Chapter 2 – The Girl Named Shizuru
My face is burning. I can feel it. The heat has risen up to my face and it won't go away until I calm down and try to forget that it ever happened. This feeling, it is embarrassment, the unwanted rush of emotion that leaves the mind blank and paralyzed in a shocked swirling stupor. I haven't felt this way since I was in school and that simple fact makes me all the more embarrassed that I am embarrassed. I am so consumed by these awkward feelings that I almost miss the word—
"Natsuki?"
I freeze.
It is bad enough that this happened, but it is even worse to be caught by her.
I look up and there she is with her piercing crimson eyes, drawing me in as they look over me with intense curiosity. How long has it been since I have seen those eyes? Those very eyes I fell for?
Shizuru.
I am relieved to see her. I am happy to see her. I am… I am not sure what I am feeling.
I am out of words.
"Hitchhiking, again?"
Her voice is light with amusement, but something is off. Her tone. Her voice. The slight dips and the highs. The way she lets the words fall off the tongue. All of it is similar, almost the same, but not quite right. It is as if I secretly found her identical twin trying to do an impression of Shizuru. Nobody else would notice, but—
It just doesn't feel right.
"Shizuru?" The word trembles slightly with my increasing doubt.
She frowns at that tone.
I look more closely this time. There is a white headband on her forehead. An injury? And the clothes are all wrong. Where is her Meister dress?
"Natsuki, what's wrong?"
No. No, that's not all. This isn't right. She isn't her. The more I look, the more I realize I'm just trying to fool myself. She can't be Shziuru. She's too young.
"Who are you?"
The words come out more forcefully than I intended.
Shi—no this woman—this girl—takes a step back, as if she were physically struck. She's speechless. I can see it in her stare, the cogs whirling and spinning to try and comprehend my words. Really, underneath the thin veneer of calm poise, she's vulnerable, fragile—as delicate as glass. I can read past her mask. She's insecure and unsure of herself. When was the last time Shizuru was like that?
"Ikezu." She smiles at me, "Natsuki should stop joking like that."
But I'm not and she knows it.
"Who are you?" I repeat.
"Even, going all the way to dress up and pretend to not know me. That's too cruel. Natsuki, you can't still be angry about what happened earlier, right?"
"Who are you?" I say again.
"Natsuki, this isn't funny." Her voice lowers.
"It isn't." I agree.
The girl's fake smile melts away, gone and vanished with the costal breeze. She reaches forward to try and grasp my face with her hand, but I stop her midway, with my hand held tight around her wrist.
My face is hard; the embarrassment forgotten, my relief turned into something more of a cross between confusion and gnawing worry. I must look angry. Shizuru always said I frowned too much.
"I'm not joking." I repeat. "Where am I? And who are you?"
a flower by any other name
Awkward pauses. Time seems to stop for moments like these.
She just stares at me with those intense red eyes of her, the confusion and dismay plainly evident despite her outward calm. I am still holding her arm. We're like little frozen statues—pieces of living art—glued firmly to the ground, just deeply gazing at one another—our small little world disturbed only by the cars rushing past on the road.
We stand. We stare intently. The cars pass and the waves crash behind us.
Those eyes, a crimson red, so familiar and yet, why am I reminded of a serpent in that gaze of hers?
Because it is dangerous.
And though the realization reaches me, I stare back all the same. I will not be cowed. I never back down. Not anymore.
We wait, the pause long and heavy and awkward—until, finally, she opens her mouth and says:
"My name is Shizuru. Fujino Shizuru."
Her voice is cold, like an arctic chill in the midst of summer. She obviously doesn't like this situation, but it was not of my choosing either. I didn't choose to be here, in this place, wherever this place is.
I let go of her arm and she lets it fall limply to her side.
"I am Natsuki Kruger." I respond to her silent question. "And this place isn't Aries, is it?"
"Aries?" This Shizuru repeats, letting the word roll off the tongue like a foreign piece of candy.
She doesn't know what it is. She doesn't know the name of one of the most influential countries on Earl. She doesn't know—this Shizuru who isn't Shizuru.
A fake.
An imposter.
Not my Shizuru.
"You're not Natsuki." It is not a question.
"The same as how you're not Shizuru." I reply.
We stare at each other again, a million unspoken questions flashing past in our minds. We stare and we scrutinize and we almost fall into another one of those awkward pauses.
"It is hardly apt, discussing these matters by the side of the road in her special spot."
She walks toward what must be her vehicle, and opens the door. She gestures to me.
"Get in."
The words are frigid and abrupt, but who am I to argue, stranded along this long costal road?
Hitchhiking is a dangerous activity.
After all, just look at what happened last time.
Crash. The world is Crashing.
We drove in silence, riding along the cliff and seaside, winding through its twists and turns until we approached some sort of city with square, unimpressive, buildings. The drive itself was quite beautiful. I would enjoy riding my bike on a road like this. I probably would have enjoyed the ride more if I wasn't so distracted thinking about this place and what this girl was not.
Eventually, we pull into a housing complex, parking in a spot that I thought too small to fit. The whole place is composed of more drab poor rectangular excuses of a building, lined up and stacked neatly on top of one another. Wherever I am, the architecture is vastly different from anyplace that I have visited. Everything here seems like a maze, tiny and narrow and confined, like these people have no concept of the need for open space.
She unbuckles her seatbelt. This is our destination. We have arrived.
I look over at her. She's still silent and brooding, but I make no move to break the silence. Shizuru was always more talkative than I was. We exit the car and I follow her up a flight of stairs. She stops at a particular door and I wait for her to open it.
But.
She's knocking on the door.
Knocking. Knocking. Knocking.
Each rapt against the door is a little louder and a little more hurried than the last.
I think this is where she lives. This other Natsuki.
"Natsuki?" This Shizuru calls out, "Natsuki, are you there?"
Her voice too is becoming more concerned.
"Natsuki? Will you open the door?"
There isn't a reply.
I don't think she's there, but this Shizuru continues to knock.
It is obvious by now that I look much like this other Natsuki, just like how she looks like my Shizuru. I am not her Natsuki and she is not my Shizuru, and so she has brought me back to this Natsuki's home. For confirmation, for validation, to just make sure that everything was alright.
I suppose it is natural to bring back the evil twin, the doppelganger, the impossibility and make sure that your special person is still there. At least that is what I would do too, or perhaps I would just let Yohko examine and speculate about the theories. Well, if Yohko was around to do such things.
"Natsuki?"
Her voice is raw and unfiltered. No poise, no calm, no grace. Right now, she is fragile, like glass.
This isn't Shizuru. It isn't her.
"Natsuki? Don't be angry. Open the door."
And then she tries knocking again for good measure.
I am tired of hearing it, of hearing those words, and so I reach forward and try what she has neglected to do.
I turn the knob, and it gives way to my touch.
The door is unlocked.
With a slight push the door swings wide open, revealing papers and clothes scattered about the floor—trash and clutter for every square-inch of space I look at. It appears to be well lived in but his still doesn't help the fact that—
No one is home.
She looks to me, crimson eyes flaring, as if I am to blame for the mess and the empty nature of the apartment. I just stare back at her, staring because she is not quite Shizuru and fact that she couldn't possibly be mine.
Silence.
We glare at one another, sharing one of those long and awkward pauses, frozen and unsure of what to do next.
Next Time: Tea and Mayonnaise
Author's Notes: Spring weather makes me sleepy.
Comments and Questions and criticisms are always welcome.