Trust
"Nothing more, Your Honor." And with that, defense attorney Kuchiki Byakuya returns to his seat.
The school teacher is allowed to take her leave. While she is escorted by two officers down the aisle, she cannot help but glance at the young man staring at his lap. Her lips part, as if to whisper something, but all that comes out is silence and her eyes—tinted with the color of uncertainty—turn away.
"The town would like to call Tousen Kaname to the stand."
Two other escorts arrive with a new witness—a dark skinned man with strikingly pupil-less eyes. He swears in somehow finds his way to the witness's stand on his own.
Offense attorney Soi Fon begins her questioning. "Tousen-san, how did you come to know Hitsugaya Toushiro?"
"I was his school guidance counselor." He replies in a deep, soft voice. "His teachers began strongly recommending that he saw me after a few months he started school."
"Did Hitsugaya-san often discuss his life, his emotions with you?"
"Toushiro-san was very reluctant about talking to me, but he eventually opened up."
"Tousen-san, it mentions in your file that you have a degree in child psychiatry. Could you tell us, based on your sessions with Hitsugaya-san, your diagnosis on the suspect?"
"Toushiro-san had a…complex personality. He never experienced family as a young orphan and therefore couldn't accept a happy life when he was given one. He pushed away people who offered him kindness and disillusioned himself into believing that his life was filled with hardships."
"What about Aizen Sousuke? Could you tell us your thoughts on Hitsugaya Toushiro's relationship with Aizen Sousuke."
"From what I heard from Toushiro-san, it seemed as if he simply couldn't believe that he had a kind, loving foster father. He fooled himself into believing that Aizen-san was abusive and cruel when in reality, it was the opposite."
"Is there a name to this disorder?"
The young man at the defense table stiffens as he feels a pair of blank, vast eyes bore into his body.
"Oh no, Soi Fon-san. There is no such disorder. Toushiro-kun's personality just naturally makes him dangerous."
"Shiro-chan, you're going to catch a cold if you keep staying out here."
The night you told me this was an icy, clear night in December—just the kind of weather I liked. I remember the exact position of the stars that night too. I can tell you where Orion was, the number of lights flickering in the city, the shape my breath took when it turned white in the air…that's because that was the first night we spent together on the roof.
When I looked down and saw you peering up from your window, I wanted to ask you how long had you known that I was spending my nights there—was my stealth that bad? Or was it you who had become less oblivious? Less of the innocent girl I wanted to protect so badly?
But I was 12 at the time—soon to be 13 in a week—and therefore, hid my thoughts behind a façade of irritation and gruff.
"I'm fine." I replied. "Stop worrying about me."
But you ignored my words and climbed up to join me. You also brought a blanket to share—the one you took with you from the orphanage, pink and stitched with rabbits.
"I never said I needed a blanket." I mumbled and looked away.
You wrapped it around the two of us. "I know. I know. You like the cold. But even Shiro-chan can get sick."
I didn't reply. Actually, I don't think either of us said another word that night. It didn't feel awkward—you seemed at ease too. I guess just being next to each other was enough.
From that night on, we spent late nights on the roof. Although I didn't admit it back then, I was grateful for your company. You provided me with the escape from the harsh loneliness I endured at school and gave me the will to tolerate Aizen's tortures. We would talk about our days, our feelings, or anything. Some moments, I almost forgot about my aching body, the weight I had lost from stress, the worries that burdened me. At those moments, I would think that we were orphans again—safe, loved, and cared for.
You liked to talk about school. You eventually made yourself a place—you joined clubs and brought over friends. When you talked about this with a smile, I was—at first—jealous. But eventually that jealousy gave way to relief—you were happy. In fact, there were times when I used your happiness to cheer myself up—that was whenever I found myself feeling empty during school.
I never spoke much about my day during our nightly chats. There wasn't much to say. I liked listening to your life much better; sometimes, after you would fall asleep on me and I would carry you back into your room, I would dream about being you on the roof. On those nights, I would wake up with a smile on my face the next morning.
But then we would go separate ways and through separate doors. And once the bell rang and the day began, the emptiness would begin all over again.
They—the students and the teachers—finally started noticing me by the middle of January. My classmates started to whisper about what a "loner" I was. The teachers started to seriously worry about the bruises and scars I wore—the ones that were too hard to conceal with make-up.
There were tons of rumors about me—too many to recall. But I do remember that one freshman asked me if I was a masochist. That was the funniest one out of all the rumors, which I took as jokes to rate.
The teachers had rumors of their own—more accurate ones. They tried convincing me to talk to someone, but I kept my mouth shut: Aizen was smart; he knew that you were my weakness. If I said anything, you would be the one to pay.
By then, I had started to commit myself to my studies. I drove out the childish laze: essays, projects, tests…I worked hard to earn the top score for all of them in hope of getting a good future: one free from Aizen.
My teachers noticed my earnest desire to maintain high grades, so naturally, they used them as a bait to lure me into the guidance counselor's office—where I could talk to someone. They threatened to drop my grades, which in turn—to their oblivion—threatened my only hope of escaping. So I went.
I remember the intense hatred I felt for my teachers when I entered the guidance counselor's for the first time. I remember thinking how stupid they were for believing that talking to some random stranger would magically fix the damages in my life—like some sort of ripped shirt that can be mended with a needle. I thought how wrong they would be proven when I would walk out the same as always—cold and wearing a broken life.
My counselor's name was Tousen Kaname. His appearance is one of the clearest ones in my memory: it was hard not to forget him with his exotic dark skin and mysterious eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He told me, when I sat down across from him, to call him by his first name.
I told him he was retarded to think that I would consider him a friend.
And he asked, in a soft, calm voice that I'd bet all shrinks had: "Why is that?"
I came to hear that a lot from him. He always had a question for everything I said. For the first few sessions, I thought I could frustrate him by saying random things. But in the end, he ended up frustrating me—he was too patient. Even silence would be okay with him. In fact, there were days when I'd just sulk in the chair for a full hour and a half with him waiting for me to talk.
It was by the third week of my "therapy" that I got sick of everything and told him: "You're stupid. You can't even get anything meaningful out of my mouth. I don't even get why they hired you. You're ugly, retarded, and nothing but a no-good-shrink."
"You're right; I must certainly not be eye-appealing."
I was drawn aback: this was something other than the typical "why is that?" or "why do you feel that way?"
"But I can't see that for myself, because you see Toushiro-san (He insisted on calling me by first name)," He took off his glasses to reveal a pair of blank, white, pupil-less eyes. "I'm blind."
I don't know why I said it. Perhaps I felt obliged to show some sympathy—maybe I had a shred of courtesy in me after all. But I stammered: "I'm s-sorry." And then I offered: "One of the kids at my orphanage was blind too."
"Was he your friend?"
"Not really."
"Why is that?"
"He was nice, but I had another friend."
"And who was that?"
I realized that I was starting to answer his questions truthfully and wanted to stop. But I looked at his eyes and thought about how painful it must be to be unable to see. I thought about how he must have suffered, just like I was suffering then. I developed a small hope that maybe—just maybe—he could be trusted and understand me.
Then, of course, maybe I was subconsciously desperate for someone to relieve my secrets to—someone to hold all the darkness that I had stomached for months.
"Hinamori," I answered after a minute of hesitation, "Hinamori Momo."
I learned to trust him—Tousen Kaname. He became Kaname-san to me. He was quiet, attentive, and contemplative. He waited when I wasn't ready to talk about some things and then listened when I wanted to say it.
Over the next five months, I visited him three times a week. That was the deal my teachers struck with me, but I ended up surpassing my end of the bargain and went to Tousen four—sometimes five—times a week.
After the day he revealed his blindness to me, my desperate side began to nurture the seed of hope that I could free myself from Aizen. That seed sprouted each time I visited Tousen and told him about my friendship with you. It grew as I told him trivial things such as my hobbies, my dislikes, my fears. There were times when, in retrospect, I would ask myself why I was making myself vulnerable to a stranger who could be trying to harm me. But at those times, the other side of me would recognize that my nightly talks with you weren't enough—I needed more time to feel free.
Then, I finally told him about Aizen. I told him everything about him. I thought then that Tousen somehow would find a way to free us.
I was so foolish.
The day I revealed the secrets that kept you safe was a Friday, and I woke up the next morning on a Saturday crushed with disappointment: everything was still the same. Come to think of it now, I didn't really have an idea how Tousen would've freed us from Aizen. I simply thought that it was going to happen—and the matter of "how" didn't matter.
I was so convinced that he was on my side that I snuck out of the house to visit him at his house address he gave me. I don't know why I wasn't suspicious about how easy it was to escape from Aizen's watchful eye that day. I don't know how I didn't notice that the car Aizen drove was gone. But when I saw that very same car on the driveway of my destination, I was frozen with shock.
I double checked the handwriting, but there was no mistake. I was about to double check the license plate when I heard the front door open. I dove into the bushes nearby and watched my hopes burn into ashes. I watched Aizen and Tousen chat like old friends.
I heard bits and pieces of my secrets—what was supposed to be between me and Tousen only—scattered in their conversation. I heard the boy I kept to myself from Aizen become slowly exposed with each word Tousen said.
And finally, I heard Aizen say, "Thank you, Kaname. I'm glad for your help." And I saw him turn in my direction with that very same smile he gave me the first time he hit me: the smile that promised punishment. It was as if he could see through my shield of foliage—as if his eyes were daggers piercing through my heart.
As soon as his car left the driveway, I dashed home to you. While I ran home having images of you helpless and hurt, I hated myself for feeling betrayed. How could I have let someone get so close to me? How could I have been so naïve? How could I have stupidly endangered you like that?
When I burst through the door—without checking the garage for the car—I saw you, safe and clueless. My knees almost buckled with relief—with you safe, my biggest fear was gone.
Aizen returned late that day—which was odd since it was a Saturday and he usually stayed home those days. It gave me an opportunity to think of a way to defend you—which I later learned was unnecessary because he never touched you. Perhaps it was to torture me, to make me wonder when it was going to happen—when I was going to have to pay the ultimate price for my broken silence. But it never happened.
Instead, I was only forced to swallow ammonia—which kept me sick for days—and endure a few blows at the mouth. This time, unlike a majority of the others, I felt that I deserved this punishment for reasons of my own:
Each bruise at the mouth was punishment for trying to relieve myself of my responsibilities of keeping you safe and enduring my own pain. Each lurch of my stomach and gag was for naively believing that people could be trusted.
So in between punches and vomiting, I vowed never to trust anyone with my hidden life again.
A/N: Longer chapter this time, I know, I know. I could've split it into two parts, but I figured that it worked better as one whole chapter rather than two.
Review please!
Hn...I realized that school is coming up for me next week...now I can only write on weekends...
