CHAPTER 4: Lying Tongues Are Clumsy

Notes:

In this chapter, we're introducing underlines. Underlined text represents words that Ulquiorra has crossed out. Orihime can't really read what it says. We all can read what it says.

Halloween came and went. Ulquiorra paid no attention to the holiday that was just a commercial opportunity in Japan. It was several days into November when he visited the bookshop. He had turned off his phone because he didn't want to talk to Nel or hear the insults her lovers would throw at him. Ulquiorra was not a shithead, and he was not an idiot.

He didn't mean to pick up the copy of Nonsense Songs again, but he did, along with a volume of Robert Frost poems. He read through the Frost poems the first week, taking time to digest what the renowned poet was trying to say but it wasn't the same.

Frost did not have the same way with words that Poe put down so eloquently. It wasn't satisfying. There were no scribbled notes or memories tied to this book. There was no correspondence connected to this book.

However, Edward Lear's book did. Ulquiorra was disappointed when he saw the sticky notes were gone. There was nothing but a pale sage green piece of stationary. Gone were the pastel dinosaurs with their mocking crowns. Things had changed.

Oh, how things had changed.

His green eyes scanned the letter and remorse ran through him as the sentences sank in. He had really put his foot in his mouth. He was digging a hole that he couldn't get out of, and Ulquiorra knew it. This same thing had happened with Nel. He'd been insufferable then; nothing had changed. Pale fingers drifted over the words in the closing.

Truly Yours.

Those words bothered him. He knew he was taking it the wrong way, but Ulquiorra couldn't help feeling guilty at the text he had written to elicit such a response. He remembered the irate and biting letter inside the Poe volume. He had taken his anger out on someone he did not know on a personal level.

Besides, O possibly did not mean the words they wrote. It was just a formality.

But once again he misread people. O's words made him want to ask questions, but it wasn't in his nature to care. Was O safe? Couldn't sadness easily turn into bitterness? If O hadn't meant to leave those notes inside the book then why did they write them? Obviously, they were trying to reach out to someone, anyone, about their predicament.

A frown graced his face and a boiling shame in his stomach, Ulquiorra picked up the Lear and the other book he had borrowed, making sure to bundle up before stepping outside into the brisk atmosphere. He made quick steps to the bookshop, bursting through the door to see the blonde shopkeeper standing there.

"Poe, I need it now."

"Ah, did you enjoy-"

"I do not have time for idle chit-chat," Ulquiorra snapped. He paused as he took a moment to realize how irrational he was being. He was being rude. "Please, I'm late, and I need the book."

The other man nodded and retrieved the book which was under the counter. Ulquiorra hastily, with irritation, filled out that stupid form. He stopped before he took the book from Urahara. "Is the other person who borrows this book-Are they-"

"Hmmm?"

"Is it a female that borrows this book and the Lear?"

The shopkeeper smiled. "I'm sorry, I can't tell you anything about my other clients, Cifer."

"Why not? You're not a doctor or a-"

"I'm sorry," Urahara said with finality.

With a nod of his head and a feeling of dread in his stomach, Ulquiorra took the book and walked back to his apartment building. He wasn't planning on running into anyone, so it was quite surprising to see his male neighbor in the walkway. The green-eyed man tried his best to ignore the other.

"Hey," the man said. Ulquiorra regarded him warily but nodded his head at the taller male. He was trying to focus on unlocking his own door but heard the heavy thumps of boot steps coming toward him. "I'm Ginjo; I live next door."

Ulquiorra's eyes slid over to the side. He knew this voice. It was the one that yelled every other day at the woman. This was the man who grunted on the other side of his bedroom wall.

"We've never met. You've lived here a couple of months, right?"

"Yes," Ulquiorra replied in a flat voice.

"You got a name?"

"You may address me as Cifer."

"Okay, nice to meet you, Cifer."

Ulquiorra turned his head and finally saw the woman standing by the door. She was looking rather unimpressed with life with the oddly colored hair and the revealing clothing. "Is that your girlfriend? I can hear her singing at times when-"

"Her? Nah. I don't have a girlfriend. The woman that you hear is my sister. I live with her, help out with the bills," Ginjo replied in a way that suggested he was uncomfortable.

That didn't seem as if it was a likely story. The apartments were only one bedroom unless Japanese people did things differently, Ulquiorra knew it was highly improbable that the voice he heard was merely this man's sister.

"I must go, Ginjo. Have a nice afternoon." Ulquiorra unlocked his apartment door and walked inside. He didn't care if he was rude or not. He wanted to get away from the shady character who had approached him.

He sat down at his desk, depositing the book on the surface. He pulled out a sheet of paper and O's latest note, smoothing out the crease. He reread it, then opened the Poe Anthology. Another note lay in the folds, it made his stomach restless, just looking at it. This had to be a response to the mordant letter he had written weeks before. Holding his breath as if that would help the impact, O's words hit him. Hard.

He never meant to cause anyone harm.

With a sigh, Ulquiorra began to write, his pen making dark strokes over the page.

Dear O -

It's funny you pegged me as a foreigner as I am indeed a misplaced soul from another country. I hail from Germany. I'm merely here for a job. I apologize if I come off as rude. I've never been good in social settings. I've been told I am an asshole with no tact. The song I've always related to with this is Goo Goo Doll's "Iris"; I prefer the acoustic version. There's also a version sang by a band called Sleeping With Sirens. The lead singer's voice is high and has a slightly feminine tone to it.

I've been in relationships before, so I comprehend the meaning of the word love and the emotion. I must point out that over time, sadness can lead to bitterness and the lyrics you chose led me to believe that you were indeed resentful of your situation.

I'm rather confounded at the fact that you found inspiration in my scribbled remarks. I did see that you removed your thoughts from the book. I was slightly mortified that you had gone through my observations because they show how socially and emotionally stunted I am as a person. I did not enjoy the book at first, but I find myself drawn to Lear's words and you.

Ulquiorra bit his lip and ran his pen through those last two words, shaking his head. This entire letter was childish and stupid. Why would he pour himself out to a complete stranger? O didn't want to know about him. He mulled over the beginning paragraphs. What could it hurt? It's not like he was ever going to meet this O character. They were merely words on a page.

I have to know, are you safe? You wrote about the volatile tendencies of love and how you live with someone who scares you; it made me think of your well-being. If you cannot walk away from your situation, surely there is some type of help you can employ? A sibling or other family member must know what you're going through, yes? If that is too forward of a question, please disregard it. You've turned me into a curious creature. I'm concerned.

I apologize for assuming you were old. Your knowledge about Paul Simon's song was impressive, so I took you for an older woman. You are a woman, right? The handwriting might have given it away, but then I could be wrong, especially in this day and age.

I agree with the statement that Dickinson "sucks". Her poetry is depressing twaddle.

I never wanted to hurt you. I'm sorry. I apologize. I'm such a dumbass.

I offer these songs in apology for my harsh words.

The Killers - When You Were Young
Go Radio - House of Hallways
Coldplay - Fix You

Regards,

- U. C.

He carefully folded the piece of paper and stuck it inside the book, planning on returning it to the shop the next day. He asked the tall clerk to hold the book for the last person who borrowed it and then went on his way.

The two weeks following her return of the Poe book left Orihime feeling adrift. She found her thoughts often wandering toward U. C. Who was he? What had happened to him to make him lash out at her like he had? And what, if anything, had she done to cause it?

During this time she had avoided the bookstore. Not only was she not ready to receive another nasty letter, the thought also occurred to her that if she returned she might actually run into the man in question.

She had kept his letters hidden in her desk drawer; the same drawer where she kept nail polish and lost earrings without a pair. It was a place she knew Ginjo would have no motivation to investigate. Why she didn't throw them out, she didn't know. When she was home, and Ginjo was out, she often found herself laying them out flat on her bed, pouring over the contents, and allowing their cuts to puncture her increasingly thick armor.

That is what she wore, armor. Ginjo's accusations, his lies, his demeaning comments - they didn't relent. Orihime had not confronted him about the woman from two weeks ago, and her emotional armor is what kept her from breaking down. She knew it was over between them, but knew that she didn't have the courage to kick him out. She didn't have the energy, either. She knew it would be a huge fight. She knew there was a good chance she would lose. She knew there was a good chance he would lose his temper, too.

However, today she opened U. C.'s letters and no longer felt anything. Well, she felt a little sad that it no longer had the desired effect, but that's it. She decided it was time to take a chance and revisit Lear and Poe.

She walked into the bookstore, feeling unnecessarily sheepish, and asked if Poe and/or Lear were available. Both were, and she checked them out and returned to her apartment. She had snuck a peek inside of Lear and was disappointed to find it clean. She opened Poe, however, and there they were. Post its. It seemed like they numbered in the hundreds. Her heart beat harder, and her breathing slowed. The now familiar handwriting both irritated and comforted her. She flipped through the book from back to front and found the first note that had caught her attention, the one asking, "What is the heart?", and rolled her eyes.

"Clearly he still hasn't found it," she said aloud with a sardonic laugh.

She flipped back a few more pages, and there it was. "The white paper of doom," she said to herself as she withdrew the letter from the book's crease. She took a slow breath as she steeled her heart, waiting for the words to whip at her as she unfolded the page. Then, she read.

She read.

She read a third time.

And she cried. She cried ugly. What was happening? Was this the same U. C.? It sounded like a completely different person. He was apologizing. He was showing concern.

He was kind.

And what were these lines that were scratched out? She tried over and over to read them but struggled as the lines were thick and he went over the crossed-out words several times. The first was the hardest to read. The second was a bit easier. The third was unclear, but it seemed like another apology.

After reading and rereading for half an hour, she sat on her bed staring off into space, wondering what she should do next. Part of her wanted to hug him, or at least the letter, but given that she didn't actually know who he was and that the letter was an inanimate object prone to wrinkling and tearing she thought better of it.

She took out her phone and took a picture of it. Not as a trophy or an archive, but as a shopping list. She put on her coat and sneakers and left for Book Off.

She went to the international used CD section and quickly found the Coldplay and The Killers albums. She asked a shop assistant to check on Goo Goo Dolls and Go Radio, but she was out of luck. They mentioned that she might have better luck in Yamagata City, which was bigger than Yonezawa, but she was too impatient. She wanted to get back home and start listening to his recommendations as soon as possible. Although she found most streaming websites lacking in audio quality, she felt it preferable to waiting.

She listened. She looked up lyrics. She ran them through a translating program just to be sure.

She wasn't mistaken. He was reaching out to her.

The question was, should she reach back?

Her hand went to her desk drawer. She took out a piece of full-sized letter stationary. She worked at a hobby store. She had a wide selection. She knew exactly which sheet to choose. White. White that gradiated to a night sky on the top, with a crescent moon in the top center. It felt peaceful. It felt an appropriate choice to respond to his peace offering.

Dear U.C.,

Thank you for your letter. I don't really know what to say. It was quite unexpected. I have listened to your songs. They were quite unexpected. Thank you.

I don't know what to say to your position that you are emotionally and socially stunted except to say that someone who truly has that affliction would be unable to write such a moving letter.

As for me pegging you as a foreigner, I think you may have forgotten. You revealed that you were a foreigner to me in your last letter. I still have it. I still have all of your letters. I would not have guessed that you were German. Farfegnugen! (Sorry, that's the only German word I know. Thanks, Volkswagen. Oh, there's another one!) I know you say you're not lonely, but being a foreigner here can be very solitary. I hope you are managing alright.

Thank you for your concern for my safety. To be honest, I don't know. I do live with someone who frightens me. He cannot be argued with. He cannot be confronted. I cannot refuse him unless I want a battle of wills. When I cross him, he is very aggressive. He has never hit me, but he does become destructive with my personal items and shouts at me, invading my personal space. I don't know why I'm telling you this.

Anyway, I'm sorry to burden you with that information. I don't have anyone to talk to about it except my friends who live abroad, and they can't help me so I don't want them to worry about me. My only living relative is in a senior care facility and is in failing health. I don't want to bother her either.

You made me laugh when you asked if I was a woman. Yes. I am. I realize now that I'm not writing in a defensive mood, that age is relative and that I may well be an old lady from your perspective. I'm 24.

I accept your apology. I welcome your songs. I offer you songs in return:

The Pixies - Where is My Mind

Howie Day - Collide

Billy Idol - Dancing With Myself

The Cranberries - Dreaming My Dreams

There is no particular thread connecting these offerings except that they speak to my heart after reading your letter. Thank you again.

I remain, as always, very truly yours,

-O

She didn't return the Poe the next day. She wanted to hold onto it and look through his Post-its for the remaining time she had with the book. She did take Lear and her letter to the bookstore, sat in the velvet armchair, and took out a Post-it. She added her sad verse back into it.

Then she added more:

The pussycat cried for a night and a day,

A day and a night she cried;

And then came along from a land far away,

A bat so frightful she thought she'd die!

She'd die,

She'd die,

So frightful she thought she'd die!

The bat said to she,"There there, can't you see?

Your troubles are airy and light.

You ought to be dancing and prancing with glee,

Not weeping with raindrops all night."

The Bat's wings they unfurled, and he carried away

The Pussycat from her mournful tune;

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon,

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

She deposited her letter in the same page and returned it to the counter, and left for home.