Disclaimer: Bleach is owned by Tite Kubo
The Jumper
The angry boy, a bit too insane
Icing over a secret pain
-Third Eye Blind
The florescent green of the digital clock coats the dark room in an emerald glow. The lights are off as they always are. I sit at my desk, half looking out the window, the green glow of time clearly reflected on the glass.
11:58
In the darkness(out there) black water erratically pelts against the pane, blurring the glow of streetlights and moons. They shimmer with each wave, splotches of beacons fighting wars against each other.
I wait and wait and wait. How many hours had I waited in that small chair? Staring into nothing. Waiting for reason to return.
12:00
She is not coming back.
Minutes pass, nothing changes.
I turn away from the pane(pain) and the battles to stare at the numbers. How long had it been?
A flash. For a fleeting second I can see the everything. (Everything goes out) with a bang. I don't falter, my heart never misses a beat.
As if to mock me, laugh at my disgusting pain, the numbers start to blink.
12:00-green
-black
12:00-green
-black
I hate it but I can't look away, caged by my madness, locked by my insanity. Seconds. Minutes. Years. The darkness, the rain, never lets up. Suddenly, without warning, everything grows dense. The water pelts violently, quicker and fiercer.
Its too much, this artificial cage can no longer protect me. A crack. the glass shatters, unable to withstand the force of the wet darkness, unable to withstand the force of these emotions.
Without thinking I grab the closest thing. A bat, a pipe, a sword?
I swing the thing up, arching it behind me and with all the force this weak soul can muster I slam is down on to the clock. Over and over and over. Driven by my blind furry (my sadness). There is no pattern, there is no thought to these erratic compulsions.
Out of breath, I stop.
The green light is gone but so is the clock. Panting heavily I look down. In its place is the shattered remains of a photo of her.
It's all too much.
The sound like the unsheathing of a sword. A white light blinds me.
My eyes fluter open the darkness seeps away and it takes me awhile to understand it was fake. Realizing my location, a spark of panic fills me. Where am I, what happened?
I survey my surroundings, a room similar to the the ward rooms I'd seen on fake TV shows. A plain white bed, the head against the wall, railings on the side as if I was a toddler. The walls covered in cheery fake paper. A nightstand, with colored flowers, a glass of water and a digital clock.
12:01
I look to the source of the sound that awoke me, a small teenage girl( or what I supposed to be one)with short spiky strawberry hair. She reaches up, trying to tie up a curtain. Behind it a wide window looking out onto the street.
"Who the hell are you, where am I?" I force out irately. I don't like people and generally they don't like me.
"Oh your awake, let me get my dad." she says surprised by my sudden voice. Ignoring my questions, she quickly passes in front of me, my eyes follow her(glaring) until she leaves the room. My stare remains on the hallway, listening. There are four people here, I don't know how but I can feel their presences, some stronger than others, one familiar.
The padding of feet ascending the stairs, they continue until I can see the figure of an older man and the girl in the door way.
"Your awake," he says, stating the obvious, like the girl. Weary, I take in his appearance, intimidated by his taller and stronger stature, his open face, "you've been knocked out so long I feared you'd never wake up." Kindness and allure coats his voice, I don't buy it. He is too bright, oranges and whites, like her.
It hits. Like the force of a building and the pressure of the sea. The flood and force of the last memories drown me. I clutch my face, my deformed hands squeezing and pulling at oily matted hair. I breath erratically. I want to throw up, I want to die.
I look down and for the first time realize I have no shirt on. Wrapped around my chest, over my heart, is a white cloth. With my dark elongated fingers I furiously rip at the cloth, needing to know the truth. Even though the opposite side of the bandages are red, there is no mark, no hole.
"You probably don't remember me," he spoke, shifting my concentration, "but I'm Ichigo Kurosaki."
I did remembered, faint childhood memories, old photos, and words of admiration. And now the black blade. "Your the so-"
"I know," he interrupted, "I'm the one that stabbed you, but I had a reason and I need you too hear it Sora." Grabbing a chair near the door he flipped it around straddling the seat and resting his arms across the back, " I need you to understand what you are and, like four months ago, the mess you are capable of creating."
If you hadn't noticed i changed the title. I know alot of this probably doesn't make a hell of alot of sense...
r&r