shotter has been inspired by the all time amazing Sixth Sense. So don't expect any form of fluff or sweet-nothings, aight?
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.
Significance of a Black Rose
It was happening again. The coherent whispers were forever ongoing. Words or pleading, need, and want.
His leather Kenneth Cole oxfords clicked on the icy pavement. His downcast gaze concentrated on his every step, seeing his misty breath once and again. He slung his lanky arms close to his sides for better warmth. His tailored Giorgio Armani trench coat ruffled in the windy air creating a swoosh sound. His thickly handmade scarf covered his slightly chattering gritted teeth. His leathered covered hands were clenched in his coat pockets.
Even with his effort of self-warmth it was futile.
The clouded night sky blended well with his mood. An uninvited howling blow whistled down the empty streets of London. Unsuspecting creaks and buzz resounded from far off. The tall streetlights blinked off and on making shadows dance. Scattered left-over trash walked across the road and sidewalk with assistance of the wind. Dead trees surrounded the open cement.
The whole street was deserted except for the man himself.
The free flowing feel of loneliness was well oriented. This state of emotion filled his being and made him feel like crap. He had always been feeling like crap for the past thirteen years.
Icy and sleepy did not mesh well together.
He tried desperately to rest but with no such avail. His glistening eyes now favored a blood shot red. His bronze skin now paled from the lack of bittersweet rest. Dark rings settled for home under his stinging eyes. His perfect stare now clouded with dull insight. His ravishing hair crumpled with knots of not being brushed for a month.
He was slowly losing himself. He knew this but did not seek help.
It was his anguish from that thirteen years ago that kept ruining him. The reminder of his fateful sin kept breaking him. Why had it taken thirteen years for it to finally backfire? That was a question he knew would never be answered.
A month earlier he was jovially relaxing with his hand full of friends. Not giving a care in the world. Round of drinks were ordered in their usual tavern. A small, shabby shack they considered their primary hang-out. Headquarters is what he liked to call it. The golden couples of their group made out in the dank corners. Fitful arguments settled within his notorious business partner and band member familiar. His sensitive friend telling passerby's off contently.
That was an episode of mind peace. It was a place he dire to be. Something he knew he could never achieve normally. Now that they were back, all he was capable of was running. Run till the end of the world succumbs.
Civilization met at Big Ben. It was New Year's Eve and in commencement to the rapidly approaching holiday London gathered around the great clock tower. His live city conducted a replica of New York City. Crowds of civilians bunched around their grand piece. A piece of their city they'd considered what represented London famously. The audience would chant a countdown beginning one minute from midnight.
Amongst the celebration he was sure to find his friends. If they hadn't shown he would've been on his way to the meeting.
He could hear their cry for help. He was a considerate gentleman. But when it came to… this gift he inherited, he was no more than impassive. Ironic really, he amused himself with a thought of impersonating his cold friend. Never had he apprehended acting emotionlessly frightened in the cruel world. He would have laughed at the ideal if it was told to him several years before.
Now wasn't a time to laugh.
He never wanted to be special. Becoming a freak was not what he intended on being. He wanted to be healthy and live a long wonderful life. This power of his did not spark alive until that certain day thirteen years ago.
He reared a pointed corner, nearly missing collaboration into two lovebirds. He slowed his frustrated trek to look behind his left shoulder. The couple was obviously drunk. The tall lean Englishman swayed right and left, latched onto his giggling girlfriend. They locked each other with tangled arms, their vibe exceeded of love and compassion.
Two treasured feelings that went numb in the man.
Glaring would have done nothing to the matter. So, he craned his neck to position his stare elsewhere in front than behind and continued walking. The couples' blithe laughter echoed in the opposite direction. His tardy eyes held no emotion.
They surrounded a blazing campfire. Their Coleman tents were set-up for a night's stay.
Roughing it in nature's backyard was what they did often. Relaxing on the county side had been one of his favorite hobbies. Collecting strewed leaves, planting anonymous seeds, eating what you catch, and playing in the dirt. Well, the last option used to be his favorite when he was five-years-old.
He and his friends withheld carved sticks that supported raw marshmallows over the licking flames. Every now and then one teen would withdraw his or her roasted marshmallow and create a sandwich using Graham crackers and Hershey's chocolates. Smore's had always been a delighted dessert when camping.
Their huddled group told jokes, fickle tales, and ghost stories. Whether if the ring of friends coward in trepidation or cuddled for heat, they were carefree. They just kicked-back and enjoyed the outdoor escapade.
This was one of his most fond memories. It was a memory of her.
She sat across him. She smiled lightheartedly as her eyes twinkled with laughter. Her sleek and wavy hair was loose on one side of her face as the other side was tucked behind her ear. Her giggling sounded music in his ears. She was something else…
He leaned heavily onto the bar island, taking down his fourth whiskey in one gulp. Why couldn't they just go away?
The bartender seem to try and conversant with him. Of course he wasn't nearly paying attention. He was more concerned about his VCR recording of the Simpson's than a modest conversation.
An overhead television sat in the right corner of the bar. He glanced up, wavering slightly, to see numbers winking 11:45 at him. A lot of time had passed since arriving.
Maybe now was a good enough time to leave. He dropped his head to contemplate the thought. Closing his exhausted orbs he pictured the perfect life.
He and his wife lived in the country in a small cottage. Two toddlers pranced across their acres of a backyard. Birds sung melodically, their dog relinquished on their fine wooden porch, and the sun beamed enticingly. The world seemed to evolve around the joyous couple. Nothing could go wrong.
She had asked him something. The spoken words recalled him out of distant reverie. He glanced at his side and saw her. She looked more radiant than ever.
Her sparkling sea eyes beamed. She held a tranquil smile on her lush lips. Her ebony locks shined incredibly under the brilliant sunbeams. Her skin illuminated; showing off her fine tan.
Once she began speaking again, nothing made sense. It wasn't normal everyday talk. The foreign language coming forth from her mouth was a buzzing type. Something rubbish. It reminded him of Snoopy. Each time Charlie's teacher would talk on that show it always sounded… odd.
The blubbering stopped. His faraway mind returned to him. He then wished his mind would blank out again.
A chaotic wicked grin took the place of her serine smile. Her eyes were wide open, the twinkling navy blue was nowhere in sight. Instead, dot sized pupils were surrounded by white. Her grin practically cracked her face in two as her eyes bulged out of their sockets. Her facial expression took that of a mad woman on a murder rampage.
She was no longer his loving angel.
Instantly he reopened his eyes with a startled jump.
That was a first.
The bartender said something of worried concern. But he tuned out everything around him.
He dreamed of holding her, touching her, breathing her marvelous fragrance. Even if the fantasy was just mere imagination it felt real. Like an alternate universe.
He knew for sure he was losing himself.
The television caught his attention for a brief moment. Two anchor people sat on a set that had a glass background. Through the glass he saw the crowds of London surrounding Big Ben. In the corner of the televised newscast four digital numbers read 11:49.
He stood up from the bar stool. Walking towards the exit he bid a farewell to the pub.
A familiar face showed in the TV. The person wished everyone a happy New Year's Eve one last time before announcing a long rehearsed report.
They all ran through the open field. The hot summer air hummed in their ears while sprinting to and back. Sweat clad their faces. The full moon ignited the night as did the plenty of fireflies.
Half his friends dashed across the open space as the other half sat in contentment on a hill. They all yelled at one another in triumphant of catching another fly. Each of his friends kept a glass jar at hand, in hope of getting lucky.
But her jar was filled the most.
The fireflies circled her as if answering a pet call. The sight was immensely gratifying. A picture he forever imprinted in his mind.
Their game of catch reverted into a playful game of tag. He happened to be it.
He mentioned a few vengeful comments before chasing his nearest target. Of course it'd be her in particular.
He scurried after her like a fox chasing a hound. He became oblivious of any other existing players. All his undivided attention solely belonged to her; only her.
The wind blew incredulously. The nippy weather degree dropped drastically. And, if he was not mistaken, it was sprinkling snowflakes. Obviously this New Years was not going to be all that jolly.
He hugged himself for normal bodily temperature once again.
He began heading north. This national event only happened once a year. He figured he was better off commemorating with his crowd than in his flat. Company was plenty more enjoyable than solitude.
His name brand shoes continually clicked on the familiar cement. His feet followed a narrow pathway that lead towards Big Ben. The shortcut trail was introduced to him by his cherished friend.
Another sound went through his ears. It wasn't the clicking. Rather, its resonance was a whimper.
He minded the track of time and instinctively walked down another ally. His objectionable curiosity and clear hearing guided him to the object emitting the soft sound.
He arrived at a dead end. Noted that the whine was still at large, he searched left and right.
The dark alley could not be made sense of. Simply, without a whole moon or smiling sun the slim back way was only wasted space. Its eerie shade of black came to suit.
His nonexistent orbs picked up upon a squashed bulge in the adumbrated alleyway.
His continually clicking terminated. He stood in front of the shaking lump. He cocked his drained neck to give an inquisitive aspect.
Squinting his spent vision he could vaguely make out dampened dirty blonde hair… upon further inspection he fully made out an outline of a body.
It was a petite child.
Her baby blue gaze caught his own forestry stare.
They peered at each other in non-emulation atmosphere. The look was merely a test to see whether the other was troublesome or not.
In his analysis this advanced occurrence was just a hold-up. A distraction keeping him attached to a desolated location. If this occasion were to continue any longer he would certainly deplore neglect of encountering his colleagues.
They stationed in their cocoon of an alternate universe. Neither boy nor girl removed their eyes away.
Then she twitched.
"They left me… mommy and daddy," was her cutesy utterance.
Without a reply she cocked her head in show of a mixed mark. It favored the two colors of blue and green.
By no matter of means did sympathy pass through his usually affectionate system. He identified the rash bruise as a cause of utter ferociousness… or abusive parental units in "easy as falling off a log" terms.
Then a curious crimson liquid streamed its own waterfall down her smallish neck, drenching her nightgown. His inspective eyesight slowly traced along the surging blood until the trail ended from reaching its root.
A nice clean cut graced her soft childish skin. Torn skin fitted into her would-be-perfect neck. The sliced layer of her body deepened within milliseconds.
Panic never reacted in his nerve system. He stood there… as if nothing of importance was happening in these short minutes of his healthy life. His calm demeanor remained in its fitful position inside his feelings. His stoic facial expression never faltered.
Then just like a gust of wind, he left as he came. Even her afflicted teardrops did not falter his continuing retreat.
His heart did not yearn of compassion for the five-year-old. Rather, it felt numb. A regretful wellness settled in the pit of his emptied stomach.
Fear filled the airy atmosphere around the prominent duo.
It wasn't meant to be like this… this was not intended to transpire. This deterioration in their plans was purely foolish.
He was meant to target only the head honcho of T&T corp. Their plan had been absolute.
But… she had to be in the way. She happened to be an unfaithful blemish to the intact procedure. God was a repugnant character then.
He knew his individuality was quivering. He also took acknowledgement of his increasing panic and rage. This accumulating status only freaked him to shake his pistol more than ever.
If it weren't for her alarmed exquisite face, he could have handled the episode in a more poised custom. After all, composed and confident were two main human structures he was specially trained for.
He loved the angel before him. He loved her in an inconceivable fashion that it hurt. She hurt him now.
Neither of best friends uttered a single contrasting word. Only heavily bassed music was heard in their teen ears. If one were to ponder the scenery they would have figured it was a war between love and remorsefulness. Not just a pointless teenybopper motive that evolves around drama and jealousy.
His early imbecility caused the Mob business to become his own problems.
A quick slam of a door opening
A scaredy-cat jump
An accidental pull…
A death with a bang
In front laid his fallen angel in crimson; an angel taken down by his tainted righteous hands.
Hands pointed 11:56 on his titanium Rolex watch. He was instantaneously reminded of his close friends. The Rolex was given to him on July 19th… a shorter version of his birth date.
Again, his shoe clicking rebounded off the London walls of local housing.
His mind reeled of his old days and new. Of how his first tooth broke off when playing football with his group of men friends. Or how he was the first out of his squad to go under the knife for pneumonectomy surgery. Or how, something that was not meant to be proud of, he was the first to successfully make his kill without any trails.
He was always the first to do something astounding. Everybody was always jealous, envious, a fan, or charmed. His good-looks came as an essential tool too, sadly. But it gave himself and his friends VIP's, front row, and special treatment to any social/private activity.
"Don't touch me! Leave me alone! Somebody help… me…"
A scream erupted from somewhere within London. He hardly paid a conscious thought to it. Such random outbursts always came when they were around.
Shadows began taking various forms. Cats, mice, people, basically anything that breathed life before death consumed them.
Kurama didn't bother steering around a toddler who stood in his way. Instead he walked right through the child. The icy aftermath provided more Goosebumps across his already chilled skin.
11:58
He remembered the one year he missed out on New Year's with his friends. It wasn't exactly a fun episode he wished to remember. Not wanting to inflict Sango's wrath (along with the other girls') again Kurama doubled his hurrying pace.
In the distance the proudly standing clock tower of Big Ben illuminated high in the cloudy sky. The light falling of miniature snowflakes quickly turned to regular sized snow that freely fell. Toughing it in the cold became an important asset in Kurama's life. One too many times had Yusuke made him wait in a blizzard with him too be the first to purchase Celine Dion tickets! And here the raven-haired man proclaimed Keiko didn't control him. He almost reached Inuyasha's level of ignorance.
In middle of the bridge closest to Big Ben Kurama saw his aforementioned friends. Men and Women split into their sex groups, chatting enthusiastically. The girls laughed as the males snickered every now and then. This was a scene he fully appreciated. The few people whom he ruefully called family just enjoying themselves; allowing every centimeter of worry to diminish if only for a little while.
Their exhilarating presence almost even made Kurama forget about his crime; almost.
Sango excitedly waved towards his way. Smiling brightly (even if he did look like shit) Kurama began strutting in small strides towards the group.
What he didn't anticipate was his angel walking ahead. Was this an illusion? Surely he wasn't that wasted to such random visualizations.
Yeah… it was only a… a…
A ghost.
Kurama rubbed his eyes a few times before looking ahead where his family stood. His eyes widened before he began rubbing his orbs more harshly. Maybe he lost his touch in holding his liquor?
"Hey hun, sorry I'm late. The television station wanted a few more shots before I could leave 'em."
"It's alright. You made it before midnight, haven't you?" Karasu replied as he fastened his strong hold of her waist.
She leaned into the given heat. "Yeah."
Now he was sure he was dreaming.
Kurama tried vocalizing any coherent sentence but everything died in his chest. Simply nothing came out, no words spoken.
Blood leaked behind a skipping schoolgirl. Was that normal? Well… he was hearing them earlier. But he never before encountered any physical visualization.
Another citizen passed by with several bullet holes through his chest. Like the girl that passed just moments before blood oozed forth from his wounds. More bizarre people of the like wondered to and back and some even passed through other occupants next to Big Ben.
He didn't understand…
Karasu lightly kissed Kagome's cheek. "You sure you're okay with this? It's the first time…" Kagome hushed him with a light press of her fingers against his lips.
"Its fine," she smiled reassuringly. "I… I've finally decided to let him go. Mourning over my first love isn't going to help my already bad mental state. Besides I have you!"
"Hai…"
… he wasn't meant to understand...
A scaredy-cat jump
An accidental pull…
A death with a bang
…but she didn't fall… no…
Kurama starting walking towards his friends again… only he accidentally walked right through a passing dog.
Stopping to momentarily recollect the incident he began feeling a wet substance running from his chest. Looking down Kurama spotted red. It ran like a waterfall. It reminded him of the girl in the alleyway.
It reminded him of every other ghost passing by completely unnoticed by the living.
Twelve stuck and the real celebration began.
"So you're absolutely sure you don't want to visit his grave?" Karasu soothingly whispered into his girlfriend's ear over everyone's gleeful resolutions.
Kagome shined another brilliant grin of reassurance. "Kurama wouldn't mind, I know he wouldn't. It's been thirteen years after all. Ever since we were kids he always told me he wanted nothing more than for me to be happy. How can I be happy if I'm still reliving the past?"
A quick slam of a door opening
A scaredy-cat jump
An accidental pull…
A death with a bang
His form slumped as her scream echoed horrifically in every corner in Tokyo.
New Year's Eve had hardly ever been the same.
Honest reviews and constructive criticism welcomed.