Blood Letting

Part IV: Crimson Rain

An azoic object,
It exists simply for the sake of being.
It cannot fall prey to time and erosion,
But to destruction nonetheless.
Unfeeling, it wanders to its own demise,
Unknowing of death's steady approach.
A simple fracture grows,
Leaving its former beauty marred.

A cold and lonely rain is the first thing to bring me from my catatonic reverie. The storm clouds hanging long since overhead have finally burst, calling forth a freezing drizzle which pelts me mercilessly. There is something soothing about the rain, actually. While it is horribly cold and numbing, it is soothing.

I once heard that tears were healing...

Perhaps the rains can act as those tears...

I have none; mine will not fall.

The gentle pitter-pat-pitter-pat of the raindrops is calming, and it drowns out the sound of my own beating heart. A heart that has been beating painfully loud as of late.

When it has no reason even to be beating to begin with.

But, even though the sound of my heart is drowned out by the rains, its feeling is not. I can feel it beating in my chest, with each throb of my wrist, with each new pulse; I can feel it beating...

With every new laceration, I see the proof of its beating, as with each palpitation fresh blood seeps through something short of a hairline fracture — a minute wound.

And sometimes it is all I can do to remind myself that I'm alive.

Bleed.

Even now, when my wrist has long since stopped bleeding of its own accord, the red line playing across the delicate flesh of my wrist remains to remind me that I am indeed alive.

A rolling clap of thunder and a sudden flash of lighting snap me to my senses, pulling me back from my nothing-short-of-comatose state. Pulls me back into coherent reality. Suddenly, I am fully aware of my surroundings. I am dripping wet, and I suppose cold.

I have long since gone numb, I really would not know.

I do not suppose being outside is the best, smartest thing to do, given the situation. But, where to go, then? Where can I retire now?

Home?

I haven't one to return to. Not any longer, at least. Shiori's words spoke plainly.

To Reikai?

I am not in the mood for idle prying questions. Besides... I cannot face Botan like this.

To find Hiei?

I do not suppose that would really get me out of this weather, though. Knowing him, he is holed up in some tree at this very moment.

To Kuwabara's house?

I have no idea in the slightest as to his whereabouts, or as to where he lives.

To Yuusuke's house?

Perhaps. Yes, he knows well enough to let me be. I am sure he would not mind the intrusion.

I settle my mind. I will go to Yuusuke and request residence. At least, for the time being.

Given the choice, I would rather stay outside. The cold is welcoming, and the weather bothers me only slightly. But, the fact is, tomorrow is Monday. A fresh week of school, and I am obligated to be there. I should not show up dripping wet and looking like a rabid animal. Or, any wetter or more rabid than I already am, at any rate.

I stand, only partially aware of what supports my weight. My legs, I suppose. It only makes sense. Cold has gripped my almost comatose form, and my mind, lost so far in its own spiral of insanity, intent on its own whiles, pays no mind to my physical body when it screams that it should feel cold.

That it should feel at all, really.

But, I am only numb...

I suppose that is a feeling within itself

It is a feeling of not feeling...

A feeling of nothing...

I suppose that makes no sense, but it is the truth. To know you are numb, you have to feel yourself being numb, somehow. Numb — by sake of its name — may mean you feel nothing, but you feel it regardless. It makes no difference; it is of no importance to me, really. I am numb and that is all that matters. Or, perhaps it does not matter, but the point is valid: it makes no difference to me.

---

I stand placidly on the doormat dropped haphazardly before the door. While it is not the least bit surprising to me, to find Yuusuke's house looking so... unkempt, it still strikes me as odd that he could live here. The apartment looks abandoned almost, and has an air of silence hovering ominously over its threshold. The doormat seems a shallow attempt to make the place seem terribly hospitable.

I rap my knuckles lightly across the wooden doorframe and wait for a response.

Within seconds my knock elicits an answer, as I find myself looking in the russet-eyed gaze of a tired, tousle-haired, and slightly irritated Yuusuke.

"Oi. What's up, Kurama, m'man? What're you doing out in this weather, this time of day?" He asks curiously. Despite the irritated look splashed across his face, his voice is warm, welcoming. Foul-tempered as he looks, he has a good heart, definitely in the right place. He looks at me, worry dancing in his deep hazel eyes.

I suppose I do look a fright in my state.

"Nothing really," I reply nonchalantly. "I just came to ask if I might find a place to sleep tonight."

"Why?" he asks confused, sidestepping and bidding me entrance, and escape from the weather.

I gave a calm smile, a gracious nod of unspoken thanks.

"I seem to have locked myself out of my house, and my family has gone away for the day. They will not be returning to the house until tomorrow afternoon some time."

Another lie, how fitting.

His worried expression melts into amusement, and just as he closes the door behind him and me, he bursts into hysterical laughter. "Kurama you locked yourself outta the house? Oh man, that's rich! I'da never thought you'd be that stupid, man!"

I feel a growl rising in my throat, wanting to spring forth from my lips, but I bite it back. No matter how immature his reaction is I have to keep composed if I have any hope of him believing me.

"So, might I stay here a night until school tomorrow? Then I shall return home," I ask, keeping my voice straight, trying to keep the bite out of my tone. Congruently, I try to figure out just how exactly I intend to 'return home' seeing as I am no longer welcome to Shiori.

"S-sure, man," he chokes out between laughs. "My boozy-wreck-of-a-mom's gone. No prob."

I nod again in thanks.

"I was 'bout to hit the sack, anyways man." As though to demonstrate his intention, he brings a hand to his mouth, stifling a yawn. "I'm beat. But, eh... You might wanna clean up a bit first?"

I stay quiet and continue to follow him through the house as he goes about trying to find some bedding for me. My eyes skim the house quietly, quickly, taking in my surroundings. It is the mark of a great ex-thief that I can still spot the most unnoticeable details upon a mere quick once-over.

The kitchen is a mess of broken glass, littered with crushed aluminum cans and shattered beer bottles. Despite Yuusuke's obvious attempts at somewhat straightening the place — the trash, in his defense, is stacked full of bottles and cans, and the counters and sinks are spotless, it is still a sight to behold. The putrid stench of alcohol wafts through the entire house, and it's almost enough to make me wretch. The living room is strewn with laundry and unfinished foodstuffs. If this is just this small section of the house, I hate to think what his room or the bathroom looks like.

He catches me in my inspections and gives a dry chuckle. "Yeah, that's mom for ya. Sorry 'bout the mess man. I do what I can, but… heh, what a single kid does in a weekend gets wrecked in ten minutes. You know?" There is a laugh in his voice, like his mother's problem is inconsequential and does not bother him.

I know better.

I shake my head. "It is quite alright, Yuusuke. No need to apologize."

It is not as though this is his fault. He is a minor. And, not that it matters so much, but he is not responsible for his mother's vices. A man does what he has to, to stay alive. It might sound cruel, but that is just the type of world we live in: dog-eat-dog. He looks out for himself. He is not responsible for his mother, or her tendencies.

He leads me into his room, and I am surprised to see that it is cleaner than the rest of the place. And here I thought I was through jumping to false bound conclusions — as though my lesson from Botan's letter has actually gotten through to me. His clothes are folded in his inverse drawers, his futon is made, and the floor is clean. As clean as the floor of any teenage male's can be, at least.

"You can crash in here on the floor." He then points me to a door on the far wall of his bedroom. "There's the bathroom if you want to clean yourself up."

I nod again and retreat into the door he mentioned. The room is also clean, given the jumble of beauty products, assumingly his mother's, strewn over the bathroom countertop. There is a small vanity mirror attached to the front of the medicine cabinet overlooking the sink, and I catch my reflection in it briefly.

Bags are starting to form under my eyes, deep and unsettling, making my gaze seem hollow and dead. My hair is a mess of tangles and knots drooping limply off my skull, each strand dripping wet, and falling cumbersomely into my face. My face is streaked with raindrops and dirt, and my eyes look devoid of life. Haunted. Inari, when did I become the living-dead?

Is this truly me?

How can anyone dredge beauty from this?

I shake my head and turn on the faucet, splashing my face with the cool water, cleaning off the dirt. Then I turn for a brush and begin the tedious job of sorting through the knots in my hair. First I rake my fingers through the mess, hoping to disengage the most vicious of the nests. Then, I pull the brush through.

I never favored my hair; I am not overly fond of it. I only keep it because of Youko.

To remind me of him; to remind me of my past.

And to keep me from forgetting it.

In a way, my own form of self-torture...

By the time I have restored my hair to its natural silky carmine sheen, my skull is throbbing painfully from the brush, but it had left me little choice. As much as my long hair annoys me, unkempt hair and ragged appearances bother me even more.

It is just more pain now, physical and mental.

Looking back to the mirror to see if I' have satisfactorily sorted myself out, I catch sight of a glint. The bathroom light reflects it off of the vanity mirror. I look towards the object.

My salvation.

A razor.

Of course a woman would own one. I should not be surprised to see one.

And, really, I am not...

Consequently, I should not be happy to see one…

But, I am.

I smile knowingly at the little treasure I have discovered, and pocket it quickly, lest Yuusuke see me. After all, I tell myself, it is not as though I am going to use it just because I have it...

Then again... It is not as though I am not intending to either, just because I do...

"Yo, Kurama, you done in there, I'm tired and want to get the light out!" Yuusuke's voice cuts through my thoughts and I turn expectantly. His head has just appeared from around the corner of the door.

I sigh quietly, thanking Inari that he had not come in mere moments before to see me pocket my forbidden little treasure. "Yes, I am done, thank you. I am coming."

I exit the room with my treasure tucked safely in my pocket. As I enter his bedroom again, I see a small blue blanket thrown on the floor in the corner beneath his window.

"That's all I could find," he apologizes sheepishly, running a hand through his tousled raven hair. "Sorry man." I hear him yawn as he pulls himself into bed.

"It is more than enough, Yuusuke. Thank you," I utter the appropriate thanks and go to the blanket, suddenly tired myself. I pull off my shoes and lie down on his floor, the tatami mats meeting my back welcomely, the musty aroma of airing-hay pleasant to my senses.

"'Night, man," I here Yuusuke call, and then the lights go out.

I am left in the dark, with only a thin blanket and the clothes I am wearing. But, for once, it is enough. For once, the old contentment I used to feel has returned.

For once, I am appreciative.

I close my eyes to the darkness, welcoming it as it steels my consciousness from me and sends me spiraling into a deep, dreamless slumber.

---

"Hey, Kurama, are you really gonna go to school lookin' like that?" Yuusuke asks me the next morning as I stand by the door waiting for him.

"Yes. Though, I'll admit, it seems odd going out of uniform," I reply.

Since I was wearing casual clothes at the time when Shiori threw me out, I have not had the opportunity to retrieve my uniform. What is more, since I had spent the day outside in those clothes, and had promptly been rained upon, now they are not exactly clean.

He shrugs in his noncommittal way.

I return the gesture stiffly, my discomfort probably evident.

"Hey, Yuusuke — Oh, good morning Kurama!" I hear a familiar female voice call to us. I turn and see Keiko running down the street towards us, already in uniform, her blue skirt billowing at her sides as she runs to meet us.

Yuusuke calls good morning and I nod.

As she approaches us, Yuusuke turns to me. "Hey, Kurama, me and Keiko, and Kuwabara are going out after school, you should come."

I am about to decline his invitation when my conscience stops me. A slap in the face.

I have nowhere to go afterwards; it will help pass the hours...

I nod slowly, reluctantly. "Sure, I will meet you back here at five-thirty, then?"

They nod, and I smile pleasantly before turning and going off to my own school.

And the hell that surely awaits me there.

---

As I had anticipated, the second I draw myself into my classroom I am met with looks of awe, if not outright disgust. Not just from my fellow pupils either, but from the teacher as well. The whispers start instantly, a steady hum of white noise thudding against my eardrums.

"Look, the great Minamino's finally showin' his true colors."

"What? He too good to wear a uniform now?"

"I can't believe the girls idolize this slob."

I ignore the comments. They always talk, and always will. It is an integral part of their human natures. I accept that, and it makes no difference to me either way. Lately, school itself makes no difference to me. Nothing does, I suppose. It seems that my lust for life has taken away more than my former joy... Ah well. So goes life, hm?

"Minamino-san, come up to my desk for a moment, would you, please?" I hear the sensei Omura-sama call me. He sounds rather displeased, I note, judging this from the hint of distaste in his tone as he addresses me.

I can hardly blame him.

I stride diligently to his desk, ignoring the upsurge of new whisperings from my classmates behind my turned back. He asks me about my lack of dress (that is to say lack of uniform) and I explain my situation. Or, rehash the lie I fed Yuusuke. He believes me, and asks no further questions, merely telling me to take my seat again. I comply, I suppose for lack of anything better to do.

Minutes pass, and Omura-sama commences with his daily lectures. Something about Pythagorean's Theorem, and a corollary of Pi. Among the rustling of paper and scratch of pencils I can still make out my classmates hushed whispers. They will follow me the entire day. At least.

I cannot fathom why I wanted to come to back to this place...

Truthfully, I do not know why. It is a mystery; clearly I am unaccepted and unhappy here, so why do I return? Do I just wish to punish myself further? Seems I have a penchant for self-inflicted pain that is far more entrenched than the metal sliver nestled in my pocket.

Apparently.

I sit rigid in my desk. A desk unfairly designed for the right-handed population. Pardon my lack of ambidexterity, but some of us do utilize only our left hands, at least when it comes to writing.

Pitter-pat-pitter-pat.

My eyes dart to the window. Black storm clouds have blanketed the sky, similar to those of the previous night, yet far more ominous in appearance. The rains already drop onto the outer window ledge painfully, streaking the windows and obscuring my vision. The rain itself is so thick that individual drops are impossible to see. Any rain is difficult to make out actually, it is coming down in sheets.

In fact, the only real proof that it is raining comes from the pitter-pat-pitter-pat of the heavy drops on the outer pane.

My classmate's comments, an ill-designed desk, the monotony that is school, and lately, my life in general… Now, the dreary weather. Oh, yes, this is turning out to be a fine school day, indeed. I chuckle dryly at the thought and wonder dully if I have always been such a pessimist, or if this is a new part of me just recently developed.

Oh, but it has been such a find day. So fine, in fact, that the small, nearly weightless piece of metal still resting in my pocket seems all-the-more promising.

---

The sky is no more than a mass of foggy gray, with the occasional glimpse of the late noonday sun through the cloud cover. While weather conditions have improved slightly, or at least the clouds have begun to thin out, it is still raining.

A sharp breeze washes over me, pelting me with icy rain. The freezing drizzle pours wild and uncontrollably around me. I suppose I should be cold, but my body has long since gone numb, leaving me in an unfeeling state. I have been numb a lot, in recent days. In a flash of dry humor I harbor the thought of having contracted CIPA, that is, a congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis. A genetic mutation that leaves the body unfeeling to pain.

It is a dry thought, but it would explain away my apathy.

Metal reflects silver in my hand as pale light bounces off of it. Somehow, this has become a comfort. My precious, forbidden treasure. A treasure so unimportant to most, so overlooked. But to me it is freedom…

Release.

I lay the blade to my soaked glistening skin only gently. The blade is wet; as am I. Too much pressure and it could turn fatal.

Perhaps that would be for the best…

The blade is cool and damp, and feels familiar on my flesh.

Not just familiar…. Welcome.

My actions are hesitant. More than likely, I am the only student left; it is already five-twenty; after hours and all other students have already gone. Because unlike me, they have lives and families to go home to. However, the janitors are here until six. Should one of them notice me… I shove the thought to be back of my mind without a second thought.

Since when do I care?

I shake my head. Now, or never, I tell myself. I draw the metal sliver easily across my flesh, retracing the same line as always: careful, measured horizontal strokes that shear open life-giving vessels. When the blood bubbles to the surface, I am disappointed that the feeling it grants is not at all what I am accustomed to.

There is no pleasure.

No release.

Slightly angry, I pull the blade across in another area, slightly deeper and in a vertical stroke. More dangerous, therefore — hopefully — more gratifying.

Still nothing.

Why is it not working? My mind clouds in brief anger. The one thing I have, the one outlet I am granted, and now, now of all times, it chooses to stop alleviating my pain?

I slash frantically at my wrist again: four, five, six times. Until all that is left of my arm is a bleeding red mass of painful tissue. Yet, it is still not having the desired effect.

I have been too careful… Too precautious…

I switch the blade into my other hand, my fingers wrapping around it tightly. I feel the blade dig into my palm and watch as blood trickles off of honed edge, joining the pool that is dripping off of my lacerated forearm to my feet.

I press the blade to the fresh, untouched skin of my unmarred arm and press down hard, pulling the blade through my tearing flesh deliberately slow. I relish the feeling; it has come back finally. Small, calculated wounds will no longer do it, it seems. But, this works.

Such relief again…

The blade slips from my fingers and clatters to the ground noisily. I can hardly move my left arm; I slashed at it too many times apparently. It is too injured to respond, too injured to feel. All I know is the stinging sensation that greets me when a renegade water drop meets with the festering skin.

My right arm has gone numb in the cold, and all I can feel there is my pulse, heavy and fast, arrhythmic, bringing with each new throb a fresh wave of blood.

While one arm is numb to the point of incompetence, and the other sore, I am relieved. My treasure has not let me down. It still brings the same satisfaction with it. Granted, it takes more to achieve that satisfaction now, it would seem, but it still does regardless.

Rain falls around me, splattering the roof beneath my feet wildly, but it does not run clear. It is red. And the water pooling around my feet near the drain basin runs a diluted, startlingly bright cherry. It is considerably a bit more than just a faint almost pink tinge of red, as well. It is thick, full-fledged crimson.

So much red water…

On impulse alone I turn to my arms. By now, the blood flow should have lessened to almost ceasing, but it continues in a steady river.

Something is not right.

I place my other hand hurriedly over the wound, wincing at the painful, sudden movement of lacerated flesh. It is going too far. I have to stop it. I concentrate on the wound, but my aura is not responding.

Damn, damn, damn.

I cannot even tap my Youki!

Fuck.

Such a vulgar word. One I hate to have to use. But nothing else fits the void.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

But… I have to stop it; it has gone way too far. Even with the pressure applied over the wound with my free hand, blood still drips under it — actually, still streams just as steadily and undisturbed as if my hand were not even over the wound. My free hand is drenched scarlet, no end of the unnatural dyeing in sight. My wounded hand supplies the red, sticky liquid freely, and the white shirt I have on is also seeing the results of it.

My ears go deaf, drowning out the wind and rain together, leaving me wrapped in silence, knowing nothing more than my painfully beating heart, and my swimming vision. And, despite the welling terror in my gut, it is unnatural. There is no buzzing in my ears, no static white noise. Just utter silence. Eerie.

And in the midst of my terrified musings, I am stuck painfully upside the head with a realization I should have come to long ago:

This isn't satisfaction anymore.

The feeling that the blade brought with it has long since evaporated, leaving me feeling only the one thing I have been trying to avoid, been actively running from this whole time.

I finally feel it…

It hurts. Thoroughly aches.

My energy gives way, and I feel myself falling, falling, falling. Flying without wings and miserably failing. So much like the fallen angel that I am. Or was. Or never was. Demons — monsters — don't have wings, after all.

I am partially aware of the cold, and wet, and the pain. I know something solid has stopped me in my failed attempt to fly. And everything hurts. But, where everything is, and where I am, I cannot say. It is too hard to keep a level head, to float above the sea of unconscious bliss. All I want to do is go under, take in the silence, the beckoning waves of dreamless sleep.

Embrace the red ocean I am drifting in…

Embrace the darkness.