Take me to church,
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
Her hair was gray. It reminded him of an older woman, a senior citizen, whose had been stretched out far beyond their limits. She certainly had, and they were hardly in high school at this point.
When he thought about her hair, he thought about her body becoming weaker. Lines forming on her face, one for each decade. He wondered how he would look then, too. It was never a question if he would be there when she was old – it was a given. They had always been together, every single day for all of his life. She would never leave. He imagined them growing old together, and laughing about how his hair was now the same shade hers had always been. If he ever grew a pair and told her how he felt, maybe they would hold hands while they chuckled.
He hollered at her sometimes. No, he hollered at her almost every other day. It was bad, he knew it was, but it would be worse if she didn't know him. Know how he was. But she did know him. She knew his short temper, she knew how he thought. She was so intellectual, so smart that she could read him like a novel.
He couldn't reciprocate this. No matter how hard, how persistent he was with shoving her own importance in her face, she didn't accept it. She didn't know how much he liked her. At least, she never acknowledged it. He would have to manually tell her that he wanted to talk to her, and even then she would become incredibly flustered and stutter over random subjects, telling him how his mother's lipstick looked especially nice this morning. He thought it was cute, even a little funny when her cheeks turned red because of the contrast between her milky skin, cloudy hair and then the fire-engine cheeks. Since he'd always liked her, he always tried to find new ways to make her blush. It was a game he'd invented, as monumental as hide-and-seek or tag.
When he asked what her birthday was, she said she didn't know. This answer didn't sit well with him, so he came upon the decision to make up his own date. He turned to the calender, closed his eyes, and let his index finger touch a random spot.
"July 30th." he presented this as a proud fact to her later that day, when they were only about eight years old. "It's the best day of the year, you know."
She was hardly ever casual with him. Her shells were infinite; each one crafted so even if you selected the sharpest knife, it would take hours to split it open. But since he was determined, he spent years snapping at each one. He hoped that she appreciated his efforts even now. Even when he never finished.
He was small. He always had been, but he held high hopes that one day he would grow up a little. She was much taller, and her build was more muscular than any amount of hours spent at the gym could profit a guy like him. For a few months, he obsessed over this. He always thought the boy was supposed to be taller than the girl, or at least nearing the same size. Would she laugh at him and call him a shrimp if he ever said anything? Would she throw a dumbbell at him and land him in the hospital?
Usually, people wouldn't say she was too kind for that, but there was a special flavor of sugar she used for him. She would wait with him until the world ended if given the chance. She was despicably loyal. It was difficult being so close to someone so unobtainable, but all he could do was try.
He'd never been a religious man, not when he was born bathed in blood and hatred and would likely leave the same route. But now, when her blood stained his clothes and he could still feel the dying warmth of her body huddling over his, something had changed. Or, maybe changed was too drastic a word; twitched. If he focused on the feeling hard enough, a little tear formed in the outer corner of his eye. He could feel her blood dripping onto his face, and feel her chest pressed into his face. Her body shivering. Her last moments spent in dead silence.
They had only embraced a number of times. The latest time was while they were both on their deathbeds, but believe it or not, there had been few others. His mother told him multiple times that when they were toddlers, she would always cling to him. She would throw tantrums doing bath-time when they were separated. She learned how to walk a few days after he did, but her first steps were spent leaning on him like a pillar. At this time, they were likely the same size. He didn't know why she stopped. He never will.
When they were eight years old, she hugged him after he gave her a notice of her new-found birth-date. He latched onto her and spun her around like a princess at a banquet when they were eleven. She was wearing a black dress. He couldn't remember it well now, but he was certain at the time he loved it. He loved her. Loves her even now. They embraced for the last time before everything was terrible when he visited her cottage with dreary eyes, explaining why they needed to stop speaking for the time being. She understood, of course, but before he closed the door she ran over and hugged him tight. It was unexpected, so he emitted a little oomph, but returned the affection.
He had come awfully close to confessing only once before, about a week prior to everything horrendous. Sitting on the beach, thinking about how much he loathed everything, she plopped down next to him. He told her, "Go away. We can't be seen together." but she stayed. It was the first time she had ever directly disobeyed orders in a very long time.
She didn't say anything, though. She just sat by his side, her intense eyes gazing at the watery landscape while his observed her. He wanted to hold her hand, wanted to feel her heat and know she was real. Tell her everything he'd ever thought about her and finally just embrace her, one last time.
But he didn't. He missed every chance handed to him. He laid placid for his entire life, letting his feelings rot in his stomach and keeping them locked up in there. He was a real fool.
(Someone, anyone, take him to the altar. Lay his body in front of a preacher and let him repent. Can't you see he's in pain?)
Now, she was gone. She was as listless as flour, as silent as a predator. His memories of her were ghosts, lazy images zipping through his mind like acid. And he was crying. He was crying so hard because the greatest girl he'd ever met was dead, because he had never done what he was supposed to do, because she would never know how important she was to him. She would always think of him as a child now, wouldn't she?
Even when Mikan came in the room, stuttering and furrowing her eyebrows, his entire tiny body racked with sobs. He beckoned her closer, only to grab her by the collar and weep into her puffy sleeve. She twitched, like she was uncomfortable, but since she was kind she pet his head.
I miss her. He screamed it, cried it out, wanted to etch it into his wrists. He pounded his fists into the bed and tore out his hair. Nothing changed.
I know. Mikan replied.
Every night before he went to sleep, he prayed to a God he never believed in that she would come back. He knew it was a stupid request, and an unearthly one at that, but he had never been a religious man. It was all he could do to keep his hands clasped together while thinking of her. Peko.