She wakes up with stale breath fuzzing her tongue and bile rising in her throat. Bleary eyes blink at the spinning world that's been knocked off its axis, trying to make sense of the scattered bottles and coldness where there should be warmth.

The coldness is because his half of the bed is empty, and the red anger rises up again, riding the wave of nausea that propels her on shaky legs out of bed and into the hall before she even knows where she means to go. Who is he to leave her all alone, to ignore her pain? Who does he think he is?

But the anger is dreary this morning, where the sky's a stark gray with no stars but no sun, either. It can't seem to get a toehold in her mind, which too often pulsed and throbbed to the beat of her swinging fists. She is not the turbulent waters, not this morning. Now she feels more like the helpless ship being tossed about by the violent waves.

She finds him in the living room, curled under a blanket, his face knotted and troubled even in sleep. A mottled bruise covers his cheek, another at the corner of his mouth. There are probably more hidden under the blanket he covered himself with.

You put those there.

The thought brings revulsion to her wildly spinning mind, sends the vomit from the dawning hangover clawing up her throat. Some noise escapes her, and although he is a light sleeper usually, he is too exhausted to wake completely. A small moan escapes him as he stirs, but that is all.

But why should it bring revulsion, why should it? She is not evil, not heartless. She is only a poor victim of fate. Whatever he got was brought about by his own actions, never her own. He was hers, he was supposed to comfort her, protect her, love her, save her. And when he couldn't … Well, when he couldn't …

You lost your temper.

She tries to rebel against this thought, but it is too late, and a torrent of carefully hidden memories burst forth like water from a broken dam. Memories of a past left behind, of a father with blood staining his knuckles and anger on his unfaithful lips. Memories of a girl left at the mercy of his whims, always afraid, close to breaking. A girl whose only escape was through the music that thrummed in her throat to the beat of her heart. Memories of one day stealing away in the night, and the sky then was not a dull gray of a too-early morning but a rich black blanketed in stars, the stars she was sure she would one day join.

But that girl is gone now, that girl was killed. Her singing voice had been rejected, and even the charming boy who harmonized so well with her couldn't save her. All that's left now is this broken songbird, she of the empty bottles and swinging fists.

You're just like him, no better than him. Like father, like daughter.

"No, no, I'm not," she whimpers, sliding to the ground, broken by the throbbing headache caused by the cheap alcohol and malicious thoughts. She's not like him, the man who bore her. He was cruel and unfaithful and unjust. She is not the oppressor, oh no. She is the oppressed.

So why does the loathing torment her so?

"M-Mei … Mei-chan?" Thick with sleep, his voice beckons her. He looks at her with guarded eyes that are a bit too familiar. Hadn't she seen those eyes on that other girl, that dead girl, when she had looked in the mirror? His voice is so pitiful, so weak, but the anger that should come doesn't. "Mei-chan, don't cry."

He holds out a hand to her then, and she sees three of the fingers are red and swollen. She could take them, kiss them, apologize for what she's done. She could put away the bottles and sing again, soar again. The promise is there, in his gentle fingertips.

But you can't become that girl again. She's dead, don't you remember?

And who was to blame, who? Certainly not her, who had worked so hard and gained so little. They were at fault, all those who didn't believe in her, those who didn't sell her enough, love her enough. That girl was at fault, who sang so alluringly, the siren who lured all away. And especially he was to blame, with his pathetic eyes and pitiful fingers. And so the rebellion comes, too late to mean anything, but still enough to cause those fingers to flinch away at the harsh rasp of the voice that once sang in a sultry whisper to patrons in a smoky lounge.

"Leave me alone!" Talking to him, to the thoughts, to the world that abandoned her, she scrambles to her feet, stumbling back down the hallway, back to the room she should have never left. She collapses on the bed, closes her eyes, and waits for the sun to rise, hoping the world will be spinning on course when it does.

Hi, everyone, it's Jilly again! I know I haven't updated "Keeping Secrets" yet ... I'm a bit blocked on that story! But maybe this little vignette is enough to satisfy you for now? Maybe there will be a full story about Meiko and Kaito's relationship one day ... Until then, enjoy this, even if it is sad!

Cover credit: piapro . jp / t / ZcDs