The Ties Which Bind Us
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Part II: Cause & Effect
All envy its beauty;It is elegant and perfect—Everything anyone could want.And it is...In every way one would think important,.All but one way; the most important way:A glass rose may be perfect...But it is not real.
I sit in my room, aimless at it seems, for I am not ill, as I told mother. The mere prospect of me being ill is highly laughable. Youko Kurama becoming ill from a human ailment? That is unlikely — just as much so as Hiei telling Yukina he is her half-brother. Simply: impossible.
Still, I find myself sitting in here, if only to keep my word to the woman. I said I would — or implied I would — wait here. So I will. It is not as though I have anything better to do. Even if I want companionship, all of my acquaintances are attending school. Or, they are supposed to be.
My eyes dance blankly around my room taking in my surroundings, for lack of anything better to do with the free time I have earned myself. Yet, I find there is no point to it. My room is common and bland enough; it offers neither distraction, nor condolence from the monotony. My bed is a simple futon with scarlet sheets. The only other furniture gracing my room is the bookshelf sitting against the back wall, stacked neatly full of books, and a desk sitting beneath my window. The walls are white, the carpet silver.
I find furniture to be cluttering. There is no need for much of it, and it lacks practicality. But suddenly, I resent that my room is so empty. I must wait these long hours for my mother to come home silently, with no distraction as well. The solitude may well kill me now, I muse.
There was a time when I preferred it as such: complete and utter solitude.
Alone.
What had happened?
I sigh, sinking thoughtfully onto my bed, the mattress moving to contour around my stiffened form.
What has happened to me in these few, short, years?
Of course, I know: humans had happened; my humanity had happened. Shiori had happened.
No, that all could have been avoided. They did not happen...
Emotions had happened.
Emotions? Yes. They had happened. Or, at the very least, they had surfaced. I had never given them much thought as Youko Kurama — I had never given anything much thought as Youko. My existence was purely for my own amusement, I suppose. Emotions never stirred me because well, I do not suppose I had them.
But now, emotion seems to be the sole thing running me; dictating my very existence. Funny really, if you consider it. Emotion is what has kept me here — what keeps me here to this day — and it is solely responsible for all that has happened to me in these past years.
But if I never before had emotions... when did they surface?
I remember my original intentions well.
After my botched burglary attempt in Makai had sent me running into the Ningenkai for refuge, I entered the body of an unborn embryo to gain rebirth. After ten or so years, my powers would have recovered enough to grant me release back into the Makai, at which time I would take my leave of the mortal family that had 'adopted' me. For the longest time, my intentions had stayed as such, barely wavering.
I had no affection towards them, I had no emotions...
But then, it happened.
The first strike.
"Shuichi, dear, please go check on your father. Tell him dinner is almost ready," Shiori asked her son as she flitted around their small kitchen, gathering things together for their evening meal.
Her son was dutifully helping his mother. When she asked, he nodded and set down the utensils on the kitchen counter and went off to find his father.
Leaving the kitchen he wandered down the hall and poked his head into the study, where his father was usually found pouring over some document or other. He was not there, so Shuichi turned and walked back to the front of the house, entering the living room. His father was reclining in an armchair next to the television, reading a book, and hadn't noticed the entrance of his son.
"Otousan?" Shuichi asked quietly as he drew himself farther into the room, keeping a respectful distance between his father and himself. "Kaasan says it's almost time for dinner; you should come wait in the dining room."
His father looked up from his book and gazed at his son, the corners of his mouth tilting into a slight smile.
"Yes, of course, Shuichi. Tell your mother I'll be there shortly."
The boy nodded and turned, intending to return his father's message to his mother in the kitchen.
Just as he had taken a step towards the door, he heard a painful moan come from behind him; he turned instinctively to see what the problem was.
His father's book had fallen to the floor, and his father was leaning against the arm of his chair for support, his right arm clutching at the left side of his chest. Shuichi could see the look of pain washing over his father's face as he stood, gasping for breath, teeth gritted in pain, a sheet of cold sweat beaded across his suddenly ashen face.
He turned and hurried back to his father's side. "Otousan, what's the matter?" He asked, helping the man steady himself, bracing himself against the man's wait as he struggled for leverage..
His father regained his composure shakily and smiled at his son, coughing slightly, his hand still at his chest. "It's nothing, Shuichi. Just a small moment of pain. I'm alright now, don't worry. Go tell your mother I'll be in shortly," he reassured his son.
The boy looked at him in a brief moment of doubt before kneeling down and picking up the book his father had dropped. He placed it slowly on the end table sitting beside the frame of the chair.
"All right, Otousan," he conceded warily, nodding reluctantly.
"That's m'boy," his father rumbled, steadying himself with a heavy breath, as he rumpled the boy's red hair with his free hand.
Shuichi nodded, ducking out from his father's hold, for he never much did like people mussing his hair, and made his way to the kitchen to tell his mother.
"Kaasan, Otousan says he'll be in shortly."
She nodded listlessly, waving a hand behind her, ushering him to the table. "Alright, Shuichi, dear. Let's sit down and wait for him so we can eat together, then."
"Kaasan? Is something the matter with Otousan?" he asked silently, sitting down at the dining table next to his mother after a subdued moment. He kept his eyes trained steadily on a frayed edge of the tablecloth spread across their table.
"Why would you ask that Shuichi?" She asked gently.
When he answered her, his voice was measured, tentative. "Because he was grabbing his chest in pain, and almost collapsed when he got out of his chair."
She was silent.
"Kaasan?" He asked, glancing up curiously, eyes shining.
"Oh, it's nothing Shuichi," she assured him slowly; he was certain he could hear strain in her voice, but she maintained the forced nonchalance. "Your father must just be hurting from work — he's not the youngest man anymore, you know. Look, he's here now, and fine."
His father walked in and took a seat next to his wife and son, his presence a sturdy thing in the doorway. The expression on his face gave nothing of the previous minutes away so Shuichi decided to let the subject go, lest he upset either of them with his impudence.
"Let's eat."
The rest of the meal was silent, as was most of the night. He hadn't had much to say, not that he ever did, so he just retired into his room for the remainder of the night.
Sleep eventually took hold of him.
That morning he was standing in the kitchen, his school bag at hand, preparing to go to school again for a fresh week.
"Good bye, Kaasan. I'll see you this evening," he said, walking out of the kitchen.
She smiled at his turned back; she never did understand where he had gotten such manners from, and why he was such a good child. He always had been. Yet, it never ceased to surprise her.
He was heading to the door when he saw his father. He was sprawled out on the carpet, half-way out the door, on his way to work. He was silent, all but for his ragged breathing, clutching at his chest in the same spot as he had the night before.
"Otousan, what's the matter?" he asked rushing to his father's side.
His eyes were closed and his face damp from the line of sweat pouring down his face. He choked on his breath, words failing him.
"Kaasan, Kaasan!" Shuichi yelled loudly, summoning his mother into the living room.
She came hurrying out of the kitchen, frantically toweling dry her hands on a dish rag, looking rather harried. "What is it Shu—" She stopped when she saw the form of her husband on the floor. She rushed to his side immediately, kneeling beside him shakily.
"Kaasan, what's wrong?" Shuichi asked nervously, moving off to the side to make room for her.
"It's nothing, go on to school, Shuichi. I'll see you this afternoon," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. She kissed him on the forehead gently and ushered him out the door with a wave of her hand. "Go on, you don't want to be late."
He nodded hesitantly and hurried out the door, casting one fleeting look back over his shoulder before going on his way.
At school he pondered silently on what had happened that morning to his father. A feeling of urgency and foreboding had started to swell is his chest, expanding with each passing moment like a helium balloon. Something told him that whatever it was, wasn't 'nothing' as his mother had said. But he did not quite know for himself what it was, either.
When he finally got out of school he hurried home to appease the growing feeling of urgency within him; to settle the gut feeling he knew to be true, but hoped that for the sake of his mother, was not.
When he got into the house his emerald eyes quickly searched for his mother. They didn't search far; she was sitting, doubled over in his father's recliner.
He approached her warily, the heart in his chest heavy with dread.
"Kaasan?"
She looked up, and he saw the silent tears streaming down her cheeks like two twin rivers.
When she saw her son's confused eyes she only wept harder. "Come here, Shuichi." She motioned quietly to her lap with a shaking hand. Reluctantly, he climbed into her lap, and her arms wrapped around his small waist tightly as she tried to control her tears.
"What's happened to Otousan?" he asked quietly, hiding the unease in his voice, for he never did much like such displays of affection, though he was already prepared for the worst.
"He's had a heart attack," she choked out, her voice thick and clogged by tears. "He's passed from this world…"
The words rang through his ears, echoing in his thoughts. His mind went numb.
He did not know what to say. Really, what did he have the right to say? He had never really felt close to his father — never felt close to anyone, really — but he knew that his mother had. She must have, for she was reacting so badly to the news. But he wasn't really sad. He knew humans died — everyone died — that was life; nature's way. But, at the sight of his mother, so weak and wrought with pain, he could not help but feel even just a tiny little twinge of pity.
"Shh... It'll be alright, Kaasan..." he mumbled quietly, turning in her lap. He hesitantly put his arms around her frail figure and pressed himself close to her in a hug. That was what humans called it, wasn't it? He wasn't really certain; he never really partook of showing affection as such, or in anyway. But now, it seemed the natural thing to do.
He hoped he had done it right.
I sigh as I think back on that day. Yes, it was a few months after my sixth birthday.
That day I changed my mind about the woman who was raising me as her own. No, I won't say I was more affectionate; for the most part, my countenance remained unchanged. But I was friendlier towards her. Perhaps it was because I felt guilty for not realizing sooner that her husband was in peril, and I did nothing to prevent it. Or, perhaps, it was because I felt guilty, feeling that I had somehow brought it on.
Either way, that day changed my look on humans — on her at least. I stopped thinking so lowly of her, and grew more appreciative of the fact that she was raising me as her own, when truthfully she held no claim to me. After all, it cannot be easy raising a child who knows it is superior to its parent.
But that does not answer the question of my sudden emotional upwelling.
There were many times in my childhood that it could have stemmed from. Even now, it is not apparent when it happened outright. I never really thought anything of the mutual liking I held for her in my young years. So what did bring on the shift in my opinion?
Strike two.
"Shuichi, how was school?" Shiori asked her son from the sink where she stood doing the day's dishes as he walked into the house, discarding his school bag in the hall by the door.
"Fine, it was fine, Kaasan," he replied brightly, slipping into the kitchen. "I just need to get a can for art," he added, heading towards their reach-in pantry.
"Alright dear, hold on. I'll get you one in a moment," she replied, still standing over the sink, busily immersed in the task of drying the day's flatware .
"No, don't worry Kaasan; I can get it myself," he called, pulling out a stepstool from the bottom shelf of the pantry and setting it before him resolutely.
In a mechanical process, he stepped up onto the stool and began to rummage through the shelves. As he searched, balancing himself on his tiptoes to look higher, his center of balance weakened and the stepstool holding him teetered dangerously. He paid no mind and reached for a can he had spotted. His sudden movement for the can overbalanced the stool, and it tipped backwards, taking him with it. In an attempt to steady himself, he brushed against a stack of china, and in the sudden friction of his jerked, falling movement, they too came crashing down.
The plates hit the tiled floor and shattered. The subsequent noise caused his mother to turn. That was when she saw her son falling, and the plates lying in pieces on the floor.
"Shuichi!" Shiori yelled frantic, abandoning the sink and running forward to her son, breaking his fall only inches away from the shattered bits of porcelain on the floor beneath him.
As he recovered himself from the abruptness of the incident and sat up stunned, he saw his mother kneeling on the floor crouched over, in a pool of steadily growing blood.
She looked up at him, a weak smile on her lips, her eyes glazed over, and unfocused. "Are you alright, Shuichi?" She asked hoarsely.
That's when he noticed she was holding her arms.
Blood.
The gashes on her arms sent crimson flowers blossoming upon the white-washed linoleum. He was speechless. She had saved him, and she had suffered, readily. She had saved him with such a willingness that it shocked him into silence and he just sat there, staring at her.
Eventually, the gashes healed.
But the scars remained.
That day changed everything anew.
I remember well the incident, because that day she taught me affection.
But affection, and the emotion that now binds me to this place are entirely different.
This is true. Even as Youko, I had known affection. Perhaps not the sort that falls automatically to mind, but affection nonetheless. As Youko, I knew affection — of camaraderie — to my partners. Yomi, and Kuronue, for example. Affection is not what keeps me here, however; just as it was not what bound me to Makai.
No, what has kept me here — and keeps me here still — is a far stronger emotion.
Love.
Strike three.
The eve of his fifteenth birthday, and he was sitting in his mother's bedroom silently, holding her hand as she coughed and choked until her breath had finally been robbed, leaving her wheezing, struggling for breath, and exhausted.
"I'm sorry Shuichi, this was supposed to be your day," she whispered softly, earnestly apologetic, opening her tired, strained eyes to look up at her son sadly.
He shook his head firmly. "No, don't be foolish, Kaasan. Your health is more important to me than any birthday."
"Shuichi..."
"No, Kaasan, don't say anything more, just rest. You have to get better. We are all we have." He shook his head again and squeezed her hand gently as he stood up. "I'll make us some tea; that will make you feel better," he told her, stepping out the door silently.
She just closed her eyes, allowing a tear to slip down her gaunt cheek.
He hurried around the kitchen making their tea — a special tea made with herbs from Makai; they had marvelous pain relieving qualities, he drank it himself after being wounded on missions for Koenma — his mind buzzing in anger. Why hadn't he noticed how gravely ill she had become? Why hadn't he even bothered making life easier for her? Why hadn't he done something more? Anything more? He blamed himself; she was suffering a terminal illness, and it was because of him.
Once he had two cups of steaming tea sitting on the small lacquer tray he was to bring up for her, he stopped. Considering for a moment, he turned to the pantry. After a moment of searching, he found what he had sought: a bottle of Brandy.
He faintly remembered, any of the few times he had fallen ill in his childhood, she had always made him tea with a bit of Brandy in it. It always worked for him, now the least he could do was return the favor.
He poured a small amount into the cup of scalding liquid and stirred it, watching idle puffs of steam come forth from the cup.
Replacing the bottle of Brandy carefully, he hurried back up to his mother's bedroom, carrying the tea with him.
When he returned to her room, she had assumed a sitting position, propping herself up with the help of several therapeutic pillows she had been given at the clinic to help ease joint pain. He handed her one of the cups, warning her to be careful since it was hot; sipping on his own only slightly, his viridian eyes lingering almost pleadingly on her frail figure.
"Is something the matter, Shuichi?" she asked bringing her teacup up to her mouth and drinking deeply, regarding him with eyes glazed in concern..
"It is nothing," he mumbled slowly, averting his gaze from her, looking instead into the hollow depths of his tea cup, the herbal dregs spiraling on the surface of the liquid in a sort of dance.
She placed her cup on the nightstand beside her bed and pushed herself up a little straighter. "Shuichi, look at me," she said, her voice gentle, yet holding a demanding tone.
He looked, reluctantly.
"What's the matter?"
He sighed. "Kaasan, if something was wrong... You would tell me, wouldn't you?" he asked quietly, his eyes lingering on her.
"If something was wrong?" she repeated slowly, more to herself than to him.
"Yes, if something was wrong," he parroted, nodding.
She smiled. "Oh, Shuichi, you have nothing to worry about," she cooed, bringing one of her hands to his cheek, brushing his hair, which had grown a great deal in the foregone year, out of his eyes. She moved her thumb in a small circle around his temple.
"You shouldn't worry so much."
"But Kaasan, your health..."
"Shh...No more of that," she said firmly. "You'll see, by tomorrow, I'll be well again. We all get sick; it will pass." She brought herself up to him slowly and tilted his head down, kissing him lightly on the forehead. "Now go on, let me rest, and tomorrow you'll see. I'll be well again."
He nodded, and got up slowly, his eyes remaining uncertainly on his mother.
"Kaasan?"
"What is it, Shuichi, dear?"
"I love you."
The words were foreign to him; they fell from his tongue bitterly, and he felt awkward saying them, but he felt he had to.
Her health had been in a steady decline as of late, and he knew she put on a strong act for his sake. He knew she was ill, but she refused to admit it to him, causing the feeling of guilt to grow within him, for the simple fact that he hated that she could not be honest with him about her condition Had he done something wrong; done something to warrant her lack of trust?, he had to wonder.
At the same time, however, there was a certain peace that came over him as he said the words. Perhaps because he knew the woman wanted to here them, and knew well that in the fifteen years she had raised him, she hadn't once.
She was quiet for a brief moment, undoubtedly struck by her son's rare display of emotion, let alone affection. "I love you too, Shuichi," she replied after a moment, her voice broken by the threat of tears.
He smiled tiredly, a small smile that only turned his lips slightly upward at the corners, and walked out the door without a second thought, feeling accomplished, and slightly redeemed.
As his mother had said, she was up again in the morning; her health improved enough to allow her movement outside the bed, which she had been confined to in lengthening stretches in recent weeks. Hatanaka was at her side already, as he made his way to leave for school, relieved that she was on her feet again.
He went to school, his spirit at ease.
But as the day wore on, his spirit's ease wore off, being replaced by a nagging urgency, much like he had experienced when his father had died, years ago. The familiarity of the feeling, and what it foresaw did not sit well with him.
By the time the school day ended he was more than happy to bolt out of the doors and return home as quickly as his Youko speed and mortal legs and feet would allow.
His feeling had been right, again.
Too right.
When he got home, pulling himself up the foyer, Hatanaka was standing next to the door, regarding him with an expression of mixed distress and relief.
"Hi, eh... Shuichi..." he began nervously, fidgeting uncomfortably.
"Hello," he replied indifferently, looking to get into the house to check on his mother. He passed Hatanaka and was just about to open the door when his soon-to-be step-father spoke again.
"Shuichi, come with me. Your mother's been hospitalized."
He froze, his hand lingering on the doorknob as his mind registered what he had just heard. He felt the blood drain from his face in a reaction of human panic very unfamiliar to him.
"The hospital?" he asked, keeping his face neutral, his voice calm, despite the storm that was welling inside of him, and the sudden nauseous feeling that had stolen over him.
Hatanaka nodded. "Come on..." he motioned towards the car sitting on the curb. "Let's go."
"The hospital..." he mumbled again, for lack of anything better to say. His mind, usually so clear and focused, was suddenly too lost in a shroud of fog to produce a reasonable thought, much less a tangible sentence. Or, more profoundly still to his current mindset, an entire string of sentences.
The trip to the hospital was silent.
What was there to say, after all? Neither of them had reason to talk.
Once they got there, Hatanaka immediately went in to see her; he just sat outside her door, forcing himself to find peace in the hard, cold, plastic hospital chair that he had settled upon. The smell of the IV drips, disinfectants, and general clean smell of the hospital, and more distractingly, the lingering smell of death that clung to everything like cheap perfume, were annoying him, causing his sensitive nose to burn. But there were more pressing matters at hand: his mother's health, her current condition, and her chances of recovery...
After a seeming eternity, a middle-aged man in a white overcoat approached him, the look on his face hard to read. "You must be Shuichi, Ms. Minamino's son, yes?" he asked.
He nodded, momentarily lost for words and too distracted to even be bothered by the doctor's stupid question when it was obviously rhetorical.
"Her condition is critical, although stable for the moment. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but she doesn't have long. 12 weeks at most, at this rate."
At his continued silence, the doctor nodded solemnly and turned, leaving him sitting there in the uncomfortable chair, senses burning from the smells, and his mind numb.
Silence.
"Shuichi, your mother... She — she wants to see you." Hatanaka's voice cut through the silence.
He stood up and walked into the room, only partially aware of what was happening, his mind too clouded to come to grips with the situation.
He was sitting at her bedside stiffly, dutifully, but blatantly refusing to look at her.
"Shuichi...?" she asked; she sounded tired, older than she actually was.
"Yes, Kaasan?" he mumbled; he kept his eyes resolutely on the gray-black carpet lining her hospital room. He knew that if he looked at her — into those unconditionally loving eyes of hers — it would break his heart. And, he could not do it.
"Please, look at me..." she asked pleadingly; she sounded on the verge of tears.
He did not want to look at her; did not want to look at anything anymore.
She sighed. "Shuichi, I'm so sorry, I know you're angry; you have every right to be—"
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked suddenly, his voice cracking thinly, eyes clouding and making the carpet in his line of vision blur.
Of course, he had known long ago that she was ill. But the fact that she could not bring herself to tell him herself bothered him.
It hurt him.
"Why?" he asked again, blinking angrily and shaking his head in distress.
"I didn't need you to worry about me," she reasoned softly. "It isn't your job to worry about me. It's my job to take care of, and worry about you. Not the other way around." She sighed then, a completely deflated, miserable sound. "Lately, it hasn't felt like I've been doing my job... I'm sorry, Shuichi..."
She did sound sincerely sorry, and for that he was glad. But she also sounded pathetic — weak — and the subdued Youko in him bristled in disgust at the display.
A brief moment of anger flared inside of him at her words, a rush of white hot loathing surging through his veins. She was being selfish — stupidly selfish. Keeping all of this from him just because she felt her motherly duties were at stake? How could she have been so stupid?
"Your health is — always has been, always will be — more important than your duties, Kaasan," he hedged stiffly, still refusing her plea for eye contact. Then, he sighed deeply, his voice taking on a quiet tone again. "Even if I would have had to take care of you myself... It would not matter. Kaasan… you are all I have… I can't lose you..."
Say it! Say it! Say it! His conscience screamed. Say it!
"...Kaasan... I — I love you..."
That had been it. I am certain that that had been the moment; the moment I sealed my own Fate. I have hardly ever uttered those words again, and certainly never since then, with such sincerity as I had on that day.
She had — has still — sacrificed so much for me. How could I not say it? In light of the circumstance, how could I not mean it?
I did mean it, which is why I stole the mirror.
The Forlorn Hope. I had stolen it. Yes, partially to save my mother — mostly to save her — but also to redeem myself. She had given up so much for me to grow up well-rounded in a one-parent household, and I thought that, just once, I could give her back at least some of what she had given me.
And, I suppose I had.
I stretch, pushing back into my mattress, my gaze falling idly on the ceiling.
But, just because I have redeemed myself does not mean that I do not still feel guilty.
I am living a lie after all. I have lived this very lie since my rebirth as Minamino, Shuichi. And it has caused me to wonder... Do I have the right?
What ever gave me the right in the first place?
I had no right to take the unborn child's body as my own.
Did that stop me?
No.
I have no right to let the woman who sees me as her own, loves me as her own, keep believing I am her son.
Is that stopping me now?
No.
I had no right to cheat death that night only to continue living a life to which I have no claim.
Did that stop me? Is it stopping me now?
No.
Not yet.