The clock was ticking much too loud. And there was a faucet leaking somewhere, he knew, by the resounding drip...drop...drip...drop playing over and over again, bringing about an aching headache. But nothing seemed to be of much importance to the blonde as he lay back upon the much too small bed in his apartment room, eyes glazed over with memories gnawing at the confines of his mind. He groaned with displeasure, throwing his arm over his face, tucking it into the bend. How many days now had it been since the accident? He wasn't too sure. He had managed to burn through three packs of cigarettes and the answering machine in the kitchen beeped on the hour, announcing that it was much too full to take any more messages. His cell phone was discarded, presumably dead by now, somewhere in the corner of the room. It was always a voice he wasn't interested in hearing. And the one that he yearned for, he was afraid, would never utter a single word to him again, much less his name.

One night, he thought. After all those years, it took one night for it all to go down the drain. He sucked in a deep breath, rubbing his face in frustration before smoothing his hands through his dirty hair. Perhaps it was time for shower; he did reek of smoke, after all. And the scalding water would certainly clear his mind.

So he undressed and stepped into the steam, allowing his flesh to redden with the incredible heat. He sighed heavily, resting his forearm against the wall and leaned against it, allowing the stream from the shower head to wash away the filth from his scalp and body. He rested there for a moment and grimaced, catching himself in yet another memory where his petite companion reached in one day, and lowered the temperature, scolding him for his impatience in finding a comfortable setting. He remembered how her cheeks flushed with color at the realization that he was completely nude and her only shield was a small, white towel, her glasses rested upon the counter. But that face, he had never loved it more, the way it exuded such rawness, such humanness. And yet again, the blonde found himself deeply emerged in the memory of Shiori.

Shiori was never quite like the other girls. That, Shizuo knew very well. But he never expected to be so caught off guard by the modifications her appearance had taken. Her cropped jet black hair cascaded down to her waist in reddish-brown locks. Her porcelain-like flesh had seen many hours in the sun, or perhaps, the inside of a tanning booth. Her figure, which had always been akin to that of a teenage boy, had acquired miraculous curves and he was sure that they were brought by way of knife. But the one thing that remained that confirmed this new image to be the girl of his past was her eyes, hidden behind rimmed glasses, almond shaped and hazel in color.

He knew it was her then, by the way she clutched the book tightly to her chest. Although she could change the way she had looked, the old Shiori's mannerisms were still too loud, much to the blonde's delight. She was cordial-as always-and timid, of course, as she gave a feeble hello, making way to the register to pay for the new addition to her library. He didn't hear himself reply but was sure that he did, following after her. The cashier, in fear of the supposed brute, cashed him out first, turning the girl's attention to the book Shizuo had selected.

"The Story of Orpheus and Eurydice?" Her eyebrows perked up in interested, goading him to elaborate. The cashier began to ring her out but her attention remained on her old friend. He scratched the back of his head almost bashfully as he explained that he recalled her reading it at some point of time. She received her change and headed out the door, Shizuo walking right beside her. She paused just outside and turned to look him right in the eye. "It's a love story, you know," she said slowly, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "Orpheus falls in love with Eurydice, but he loses her."

The way his heart beat in his chest, the way he had to contain himself from licking his lips. He couldn't hold the urge any longer. He couldn't let her go; he wouldn't allow her the opportunity to do so yet again. He had suffered, and he had suffered enough and he'd be damned if he didn't at least try to make her stay this time.

So before she could say another word, he captured her face, gently but urgently, between his two hands, crushing his lips against her's in such a way he was sure the scene would rival any of those his brother had portrayed in any romantic film. She was rigid, caught completely by surprise but melted into it, throwing her arms around his neck, holding him close. That was it, the moment she had dreamed of for so many years. She had read countless tales of heroes and heroines and love and fantasy, and for once, her life was playing out so much better than she had ever dreamed.

But little did the two know that Shizuo had been too little, too late.

They had lived contentedly, just as they had before. They would be spotted at a restaurant, corner booth, as the male stopped the bleeding from an infliction with superglue, and the girl would shake her head, pushing her glasses back to their proper place on her nose. On weekday nights, they could be found on that old couch with a tub of ice cream between the two of them, the only subjects of interest being whatever kept Shiori turning that book and Shizuo watching as her expressions changed and when she caught him staring, the way she'd laugh or blush.

But something slowly came to his attention, and it certainly didn't feel right.

Shiori was never what one would call a "weekend girl." He only remembered every night out was spent waiting for him to close up the bar and walk home to watch some film adaptation of his novel that he was simply not interested in. But now, this time around, he rarely saw her even in the daylight. He never asked and she never told him, but the question still remained.

So one Thursday, as the evening was coming to a close, Shizuo stopped Shiori from leaving his apartment. "It's late," he said, "Don't walk home. You'll get yourself kidnapped." Yet she still shrugged herself into her jacket, flashing him a small smile.

"Don't worry, Shizuo-kun; it's not far. I'll be fine." She headed towards the door. He rose then, reaching over her as she pulled the front door open, his hand placed firmly on it, sealing it shut. His face was etched with mild annoyance and she smiled. "What's got you so worried, huh? Or do you want me to stay so sorely?" He scoffed and she laughed, slowly edging out of her coat. She folded it over her arms, standing on tip-toes to place a tender kiss on her lover's cheek. She hovered by his ear for a moment. "I'll stay, but I must leave in the morning, alright?" He huffed but was pleased to be pulled back to the bedroom by the girl.

Just as she said, she had left him in the morning with a note to return for lunch the next day. He never knew what kept her so busy but didn't bother to find out. Thankfully, he was occupied with consistent work throughout the day, so it made the next day seem that much closer to him. But as the sun began to set behind the city towers, the nightlife slowly crept out, infesting the streets with drunken folly and ruckus. He was still working, with only one last debt to collect.

They headed towards an alley, to the side door entrance to some club or bar. They weren't greeted too kindly, but were allowed to enter nonetheless. They were ushered to a lavish private room, shrouded over with a cloud of smoke. There were women walking on skyscraper heels wearing sequinned lingerie or even nothing at all. The man they were meeting with, Kato Izanagi, was seated between two of these promiscuous women, enjoying a cigar as Shizuo and Tom were guided in. When he noticed them, he grinned, spreading his arms wide in an effort to invite the men in on the play.

Tom and Izanagi immediately got to business, discussing matters over glasses of brandy and the same two women, craving the men's attention as they caressed the men's arms or chest here or there. Shizuo just stood by, choosing to light up a cigarette and watching to make sure the situation stayed under control. At that moment, a giggling dancer came stumbling in with a tray of cigars in her hand. She noticed the blonde and skipped on over to him.

"Ah, Heiwajima Shizuo!" The woman's breath reeked of alcohol although the dazed look in her eyes made him suspect she was under the influence of multiple drugs. After all, how could anyone, much less a woman, be so fearless in their approach to the man? "How nice it is to see you here! We never thought you'd come!~" She tilted her head to the side in a sweet manner. "Could I offer you a drink? Or perhaps a dance?" She set the tray on the table in front of her manager then, snatching at Shizuo's wrist and tugging at him. Tom called after her, but the Izanagi waved it off, insisting that it was on the house and to let Shizuo have his fun.

Shizuo pulled his hand free and took a quick drag from his cigarette. He could already feel the quickening of his pulse and hoped the nicotine would soothe the oncoming rage. But the girl was persistent, tugging him so forcefully into the next private room over, stumbling over her heels and falling safely onto the plush seating. The cigarette in his hold snapped in two and he willed his anger to remain contained. But the girl giggled dumbly, clambering to her feet and swiping at him again. He side stepped only for his shoe to catch the rug and he tripped, falling back just the same as the girl had moments before. She wasted no time in mounting him, a devilish smirk playing at her lips.

"Was that so hard?~" Her teasing only confirmed it in Shizuo's mind that she was ready to die. In the next second, he had intended to take the girl by the front of her bra and toss her out of the room, flying. But as his hand curled around the front of her bra, her fingers released the clasp from the back, exposing her entirely to not only him, but also to two other eyes that had pulled the private room's curtain back.

"Shizuo?"

TO BE CONTINUED...