Something I just dusted off from Word, because I'm on a KimiIno kick. Which is weird, because that's you know. Crack and stuff.
Anyway, this is kinda weird. I have a vague idea where I wanna go with this. The word 'mindfuck' comes into play.
But I digress.
Disclaimer: I don't own.
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The church. The old church on Mills Road. He has no idea how he's ended up there – he hasn't been there since – god, since his mother was alive. Actually, the last time he'd been there was her funeral. But he still remembers the layout. The scent – incense and dust – is familiar. The light that streamed in from the stained glass windows is dim and meager, the kind of light that you associate with old libraries and attics. He entered through the back, and now stands in the middle aisle, directly facing the huge crucifix that hung over a marble altar.
It makes him wonder- what kind of people belong to a group whose symbol is their leader nailed to a piece of wood? Who eat that same leader's body, and drink his blood?
And they claim to preach love – they survive on irony, he supposes.
Whatever.
He's safe here, and that's what matters. They wouldn't think to look for him in a church, and it's a Monday – no Masses. He's good until they lock up.
He slumps into one of the pews and leans back, hoping for some peace – he gets it. There's no one in here but him, not even any old ladies praying their rosaries. (They'd be in the appendixed chapel, anyway.) The weather outside is horrible, humid, slick rain – it's only a matter of time before it starts thundering.
He shuts his eyes, and breathe out heavy.
Lo and behold, five minutes later a sound like a gunshot breaks out, and he catches a flash through the stained-glass windows. Shit. He idles, sitting around for a little, seeing if the storm lets up, but it's only getting worse. The sooner he leaves, the sooner he'll get home.
I'll have to run for it.
Running doesn't make a difference; ten seconds outside and he's already soaked.
He shoves his hands in his pockets. He leaves out the back, which leads into a parking lot that leads into a cemetery. If he cuts through there, he'll be two streets behind his house; it'll take him all of fifteen minutes to get home, ten if he walks fast.
He's just past the cemetery gates when he sees her.
The girl is standing there, face tilted up and arms half-suspended at her sides, and for a minute she's backlit by the lightning. He can't tell her age – she could be anywhere from ten to twenty. She wears a nondescript red beater, black denim shorts, and classic Converse. Her skin is pale, slick from the rain, and her hair's blonde, long, soaked.
He plans on just walking by, but – fucking loser that he is -trips on the grass, falling on his ass in the mud. It was a noisy fall, too, probably because he hit his elbow on a tombstone and cursed.
Loudly.
She hears him and turns, head tilted to the side.
"You alright?" she asks. She has a little bit of the city accent, quick-talking and clipped; it sounds more like, 'y'awright?'
"Fine," he mutters, a little put out, partly because it's embarrassing but mostly because it's embarrassing and she's pretty.
She extends a hand to him; he takes it, begrudgingly, and she pulls him up. He can see that she's petite – he's head and shoulders taller than her – and curvy as hell. And not in that bullshit curvy-as-a-nice-way-for-saying-chubby kind of way– curvy in that way that really makes you appreciate the way a girl's calves and thighs and ass and hips and waist and chest go together kind of way.
She drops his wrist and looks up at him, half-smirking a little. When she speaks, her blue eyes glint – he'd say with mischief, but that's just stupid, so maybe that's just the rain.
Wait, that's even more stupid…
When she speaks, he's caught off guard.
"Wanna dance?"
What? Was she for real?
"It's raining."
Lame.
"So?"
So, does he friggin look like he wants to dance in a cemetery during a thunderstorm? He narrows his eyes and is fully prepared to tell her no, you friggin crazy, I want to go home, pretty as she is be damned,but something stops him. He doesn't know if it's the look in her eyes or the twist to her mouth or the clap of thunder or maybe because, damn, she's hot, but instead of saying 'no,' he says, "There's no music."
It sounds like a BSed excuse but that's not what he was going for, even though he'd been this close to walking away. There isn't any music, and – well. What kind of dancing did she mean?
She rolls her eyes, and exasperation colors her voice. "It's a yes or no question." She puts a hand on her hip and gives him this look and, well, he's powerless.
Something changed, in that moment. He's not exactly sure what – and don't quote me on this – but he thinks that's when everything started.
"Fine," he says, and the word is barely out of his mouth before she takes his wrist in her hand and somehow, by some miracle, they start dancing.
Or, she starts dancing. He sort of follows along and acts as a pivot for when she spins, a net when she dips back. He has no idea why he agreed to this, but the rain is cool and the air is hot and lightning splits the sky and he's dancing in a cemetery.
And suddenly, it hits him: her skin is pale and her eyes are dark, and he's dancing with a corpse. Her arms are thin and her knuckles are knobby, and he's dancing with a skeleton.
They're in a cemetery and he doesn't know her name, and he's dancing with a dead girl.
The sky isn't the sky, it's a coffin, and the thunder isn't thunder, it's a hammer nailing the coffin shut; the lightning is the afterlife and the grass is the dress she's buried in, overlong and brushing against his ankles as she brushes against him, one-two-three, one-two-three.
He's in a cemetery and he's dancing with a dead girl and she wants him to die, too.
She spins into him, and stops, grins. "Finish," she says and steps back.
His head is still whirling. "Who are you?"
She tilts her head, smiles. "Ino. And you?"
At first he thinks that he shouldn't, that this dead girl wants his name for some far-fetched, no-doubt satanic reason, but then he pushes that away.
Why is he even thinking that?
"Kimimaro," he tells her.
"Kimimaro," she repeats, and suddenly he can imagine her tasting the word on her tongue. She gives a tiny nod, almost as if in approval. "I like it."
He's not really sure how to respond, because suddenly she's not a dead girl anymore, she quite the alive girl, and she's pretty. Her eyes reflect the lightning and her smile is like a secret, and he stands still in the rain as he watches her leave the cemetery.
.
.
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Thoughts?