Nothing at all.
That is what she has become, with her empty throat and empty eyes.
Her cheeks have dried now. Nothing is left for her, not even the biting cold that overcame her. One last wish crosses her mind when the world becomes black.
Can I go where he goes?
She wants to keep him. His warmth is made of agitation, not happiness or kindness. She knows that. Still, she cannot forget the sensation.
The girl lives, for one last second.
Stair-Bro mumbled about the stairs, about what one little tumble did to him, but his shadowy body was disregarded. Len barreled past him, half thinking he would be pushed back down to the first floor.
He didn't look into the mirror or so much as glance in the direction of the Game Room. This time he was going straight into his private chamber, and locking the door until Leon's car peeled off the street.
The door was already ajar. He was careful not to slam it on the way in, though he wished to do so. He refused to believe that he couldn't control himself.
Nearly tearing his hair out, he spun around and knocked his forehead against the wall. It was cool there, creating a soothing affect.
Do I hate him? He found himself asking. He didn't like his father, and that was easy enough for many guys to admit. The man had been surly and jaded for the latter half of Len's life. But, do I hate him? Dad was not good the way most people could be. The abuse that he directed at Lily still had an impact on her, even in the present. Never had he struck her, certainly never the children. It was all in words that he desecrated his family's trust.
He had to hesitate. Hate was strong. Even hating Leon was a serious affair. Counsel would be helpful at the moment, no matter who it came from.
Gliding over his phone, Len's fingers found the call button. The smart phone hummed as it attempted to establish a connection. The dial tone never tired, bleeding from one second to fifteen, to thirty, up to a minute of flat, uniform ringing.
Finally, a distorted voice picked up. "If you're trying to reach Aria Planetes, good job! You did it~! Unfortunately you're gonna hafta leave a message, because, ummm, I'm not here! Heehee." An abrupt beep trailed after the recording.
His phone, which was very sleek, dripped from his grasp as quick as water. He elected not to pick it back up. Ia was busy, meaning that Neru could be, too. He was not the center of anyone's world, and he knew that.
Do I hate him? He shivered when he respired. Goosebumps covered him. It was nippy, up on the second floor. He noticed that now.
The presence in his room was not demanding, or aggressive. It just managed to fill the space with it's impressive aura. He was indifferent to it at the moment, the way many people would be. Dismal memories had him preoccupied. Surely his other problems could wait for the time being.
"Hello," her voice chimed, as sweet and silvery as a bell. Instead of a dramatic, slow reveal, he whipped around at once. No point in theatrics at this time.
There, sitting on the bed, was his ghost girl. The green eyes he had expected were pointed at the ground. Her bright, satiny tresses pooled around her like a fountain pond. His own gaze wandered over the lace hem of her skirt. Her slender legs crossed at the ankles. She wore white flats, which was strange, because most ghosts were an unlit muddle from the knee down. Once again, she proved to be an exception to the rules that previous phantoms had established.
While she was very affectionate in the dreams, in the waking world she assumed a wildly different manner of speech and action. To him, it appeared as if she was split into two separate people. In just a moment, she was going to verbalize the last of her ponderings, and then vanish as a vapor in the air. Maybe her thoughts would have no significance for him. Maybe she was talking to herself alone. Considering that she was haunting him, however, they were important enough that she would continue talking, even with no corporeal mouth to speak with. He would have to listen to her, no matter what she said.
Armed with caution, Len awaited her next "hello." The word didn't reach his ears for a long time. Eventually, he gave up his patience. He clenched his jaw, his eyes scathing with the need to leak. She was trying to take root in the most private parts of his mind, but she wouldn't converse with him. The fact that she seemed so impartial to his sorrow...it just hurt.
"Why don't you say something?" He berated her, "If you don't answer, I'll make you sorry. Do you understand? You're driving me mad!" He swept his hand up his face, pushing back the unkempt locks on his brow.
Everything remained the exact same. Not surprising. The threat was empty, flavorless. And she couldn't understand that he was placing blame on her. He backpedalled, flattening against the door.
"You're dead. You can't worry about me." He said this about her, but it was mostly a reminder for himself. Sanity was easy to lose. For him, who saw death perpetually replay itself, it couldn't be easier. He had to be calm just to keep living. Every time before now, he had been.
So get a grip on yourself, Kagamine.
The boy sniffed hard, his belly shaking. The chaos in him paused the way people pray earthquakes would. Tranquility dispelled the glacial feeling in his skin.
"...Hello," she pronounced. His skeleton almost jumped out of his flesh in alarm. She had spooked him, by picking up on her speech out of nowhere. There wasn't an inkling of passion in her voice - a second-grader could read aloud in class with more more zeal than she had.
"Hello," he answered, albeit at a reserved volume.
"Hello. Help. Is anyone there?"
"Yes, I am," he assured her.
"It hurts," she continued, causing him to narrow his eyes. He paced toward her. She appeared as aloof as before, even though she looked directly at him.
"Hello?" He tested, stopping a foot in front of her. Her eyes tracked his gradual movement. She might not be inconscient, he thought, it could be that she just looked distracted. Ghosts weren't your average everyday person, after all.
"It's cold," she informed him.
He chuckled dryly, "Is it? I'm sorry."
"It hurts." The way her words were scrambled made him think someone was switching them around on purpose.
"I know that. It hurts for most people. How did it happen to you?" The question was half-hearted, because he didn't want or expect an answer. He bowed a little so that his eyes would be more level with hers. It was the way teachers would lean or crouch down to converse with him. (Most people experienced this in elementary school, but this was still the position his English teacher took when addressing him.)
She pleaded, "Can I go...where you go?" Wisps of desperation were tangled in her tone.
His chest pounded fervently.
"Yes." Len was so quick to affirm, he worried he could sound like a liar. His dry tongue flicked over his arid lips.
Her heavy lashes fell over her hazy eyes, beating like the wings of a raven. "You'll come get me, won't you?" For the first time, she displayed distress in her face. He struggled to take it in. She was five inches in front of him, yet he couldn't pinpoint what told him she was upset.
"Aren't you with me?" He intimated. The smooth lime color of her eyes was full of silver-blue flecks. A hand floated towards her. It was strange, watching his own fingers outstretched. Hilarious. I'm actually trying to do this right now, he thought, restraining his laughter.
The girl heaved a very tired sigh. Still, she did not breathe, nor did her chest swell with air. That was done purely for expression, he figured. Like a smile, or a shrug. In the effort for communication, she seemed to be doing just fine.
His hand landed on a lump of ice. A single touch made the rest of his body feel worse than it had been the whole morning. Glancing down, he only saw his hand on top of her hand.
Whether he should feel horrified or fascinated, he couldn't discern. He couldn't even be sure if he had hit something solid, or something fabricated by his brain. There was only the shrill sensation of winter.
The room was not cold anymore, not anywhere, with the exception of his extremities.
An unfitting smile filled his lips. If he emptied his mind, he could pretend that there was nothing segregating their two planes of existence. While the dead walked among the living, they could be felt and heard and seen. And everyone would care for them, realizing that they were people as well. No one would forget their suffering. Families would remain unbroken, classical authors and composers would still be fashioning masterpieces.
His fantasy was therapeutic. Indeed, it was ridiculous, but here he was. Here, digits hovering over the skin of a ghost. Here, wishing that he could seize the girl in front of him. If he tried hard enough, he was sure he could do it. There were stranger things to be optimistic about, weren't there?
With his efforts, she might be able to feel something other than pain, too.
"Tell me where I can find you."
