Segment 3
Run, run, run, Okami, run from fear. Run until you can't run anymore. Run away and never return. I know, I told myself, I know. But my side hurt. Where I had stabbed my chest. The hot blood sizzled and cooled in the night air. Though I felt no shortage of breath. My mouth watered, and my feet could carry me no more. I was only able to cover so much ground. In my arms I held the leather bound book, and my bloodied knife. My tiny hand was covered with blood, and down my thin side the red leaked down, staining my shirt. My hair was a mess, the pale blonde wisps falling into my eyes as I ran on and on further then my lungs would ever let me.
In the moonlight, I began to see the port. The same one that I had dreaded ever since the accident. The port that produced the hell inside my head. Even though my heart began pounding and I wanted to cry, I ran on to the port. The place where my "innocence", so to speak, was drowned as well as my pride. This place; I was scared of the loneliness that had struck me dead. Here, I died. But still, I ran. You know what, dear father and mother? I will do you good. I will do this whole town good. I will drown tonight. And if I don't die, I won't return anyways. I'll swim away until I find another place to rest. But preferably, I'll die. And when you find my floating body in the sea this coming dawn, you will all celebrate and rejoice. What an honor it is, to make you so happy. Maybe then you can learn to love me.
The wooden crates around the port seemed inviting. I was tired. The ideas of disappearing that pondered in my head faded and I just wanted to lie down and sleep. Tears and sorrow can wait. I want to rest. I climbed into a crate that seemed to fit just my size, and closed it on top of me. I cradled the book in my arms and knife I hid in my nightgown. A smile shadowed across my face, as I closed my eyes and slanted my eyebrows. The shadowy smile subsided into a quiet sob. The silent, deep, dreadful sob, of the little girl who knew nothing but hate, fear, and worst of all, loneliness. I only produced one sob, no more, and that was it. The rest of my tears were silent. They streamed down my cheeks and warmed my frozen face. I curled up into a ball as small as I could make, allowing the calming tears to bring heat and fever to my icy body. What a small pleasure it was, to be able to cry. To be able to warm myself this way. Self-pity is wonderful.
I quickly fell asleep, and I slept for longer than I could've imagined. I never dreamed, and I still don't. I don't dream. I only travel. I travel to my soul whenever I fall asleep. Always the same place, my soul, a vast ocean in which I was alone, but never free. Being alone is not being free. Being alone is a curse. It's restrainment. What I wouldnt give to have another live through my fears with me. To march bravely, right into the depths of my madness, and to defeat it. But even a full-grown man would crush under the pressure of my hell. Physical strength didn't matter. Only those who could withstand madness were strong. And I was getting there...
While I was in my soul, I sat up straight in my boat. As usual, my eyes peeled only the surface of the water, for I was afraid to look under. The white sky reflected perfectly off the water. I vaguely wondered, why was everything in this hell sickly pale and white? Wasn't hell supposed to be fiery and black? But then again, everyone had different fears and different ideas of torture. If they felt any torture at all. I knew that I had to be happy for people who didn't have to go through what I did, but sometimes they just seemed so obnoxious and so oblivious, that I couldn't take it.
Throughout my trip, my stomach churned and I was always on the verge of tears. My face was cold, the tip of my nose, numb. I rubbed my hands together, trying to keep the blood circulating. Again. Why did I try to save myself? Why couldn't I just die? Well. Maybe it was because if I died in this place, only my heart and soul would die. My physical body would continue to suffer and after the death of my soul, suffer even more. For I would have to continue on without any hope whatsoever of finding love in anyone or anything. I am loveless. I share love with no one, not even myself. My life is completely hate filled.
I was pulled out of my trip as the crate I lay in jerked. Through the cracks in the panels, light streamed in. It was morning. I had no clue where I was, and why my crate kept sliding across the ground. It kind of felt like I was riding on the waves of the little boat in my soul. Outside the crate, I heard voices. Mens' voices that I could not recognize. The air around me was still chilly, but not with the bitter iciness of the night before. It was kind of refreshing, as most morning air was. The men around me spoke Russian, the language I was used to hearing, so I knew nothing so strange had happened. I was probably still at the port.
The crate jerked again, but this time with such ferocity, that my head slammed against the side, and I blacked out. I can't remember, nor do I think I ever knew, how long I had been out for. But it was long enough for the crate to somehow go all the way to a port in England.
When I awoke, I wasn't in the crate anymore. The warm cloth of a man's suit gave me comfort, and he smelled of strong cologne. I still clutched the book tightly in my arms, as if letting it go would be like tearing off a part of my own body. I looked up to the face of a tired middle aged man, with wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, where he smiled. His hazel eyes were jovial beneath the wrinkles, and he looked down at me with the kindest look I had ever seen. Now let me remember, before that, had I ever even seen a smile? Not that I can recall. And if I had, it was probably the teasing face of the boy that had been my neighbor.
The man said something to me in a language I did not understand. He said "Look who's awake!" I then realized that he wasn't talking to me, but to the little boy beside him. He looked about my age, with large black eyes, just as tired as mine. His black hair stuck up all over the place, and his face showed no emotion. I knew the boy shared one thing with me, and that was the power in think in the power of the mad. He held the hand of the man, and looked at me as if I was a dead animal. He knew I was different, too.