Fair Kyoto:
Kaoru's Vignette
When the stray was adopted..
On the horizon smoke twisted into the milky sky from a tall metal stack edged on a boxy factory; a twining snake of billowing smog that crept higher and higher in to the atmosphere till it withered away into nothing. Like the tobacco pipe her father used to smoke in the evenings after a day on the brutish streets and a late Judo practice by himself. Until the one day she asked him, as he smoked his worn wooden pipe clutched in his large tough hand, to teach her. The slightly crinkled eyes that hovered over the hickory pipe had gazed down at her with a glassy look, obscuring the focus that usually penetrated his vision. Hai.
Home. She hadn't had a home for so long, too long to remember. She had always imagined that home smelt like baking food and pine-scented floors. That home would belong to a smiling woman with an armful of laundry, held in firm hands that could hoe a weeded garden and soothe away tears from a scraped knee and ruined stockings. And a man who never came home angry and never read the newspaper at the breakfast table instead of talking to the woman with firm hands and herself. Who smelt like detergent and sweat and who bought her that chocolate she wanted even though the woman had said it would ruin her dinner and rot her teeth. Then had winked at her and told her not to tell her mother, then laughed when she nodded her head with a complete expression of seriousness that looked so peculiar on the face of a six-year-old child.
Storms. The nights when she ran to their room, when the dark clouds rolled in with lightning and thunder that reminded her of the streets at night and brought back some very terrible memories. Her small heart pounding like a caged bird against her chest as tears rolled down her chubby cheeks, which she rubbed at with tiny fists. She would crawl in between them and bury herself between the sheets as the woman rubbed her back soothing up and down until she fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of the dark and terrifying sights. Like the men on the streets, drunk, haggard, and smelling like human refuse, lying in alleyways, passed out in their debasement. And worse things, stuff she didn't want to remember and so she drowned them with home and family.
She had lived in the present as long as she could remember. On the streets she hadn't wanted to think about tomorrow and what new unpleasantries it might bring. The past was just a hauntingly unadulterated nightmare that harbored no consoling numbness, but instead a brutal reality that had threatened to overwhelm her, so she shoved it back into the recesses of her mind. Even when she had a home, she thought only of day-to-day life, because she feared with sometimes overpowering certainty that it was only temporary; that it was too good to last and so it would vanish one day and she would be left for the dark again. Even after his death, she had not thought of anything other than now, the future held nothing for her, of that she was certain, and the past was far worse. She had joined the yakuza to drown her past and future in a tide of mindless fighting, loneliness and anger.
Now she is here, in a stranger's apartment. A stray that was lost before, once again rescued from the streets. And, in the shamble that is her life, there is another man mending her shattered stability.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
--------------------------
Author's Notes:
I wrote this for several reasons: 1. I thought it might get me out of the writing rut I'd found myself in 2. I thought it might explain Kaoru's feelings about her home, about the streets, and about losing her adopted father 3. I also thought it might relate the character better and giver her more substance
BTW: Sorry for the delay and I'm halfway through Chapter 11.
When the stray was adopted..
On the horizon smoke twisted into the milky sky from a tall metal stack edged on a boxy factory; a twining snake of billowing smog that crept higher and higher in to the atmosphere till it withered away into nothing. Like the tobacco pipe her father used to smoke in the evenings after a day on the brutish streets and a late Judo practice by himself. Until the one day she asked him, as he smoked his worn wooden pipe clutched in his large tough hand, to teach her. The slightly crinkled eyes that hovered over the hickory pipe had gazed down at her with a glassy look, obscuring the focus that usually penetrated his vision. Hai.
Home. She hadn't had a home for so long, too long to remember. She had always imagined that home smelt like baking food and pine-scented floors. That home would belong to a smiling woman with an armful of laundry, held in firm hands that could hoe a weeded garden and soothe away tears from a scraped knee and ruined stockings. And a man who never came home angry and never read the newspaper at the breakfast table instead of talking to the woman with firm hands and herself. Who smelt like detergent and sweat and who bought her that chocolate she wanted even though the woman had said it would ruin her dinner and rot her teeth. Then had winked at her and told her not to tell her mother, then laughed when she nodded her head with a complete expression of seriousness that looked so peculiar on the face of a six-year-old child.
Storms. The nights when she ran to their room, when the dark clouds rolled in with lightning and thunder that reminded her of the streets at night and brought back some very terrible memories. Her small heart pounding like a caged bird against her chest as tears rolled down her chubby cheeks, which she rubbed at with tiny fists. She would crawl in between them and bury herself between the sheets as the woman rubbed her back soothing up and down until she fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of the dark and terrifying sights. Like the men on the streets, drunk, haggard, and smelling like human refuse, lying in alleyways, passed out in their debasement. And worse things, stuff she didn't want to remember and so she drowned them with home and family.
She had lived in the present as long as she could remember. On the streets she hadn't wanted to think about tomorrow and what new unpleasantries it might bring. The past was just a hauntingly unadulterated nightmare that harbored no consoling numbness, but instead a brutal reality that had threatened to overwhelm her, so she shoved it back into the recesses of her mind. Even when she had a home, she thought only of day-to-day life, because she feared with sometimes overpowering certainty that it was only temporary; that it was too good to last and so it would vanish one day and she would be left for the dark again. Even after his death, she had not thought of anything other than now, the future held nothing for her, of that she was certain, and the past was far worse. She had joined the yakuza to drown her past and future in a tide of mindless fighting, loneliness and anger.
Now she is here, in a stranger's apartment. A stray that was lost before, once again rescued from the streets. And, in the shamble that is her life, there is another man mending her shattered stability.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
--------------------------
Author's Notes:
I wrote this for several reasons: 1. I thought it might get me out of the writing rut I'd found myself in 2. I thought it might explain Kaoru's feelings about her home, about the streets, and about losing her adopted father 3. I also thought it might relate the character better and giver her more substance
BTW: Sorry for the delay and I'm halfway through Chapter 11.