Just Fall, My Dear
Chapter 4: Make some sense
Momo was drowning. Amidst misunderstanding and utter despair. As well as literally; this sea was extensive, and likely unending. The peculiar gravity of the currents pushed against her on all sides: up down, left, right and sideways. They felt strong, but water, unless it was in a storm, never really seemed to be that forceful. But it was none the less, slightly condensing. She kept on repeating the stroking motions of her arms forward, and kept on kicking her legs, intent on following that glint in the distance, that barely made an orange, flickering star in the distance. Apparently even water never delayed the flight of that creature.
But she was not so fortunate. Here, so deep in this sea, she felt like she bore the weight of the earth. Her breath quaked and shivered and huffed in unsteady pants. The dark was so encompassing, that it made her breathing that much more difficult, like it was intentionally stealing her breath. Every opening of her mouth was greeted with the rush of saltwater, parching her throat and mouth and draining down her throat—already overflowing from the back and choking her. Even though she still breathed. And everyone knows saltwater makes you sick, in more ways in just one; she felt like throwing up and felt horrid. Like her stomach was churning and doing backflips.
Her bones ached from the weight, her joints creaked under the pressure. Her breath was getting stolen, and her herself was overflowing. Every little droplet, she was sure, was condensed sorrow that would make her mind go into a plethora of fits if she dared take it.
But she was submerged in it. And her mind was hardly stilled, rather, it was in a typhoon—nay, worse than that.
Reason was being ripped asunder by woes. The formerly distinct lines between right and wrong was steadily being cut and snipped by incessant doubts. The views of her life being tainted by narrow pessimism. And she barely noticed this. She was far too concerned with her thoughts. How she managed to think all that, feel all of that, and still manage to have a steady grip on what she was doing in her little mind, is far beyond the understanding of almost everyone. Except herself. Or perhaps, everyone could understand, they just lacked the circumstance.
He was the epitome of a perfect taicho; he was caring, benevolent, humble, strong, skilled, talented and all in all, excellent in nearly every subject. He was never too soft when a subordinate disobeyed a rule, nor to overbearing when the severities of battle were upon them. He faced every battle with adversity and honor. He spoke words of encouragement and moral guidance when the road on life was hard to see. He, when the situation allowed, even occasionally embraced a saddened underling. But he never crossed boundaries under any circumstances; he knew his social limits and what made who uncomfortable.
But even with those virtues, he still had his flaws—however few. He occasionally gave advice when it was unwanted, though good intentioned, truth can be harmful. He nearly always forgot to assess the quota for the squad every month, or messed up on minor calculations (which she always fixed). He almost always intervened in a fight that was one-sided against one of the gotei 13 soldiers of which he was sent on missions with. And he even had prolonged absences every four months or so—lasting anywhere from 12 hours to a day—despite the amount of paperwork that needed to be finished, or the training of the lower ranks that needed to be assessed. But she always made up for that. Who was she to pry into her taicho's private life? After all, she used to visit her grandmother for days at a time.
His concern for those under him was genuine, as was his compassion. A liar couldn't possibly have been able to constantly show such understanding every day of his life for that long.
So why? Why did he impale her? Why did he deliberately allow her bleed on the floor?
The causes could be narrowed to a mere thousand. Causes that made no sense. That bespoke the betrayal of another that was not him, that spoke of a lie of a life. None did any justice to Aizen Sousuke in neither countenance nor desire.
So the answer was obvious: he didn't do that. Any of that.
The horrible scene was just a nightmare instilled into her. By a mind's warden or a subconscious writ, that delusion had to be put there for her mind alone, and not the outside world of which she no longer currently cared. Perhaps to jog her memory? It was certainly effective, if that was the case. Or maybe it was to spur her into this intent thought? It certainly made her more aware of who she, as a person, was.
But if what she had just ascertained was true…then what else was a lie?
For such things to be inserted into mind, then surely other untrue things must also be there to simply stimulate a response from her—whatever that response may be. Was it some of the people? The events? The words spoken? Was her life at certain times, even the real thing? Who was to say that it wasn't all an elaborate dream?
She knew Aizen was real. She knew the Gotei 13 was in her profession. She knew a certain amount of names, some close, some distinctly professional and not worth any amount of personal reverence. But the details…which ones were misconstrued?
Ah, she's gagging now. She should be glad she's getting a swim, it was the closest thing she was getting to a bath and decontamination. The sludge apparently, didn't have an affinity for this sea. Most deteriorated after first contact. Now the glass on the other hand; most were thrown off by the currents, an extreme few were lodged further into her body. The salt upon the open wounds stung for a bit, when she first entered, but eventually numbed to barely nothing.
But now she's starting to feel like something was pricking her skin a thousand times over. Not like snips and nails, mind you. But like annoyances that can stem from say, sand. It was sand.
Momo blinked a few times for a second, before churning in her stomach reached an all-time high before its contents were regurgitated, not really caring if it cut off her air supply in the process. She had not eaten of course, but her stomach was desperate to get rid of the sea's contents. After all, it consisted of salt, and the blood and other wastes of its inhabitants, right? The occasional seaweed didn't help either. Or was it desperate to get rid of the sorrows?
The dry sediments were stained with dark green chunks and foul-smelling water that was mixed from her inside acids. She gasped for air, trying to gulp as much as she could in before another purging overtook her. Her form was on its hands and knees, and unsteady on all accounts.
Her head was suddenly afflicted with a sharp pang. The kind that was only inflicted with the purpose of gaining attention. She turned to give a tired, but sharp glare to the bird.
Not being too happy to be interrupted as of right now, she gave a snappy retort "Get away from me, damn phantom!" she looked away, and tried with reluctant arms, to pull herself up. Her voice held so much malice and venom that most would simply back away from such a foul-mouthed temper.
The bird merely said, in a rather cocky voice ""I am not so much a phantom as much as I am a specter. I am not conjured out of anything wrong, but something inside of you is." He said it with certainty, and almost seemed to be jovial at the thought of her current condition. The curve of its beak was slightly arched upward, the feathers on its head were ruffled slightly so as to express excitement. Its eyes were more open now as well, practically glinting with amusement.
Hinamori shuddered, the sudden quaking in her back, noticeable to the extreme. Had the words stroked a chord? Maybe. Was she just cold? Perhaps. But the phoenix seemed "happy" nonetheless. It seemed to have gained a gait in its movements and bounce in its subsequent flights. She even heard it laugh a few times as the roles were switched, with Hinamori leading and the bird following.
She had no real direction, but she kept on walking anyway. She was intent on not following what she deemed, a trick of her mind. Her mind was clearly her enemy now, making lies and distortions and tricks and illusions.
If her mind did this much to her, then this 'specter' as well, was probably her mind's messed up, twisted concoction. Thus, she decided, she best not deliberately follow it. Perhaps not even heed anything it says. She even had the thought of killing it, mutilating it and ultimately destroying it. Of which, she later acted upon.
But the devilish fiend merely avoided every swing of her blade, disappeared like a will o' the wisp at every punch and kick and tilted mere appendages to avoid anything else she tried to inflict damage on.
All the while, it laughed, chuckled and even outright mocked. "Oh ho! You think I am the hallucination of a mad-man—er, woman. Or is it girl?
"Shut up!" She hated how this thing acted like it knew everything about her. Like it knew her insides and outsides. Her thought process and her movement's patterns. A few more punches. A few more kicks. A few more provocations of her sword. She attacked with such ferocity and animosity, that it almost seemed she was an animal. The anger and hate was not even attempted to be hidden. She did not even hold back in any of her attacks; each was meant to maim, scourge and deviate. So she could decapitate this being from being pristine in its composure.
It took a long while for her to finally tire out.
The bird was barely a few feet away, still staring at her with that regal sense of knowing "Whatever the case, I am the inexplicable consent of you. No, not your mind, you. Or is it really just the mind?" and he said it like he was saying this to a child, the amused discerning notation in his voice lathered his instinct to remain.
This is going to be a long voyage. When did she start differentiating between herself and her mind?