Hello All,
I'm back (for a while). I have been inspired by May Madness and am posting right now, in spite of the current exam/project period I am in right now. Special thanks to standinginthe-wings and struckbylightning, who have kindly proofread my work again. Also, thank you to everyone who has encouraged me during my period of inactivity.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. (But you knew that.)
The Life of the Poor Child (Who Doesn't Deserve Our Sympathy)
She can't quite remember what exactly she has done wrong again. Doesn't remember the events that led up to this moment. It matters little though, as she does not try to defend her actions or herself. In their eyes, she is always wrong, always at fault. Many missed meals and whips of the cane, among other forms of corporal punishment, have taught her not to challenge the validity of that statement.
So, like the demure young lady they have forced her to become, she sits quietly, accepting her punishment, listening to the stern voice of her governess as she reprimands her young charge. There is nothing to do but accept, nothing to say but a meek 'yes'. She is to conform to the image of a young lady they deem 'acceptable', and ultimately obey the convoluted mess of rules otherwise referred to as social etiquette.
The days and nights meld together in an undistinguishable blur. The passing of time is indicated by only the start and end of her weekly schedule. She does not keep track of what has transpired in this period of time, only knowing that the schedule of her day is fixed and the routine is stifling.
At 7am sharp, she is woken up by a servant in the household and after freshening herself up, she heads down to the dining hall for a silent breakfast with the rest of her family. The next few hours are then spent studying a wide array of subjects, most she believes useless. They range from flower arrangement and needlework to Latin and geography.
Most of them bored her and few captured her fleeting attention. She does not see the need in learning how to sew elaborate patterns on silk, since she has already the rudimentary skills of the art, and does not expect to become a seamstress in the future.
In Music, she is to sing. Classical and modern, opera and jazz. They ask her to play the piano, expecting grand concertos and piano sonatas from a small child. A violin is produced every odd week but she still stubbornly refuses. Only at her uncle's behest does she occasionally play a few half-hearted chords, knowing enough to be considered 'cultured' and get by. She does not want to open her mouth and sing for the people who are paid to pay attention. Their pay will arrive even if her mouth remains shut.
She counts the days until her teachers, whose names she does not bother to remember, finally decide that she cannot be taught, and leave her to her own devices. They give up on the silent girl with pigtails, leaving her alone for the most part of the lesson. She is unfazed by this turn of events; she has expected this to happen, but did not quite foresee the small twinge of disappointment that it has occurred so soon. She should not have felt guilty.
After all, there will always be eager new teachers coming in to class, old ladies with stern faces and motherly figures with bright smiles. They would, however, just like everyone else in her life, would eventually leave. There is no use in holding things too tightly when you know they're going to fall through your fingers.
A young child forever being met with the sight of four gloomy grey walls around will eventually come to find life indoors incredibly dull. At the adventurous and idealistic age of 8, she thinks that the outside world is far more interesting than the confining walls of her house.
She does not realise that the walls are not to keep her in, but to keep others out. It is designed to protect her from people all too present in daily life, people that will harm or hurt her, with unsavoury intentions hidden behind cheerful facades. Like vultures, they swoop in on the injured and defenceless and will make a little girl grow up hiding behind an icy mask of indifference for protection and self-preservation. It is a necessary lesson, but nonetheless painful to learn.
She chooses a time when the cook is about to go shopping for groceries, and knowing that he doesn't quite fully close the door, she slips out of the house and into the streets, away from an oppressive Victorian mansion and into the freedom of the city. She takes tentative steps at first, unaccustomed to the starkness of the sun's light as she has only ever been out in the gardens, but the reality of the situation sinks in, and she breaks into a run, her legs pumping and her lungs taking in as much oxygen as they can.
She breathes in the air and thinks that it has never smelt so sweet; she is giddy with the dizzying sensation of freedom. The sky is a brilliant blue; the sights and sounds different from anything she has ever read in books.
Compared to the vibrant and blinding colours of the day, the mere black ink on carefully pressed paper is now insufficient to express the magnitude and splendour of these sights. Like a blind man who has been temporarily granted his vision, she is mesmerized by the colours and shapes and knows that she can never again be forced back into the world of darkness. Try as she might, she will no longer be satisfied with the bare minimum.
When she finally stops, she is at a playground. Children play happily, frolic about, and in that moment, she wants nothing more than to maybe join them, and for once, have a real friend of her own. She decides to approach a young girl wearing pigtails, just like her. She is kneeling in the sand pit, trying to shape a castle out of what currently looks like a pile of sand.
Mikan bends down and says "Hi". The girl looks up and squints, for the sun is truly very bright.
"Can I help you with that?" The girl looks suspicious at first but then sees her collapsing sand castle and, deciding that it might be better to have extra help, nods her head in agreement. It is the first time Mikan remembers smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.
It is a hot day and the sun beats down painfully on them but they work tirelessly, refusing to stop to continue working at their masterpiece. It takes a long time but finally, the castle is completed and the girls sit back, exhausted. She notes the sun is setting soon and vaguely wonders if the people at home will be worried, or if they have even discovered that she is missing. But the thought is pushed away when the girl with the pig tails speaks.
"Where do you live? I haven't seen you around here before." The girl asks.
"Oh well, I don't really live here. I live further out." Mikan gestures in the general direction of her house, not quite knowing how to tell her new friend that she lives in a mansion on the outskirts of town and is normally not allowed out of her house. "It's kinda far away so I don't come here a lot."
Her friend nods in understanding. One can't help where they live after all. Then, she extends her hand in a show of friendship. "My name is Endo Hanako. Nice to meet you."
Mikan takes the proffered hand eagerly. "My name is Yukihara Mikan." She does not know what she has said wrongly but the look on her new friend's face is strange and almost unpleasant and she shies back, unsure of what has happened.
"Ew! You're that weird girl that everyone talks about! Get away from me!" Hanako runs as far away from Mikan as she can, completely ignoring that they have built a castle together, that they have been friends despite their differences and their fragile friendship is destroyed with a discovery. Mikan tries to run after her but she ends up falling on the dirt pavement, with blood flowing from her injury and tears from her eyes.
All around the park, parents have noticed her presence and start to coax their children off swings and slides and ushering them out of the park. But there is no way of subtly breaking a child's heart, and that is exactly what has happened. Mikan is left waiting in the park, crying and with a grazed knee, until a servant finds her and brings her home.
Needless to say, except for necessity, Mikan does not venture out again.
After a long explanation on the necessity of wearing one's gloves properly and proper tea etiquette, her governess pauses and takes a look at the young girl in front of her. Mikan sits quietly, a bland look on her face. She sighs, knowing that Mikan has heard little, and actually absorbed less.
"Your uncle wants to meet you for lunch." She raises her head and nods. Then, as silently as she sat, she stands up and leaves the room.
She has long known that she is a horrible, repulsive creature that was born from an evil seductress. Who, using her feminine wiles and charms, lured the young lord of the town into her bed and captured his heart. Later, she had even given birth to his child. All the warnings that his family gave went unheeded as he gave all he had, his title, his family and his wealth to remain with her.
But she was bad luck, they told her, and after a year, the young lord passed away of a terrible disease that infected his lungs, filling them with liquid, and causing him many nights and days spent with a wracking cough. By the time they arrived at the doctor in the next town, he was too far gone. All that could be done was to let the virus run its course, and let the poor man spend his remaining days in the company of his loved ones.
A few days later, a baby girl was dropped off on the doorstep of the young lord's mansion, the home he lived in before his elopement. She had been abandoned. She had lain morosely on the cold cement until a maid opened the doors in the morning and spotted the crying bundle on the steps.
There was much gossip and speculation among the servant as to whom the baby belonged to. Was it the product of a sordid love affair between the Lord of the mansion and another townswoman? Or had a stable boy gone on a romp in the middle of the night and unknowingly left a young girl pregnant?
Maybe it had been a stolen child, one of the King's children who had been kidnapped and dumped on the doorstep as the kidnappers were cornered and caught. Each theory was more ridiculous and farfetched than the other and the servants took great delight in cooking up scandalous ideas that positively made their toes curl.
All questions were answered, however, when the baby, hearing the commotion, woke up from its slumber and started bawling. After many failed attempts and rocking movements later, it had finally calmed down and yawned sleepily, its eyes widening a little to show the distinct yellow iris of its eye. The servants had gasped, and there was an even bigger ruckus in the servant dormitories than before.
For the baby had amber eyes, a distinct trait all members of the Yukihara family no doubt possessed. Coupled with the little tufts of reddish-brown hair that was sprouting from the babe's head, it was most certainly the rumoured child of the young lord.
The members of the family were alerted of her presence, and she was brought in, with a roof over her head and a warm belly, all gained overnight. Despite the life of luxury that had been bestowed upon her, her life is far from perfect. She is very much aware of the stares and glances she gets every time she walks out of her house and to the town square, on the way to the market.
They think she will not notice the whispers, the murmurs exchanged and the fingers pointing accusingly at her back, that all disappear when she turns around. They assume she will be oblivious to the children that are dragged away by concerned parents when she comes close and not realise that the care and concern so thick in their voices, that is almost palpable, is only for her name, which she shamefully bears.
She knows, she understands, and she tries her best ignore it all and tune out the noise. It gets harder every day. 14 years after her abandonment and subsequent adoption, yet she is still known as the bastard child of the deceased young lord from the mansion on the hill.
Despite reassuring claims, even her family has certainly not forgotten, for one. Her immediate family, her uncle and his wife, is slightly more accepting. But whenever she does an action that is highly reminiscent of her father, she catches something flash in her uncle's eyes, and he instinctively looks away, unable to look her in the eyes. Her grandfather had made it clear that he did not want her in his home and only tolerated her presence in his household.
The man however, had passed away several year ago of old age, leaving her uncle in charge. Therefore, she had been spared many veiled jibes during meals, which were by far the mildest insults thus far. Over the years, distant relatives had moved into the enormous manor, and they unfortunately shared her grandfather's sentiment.
There are too many family events in a year that are hosted, too many that she has to attend. She dislikes them, to say the least.
She has since lost count of the insults thrown her way, left right and centre. They become as common as greetings, and she grows used to the way they are casually flung. They are more biting each day, and although the pain from hearing them has lessened, it never really goes away. Their expectations of her standards have always been high, made more so by the circumstances of her birth and she always has to try her hardest to prove that she deserves a place in her home.
They suffocate her, quite frankly, but she bottles her emotions and caps it with a pleasant smile. Her uncle has generously taken her in and given her a place to stay, and at the very least, she owes him her effort to try.
She knows that resistance is useless, and she is like Cinderella, being pushed around and treated badly, but she hopes that one day, someone will come save her and she will be freed from a life of slavery and torture. And then she is somehow unlike Cinderella, because she is tainted just as dear Cindy is pure (by that awful bloodbloodblood from her mother), short-tempered as she is patient, and cynical as she is kind and loving and everything else that is good and beautiful.
She's not fairy tale material and she knows it, so she will spend her time listening obediently like a little doll and not fight back. Like Cinderella, her life is filled with much difficulty and sorrow.
Unlike her, her story has no Prince riding in on a white horse, no glass slipper that magically fits. She doesn't understand how she can continue naively hoping and believing that things would get better, when they won't. Unlike Cinderella, she doesn't believe it anymore.
But once upon a time, she used to believe with her heart, used to try hardest to break the bonds that bound her, to step out of that precisely carved persona and say what she really thinks, even if it meant saying something deemed horribly incorrect. Once, tired of gritting her teeth and bearing with it, she shouts back, anger clouding her mind and words tumbling out of her mouth.
She has no idea what she is saying, but it must have been quite effective in shutting them up as they stand before her, white-faced and tight-lipped. Unfortunately, they regain their ability of speech remarkably quickly, and in one fell swoop, all of them turn against her.
The most scathing of all remarks come from her great-aunt. She jeers mockingly that no one should have expected anything more out of the daughter of that scarlet woman, and circles the girl who looks down, fists clenched, commenting on her clothes and picking apart her confidence. After all, the woman laments, the apple never falls too far away from the tree, and a puppy will always take after (and this is said with a cold sneer in her direction) the mother bitch.
Mikan flushes, (that remark was completely uncalled for) her face turning a bright red, and has to resist the unladylike urge to lunge at the old woman and tackle her to the ground. She mutters what sounds suspiciously like "stupid old hag" under her breath and excuses herself before she can do any more damage. It would be unwise to offend her, since she held a considerably large amount of authority on the Council of Elders and her uncle's life could be made that much harder.
Kazu rarely asks anything of her, so the warning to "behave", with a very weary undertone of one who has suffered much, is taken very seriously. When he spoke to her, she kept her head low, not daring to meet his eyes, fearing what she might see in them. His opinion is the only one that matter. But when she feels like punishing herself, or reminding herself endure the insults, she imagines her uncle's reaction and immediately cringes.
Somehow, even an imaginary disapproving look from him cuts deeper than the insults and barbs that she has had to endure. She successfully failed the one person who really believed her.
Needless to say, she tries not to step out of line again.
"Sir," the servant announces, "Mikan-sama is here. Should I send her in?"
Kazu looks up from the huge pile of paperwork at his desk and then glances at the time. It is already half past one and he has completely forgotten about lunch with his niece. He stands up and apologises as his most beloved and only niece enters.
"I'm afraid I have forgotten the time while working. I apologise for the wait, Mikan." He says, arranging several items on his too cluttered desk and packing up his work and packing up his work.
"It wasn't a problem Uncle; I merely came to inquire if you should wish to have lunch served in your study instead. I should have understood that you are extremely busy and would have not been able to entertain me. I apologise, Uncle." The way in which she speaks is formal and almost clinical, as if she were speaking to a distant relative than a niece talking to her uncle. Uncle. It is a far cry from the enthusiastic "Kazu-oji!" that would greet him the young girl ran at full speed and tackled him into a hug.
He wonders if he has missed an important moment in her life, one that indicated the change from warmth to cold, and the simultaneous breaking of her spirit.
"No, Mikan. I asked to meet you for lunch and it was impolite of me to forget. I should think you have been waiting for me to join you and have not eaten. Though it is a little late, let us make our way down to the dining hall." He smiles at her. "It has been a long time since I have eaten together with you. I have been looking forward to this lunch."
He does not know why but at those words, Mikan's eyes light up with something that is unmistakably joy, and it is mixed with equal parts of disbelief. It surprises him that she should feel so happy despite it being such a small matter. Then she turns away and clears her throat, embarrassed at the open display of emotions.
"Thank you. I told the chef to cook ratatouille. I heard that it is your favourite. It should be delicious." She speaks in an even tone, but it is far from the cold, dispassionate one that was previously used, and he is glad for the small improvement. The Mikan he once knew is still in there. Somewhere.
When they next shove a music instructor to her (again), she does not bother putting up a fight. She will handle it like she has every other time, with discretion and money and subtle hints. A silent but deadly war will be waged behind the scenes, and she knows the trick is to make it subtle, so that no one will suspect she is misbehaving and confront her. This has happened many times over. She has no reason to believe he will turn out otherwise.
But despite her cognitive recognition, she still turns up for the first lesson standing outside the door and looking through a gap in the door, although she normally spends it reading in a quiet corner where no one can find her. She watches her new teacher (not for long) ease his way through a piece, fingers effortlessly gliding up and down the keys in an almost caressing fashion.
He is young, much younger than all her other previous teachers, the people who snap at her if she plays a wrong chord, or smack her hands with a ruler if she does not sit up straight while playing. His hair is black and combed neatly and she can't take her eyes off the long fingers that glance over the piano keys. She does not know that she has been so obvious in her staring (or he might merely have been observant) as his voice carries over to the entrance of the music room.
"You may come in if you want. I wasn't expecting you today. I heard you normally don't deign to come on the first lessons." His voice is smooth and rich, yet not that deep a baritone, and it was oddly soothing to listen to, much like his playing.
She clears her throat. "Well, I usually don't. And I don't intend to either. I'll be going off now. You can leave if you wish. And don't worry, we will pay you for your services today. Goodbye." Just as she turns to leave, she hears the tinkling of piano sounds stop and a boy's sigh.
"I heard that you were going to be difficult." He stands up and walks over. When she sees him, she receives a huge shock. He is beautiful in every sense of the word. A strong jaw with well-defined facial features, and his eyes, his eyes are what surprises her the most.
His eyes are a startling red, a pure ruby, yet not diluted but vivid in its brilliance. As frightening as it might have made him look, the effect is softened by the gentle sweeping of hair into his face, covering portions of it from sight, and a slight smile about his lips.
"I did not want to ask you to play today but rather, just to ask you to listen." He explains carefully, scrutinizing her expression.
"I do not play the piano. Nor do I want to particularly." She wants to leave but he grabs her wrist.
"Why?" he asks, keeping those eyes of his trained on her.
"Because." She answers rather childishly.
"Will you not give it a chance?" he counters.
"You may not have heard, sir, but I have had countless piano lessons so far and am sure that I detest that instrument. If there's nothing else, I shall take my leave." Mikan bobs her head politely and attempts to leave, but his hold on her wrist is firm.
"Then your previous instructors must have been teaching it incorrectly, for no one can hate such a beautiful instrument." He is adamant in his love for music and she is almost intrigued enough by this boy to stay, if only to keep listening to him. Almost.
"And you believe that you teach it the right way and can make me fall in love with it too?"
"Of course. But not teach you. Rather, help you learn. Just listen to a piece. Just one. And if you do not like it, you may leave, and I will immediately resign as your instructor. On the other hand, if there is any reaction, and if you are moved in any way by my playing, you shall have to stay and learn." He is firm, and there is a light in his eyes, a spark of challenge that she will not back down from. After a moment of contemplation, she speaks.
"Agreed. And the reasons you cite upon your resignation will all be personal and in no way implicate me." Upon her words, he grins triumphantly and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at his boyish expression. "One piece."
He sits down on the bench, and starts to play. She does not know that particular piece, but is haunting and oddly beautiful. When he plays, she can hear the crashing of waves of a beach, the whisperings of grass in the fields, the dancing of the wind. It is magnificent and powerful, the crescendos are well-timed and his control of rhythm and timing is impeccable.
But aside from that, there is raw emotion in his playing and she is drawn to it, entranced by his movements and music. The emotions brought out by the piece are so overwhelming and only when he stops does she realize that there are tears running down her face.
He does not look up once he finishes, instead opting to idly play with the keys.
"Happiness is a state of mind. The ability to play is an opinion. I've heard the stories. We all have. But you are not defined by them. There's more to you than that. They've told me that sometimes, you come in here to play alone. And you make wonderful music."
"If you don't let anyone in, no one can save you." His head remains down, not meeting her eyes.
"Sometimes, we all have to take a leap" he presses a key. "Of faith." His fingers playfully skip to the next key. He raises his head to see her and stretches out his hand in a gesture of friendship.
"I'm Hyuuga Natsume. Nice to meet you."
The corners of her mouth are on the brink of curling upwards and she is touched by his actions. She reaches out to meet his hand. "I'm Yukihara Mikan. The pleasure is mine."
"Well Mikan, would you like to learn how to play the piano?" and again, he surpasses her expectations by showing that he is more than a polite young man and giving a charmingly roguish smile. This playful side of him is enchanting, much like his music, much like him.
"I would very much like to." She says softly.
He guides her by the hand to take a seat next to him on the bench. "Then, shall we?"
She feels the familiar fear and apprehension but she attempts to squash it, biting her lip to control the rapid beating of her heart. Then with a squeeze of her palm, all of a sudden, the fear is gone. Mikan smiles.
"Let's."
There are moments of happiness and contentment in her life. She finds that she does not need a happy ending to be satisfied. She does not need a Cinderella-worthy tale to make her feel fulfilled and content. Nobody ever has one in this cold world called reality, but she understands that no one actually needs it in is created, not found, and she is willing to make something beautiful out of her life. After hearing the boy with the red eyes play, she has no doubt that it is possible.
It has been a long time (she does not know how long it has been), but now she feels liberated, free to find new things, free to go on a new adventure. She takes (just like the boy with the red eyes says) a leap of faith, and even if she may fall, she will still try again and again and again. For she is sure, even if she might fall, for at least a split second before meeting the ground, she would have been flying.
And that, is enough.