Price of Forgiveness

--

Part IV: Paper Cranes

Flawed in its beauty and perfection,

The glass rose is dangerous.

Loosing itself to time,

It breaks, shattering further.

Not only hurting itself,

But threatening those around it.

It loses itself to destruction,

A self-inflicted punishment.

She wrings her hands nervously in her lap, her countenance rigid and her face taut with nervousness. Sitting beside her in the stiff-backed hospital chair I smile in reassurance to her, though my gesture does little to ease her mood.

Her eyes are closed against the blinding white radiating from the walls of the waiting room we occupy and her eyebrows furrow in stark concentration. Her attitude is one I find curious. After all, we are waiting here simply to hear my own diagnosis, not hers. And yet, she is the one suffering all of the anxiety that comes with pre-prognosis while I sit calmly, though somewhat impatiently, waiting for the Doctor to enter.

The mechanical creaking of stale, weathered hinges draws my attention, and I direct my gaze towards the door. Mother's gaze falls upon the door as well as two figures enter the room. One of them is the tall, slightly pompous man I've come to recognize as Dr. Masaha, and the other is the same woman who had been in the hospital room with me the morning prior. Her blazing eyes are ones I am not likely to forget in a hurry.

The expressions they bare do little to let me assume that what we will be hearing in short order is good news, Mother seems to feel the same, as I can see her hands trembling as her they clench reflexively over the material of her skirt, groping for a stronghold over the emotions she can barely keep from spilling over. Her eyes linger steadily on the two figures as they pull up chairs opposite us and sit down, but her eyes glimmer unnaturally in the light, and her gaze is clouded over with pain and uncertainty.

"Mrs. Minamino," Dr. Masaha begins slowly, "I don't know if you are aware, perhaps you haven't been told—" he glances briefly from his female counterpart to me, "—but upon examining a sample of your son's blood, we've discovered some abnormalities."

At first, it seems as though she makes an effort to speak at receiving the news. But all she manages is a sort of pained moan, so she resigns herself with a curt nod.

"Now, at first, we thought there may have been some confusion, considering the first blood sample was taken and already aged considerably outside of the body," the Doctor explains calmly, looking from mother to myself and back again.

Mother still cannot find her voice and presently, her eyes have fallen back to her lap where she stares resolutely at the hems of her skirt. I merely nod at the man, wishing he would stop prolonging this ordeal for the person beside me.

"So, we took fresh samples upon his arrival," he elaborates. "When the results did not waver, we decided to take one last look. Which is why we drew another sample of blood, as well as of bone marrow."

Then it is his turn to fall silent, and I am forced to wonder if they had called us in just to tell us this information. Then, however, when his female counterpart takes up in his stead, I know we are not quite finished. Not just yet, at least.

"Mrs. Minamino, I am the lab technician that examined your son's blood samples," the woman informs us. It is a far from useful introduction, I think. "When his counts came in we tried everything to sway the results from the inevitable diagnosis they pointed out, but there are some things you just can't deny."

Mother nods again, then sighs deeply, lifts her head to look at the woman, and manages to voice, "Of course, yes. But then, what's wrong with my son?"

Obviously, despite all of her outward pain, she too, seems to be getting rather impatient and tired of all of this around-the-bush sort of talking.

The woman's eyes meet my mother's in a brief moment of understanding, and for once I detect a hint of sympathy in her cold eyes. Mother holds her gaze steadily, though the effort is draining her considerably.

"His counts are abnormal, Mrs. Minamino. The white blood cell count in his blood is almost twice that of an average human. I'm sure you understand the meaning of this; we informed you that it might make itself known again after your first child was stillborn. You knew the chances of course."

"Yes, but…" Her voice shakes, the slightest wavering. "But… he survived, the cases were all chronic — how?"

The woman nods slowly, taking in mother's words, and turns to the small clipboard she has brought with her. Pages rustle thickly for a moment, the sound heavy around us, so accustomed to stillness, before she stops to consult a piece of paper. After a moment of silence she looks back towards us and goes on, tentatively:

"I know this may come as a shock to you. Undoubtedly you know your family's history with the disease."

At this mother nods and it is an almost feverish action. "Well, yes. Yes, of course," she supplies mindlessly, the words spilling haphazardly from her lips.

The woman simply continues on, ignoring mother's loose tongue. "You understood that those factors are what claimed your first child, and that is why we told you it would undoubtedly claim your other children. Your son, here, is a miracle at best, you knew this."

"Yes," she repeats in monotone. "But why is it happening now?" Her voice falters into a barely audible whisper as she voices the question — one to which I know she would probably rather not receive an honest answer.

"It's not unheard of," the woman begins thoughtfully. "The cases concerning the disease in correlation to your family's history are all chronic. As in the factors of the disease where always there — your son's case is no exception."

"So, then, it's come back?" Mother asks feebly, her voice suddenly tired and steeped in agony.

"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Minamino," the woman confirms solemnly. "Dr. Masaha will now explain to your son what's wrong. Bless him, for he may already know."

I nod slowly, choosing to ignore the attitude with which she regards me — as though I am some complete idiot. From her account, I believe I have a clear idea of what is wrong and I do not believe it would have taken a neurosurgeon to figure it out, let alone a centuries old demon.

But regardless of the inevitable answer I just think I have discovered, I know I will still have to sit through the Doctor's kind rehashing of the entire thing.

So, I may as well tuck in respectfully and get comfortable.

With his companion's go ahead, Dr. Masaha clears his throat, turns to me, and begins: "Mr. Minamino, I shall not beat around the bush, I shall come out and say it."

I nod tiredly, thankful that he is going to cut his explanation short.

"Your elevated level of white blood cells indicates that you have CLL. Chronic Lymphatic Leukemia. Of course, this type of cancer is very curable in young people such as yourself. Over seventy percent curable, actually."

At this last bit of news, his voice raises into something presumably resembling false cheer. I suspect he is expecting me to be relieved by this bit of information.

Really? Seventy percent curable? Well that only leaves… what? A thirty percent chance at death?

"So, our plan of action is thus: I know that you haven't had much time to recuperate from your last stay in the hospital and I'd like to give your arms some time to heal from their wounds, not to mention give your veins some time to strengthen themselves again. And so, I suggest you go home and rest tonight, and tomorrow you shall come in. If we start you on chemo promptly, we can launch you straight into automatic remission and tackle this at its' roots before it has a chance to progress."

"I see," I murmur thoughtfully. "Is that all then?"

At my calm, both physicians reel back slightly. Startled by my unquestioning understanding and acceptance, I suppose.

"Y-yes," stammers the woman slowly, before regaining her brisk manner and continuing on. "Now, if you'd like, we can dispatch a team of doctors to your school to inform the faculty and pupils of your condition, and tell them what they can do to help."

Mother lifts her head slowly, revealing a fresh stream of tears. "That would be most appreciated and help—"

"No. That will not be necessary," I cut across mother.

"Shuichi!" mother replies sharply, her gaze flying to me. Her eyes damp and her voice shakes, as though taken aback by my defiance.

"No, Mother," I repeat mildly. Then, remembering my place among these people, I drop my gaze to the floor respectfully. "It is not necessary."

"But, dear," she interjects. "Don't you think they school should know?" her voice is so soft I wonder whether the Doctor and the woman even heard her.

"They need not know. This is my ordeal to face. They have no say in this, they need not know." Although it hurts me to outright deny mother this, so blatantly in fact, I hold my ground.

After a pregnant moment and some withering glances from the two people seated next to us, she sighs, obviously resigned. "Yes, you heard him. It is his choice. You needn't concern yourselves over informing the school."

Clearly she is too tired to continue arguing. This minor victory of mine does little to ease the guilt that swells in my chest as I look at her again, however. It is rude of me to argue with her about this matter — I will not even attempt to deny that — and even more so considering the time and given the circumstance. However, just as I told Hiei, this is my life and I will live it as I see fit.

I am truly a selfish son. She doesn't deserve this, and I don't deserve her…

"We're truly sorry, Mrs. Minamino," they utter solemnly in unison as they stand and turn to exit the room. Dr. Masaha clasps her shoulder briefly before he follows in the wake of his companion and leaves.

Yes, you are both as sorry as I am about my escapades with the blade and the ancient art of blood letting, in other words, not very…

--

I sit beside her silently, not really knowing what I can say to ease her spirits. Part of me longs to say that I am sorry, no matter how insincere the words may be; they are all I can fathom that may relieve her of some of her pain.

"Mother," I sigh deftly, "I am—"

"Shuichi, it's not your fault."

I fall silent, allowing my voice to taper off mid-sentence. Her sentiment has shocked me and I will not be so arrogant as to deny it. How can it not be my fault?

"Pardon?"

She glances at me from over the steering wheel and gives me a small, sad smile. "I know you think this is somehow your fault."

If only she could know how right she is. I will be the first to admit; when I toyed with the blade I knew what I was getting in to. But I never expected it to escalate into this at all. It has all gone so far from what I had intended.

"It isn't," she assures me, seeing the disbelieving look I cast her.

"I suppose I should explain." Her voice drops an octave as she continues on, "our family — specifically, my family side of the family — has a history of Leukemia. In fact, I myself was diagnosed with Chronic Lymphatic Leukemia when I was younger."

At this I snap around, staring at her unabashedly. What?

She nods, confirming herself. "I fought the disease myself, but it was always there, never really went away. When I gave birth to Misako—" she lets out a quiet sob, "who would have been your elder sister, I was still fighting the disease."

"Mother," I exhale quietly, still not fully believing her, "but why have—"

She shakes her head listlessly, a tired laugh rolling from her lips and it is enough to silence me. "You know that a mother's health often times reflects the child's health, yes?"

Again, it is a question. But I know she is not looking for an answer. Frankly, even if she is expecting an answer I do not know how I intend to give one. My voice has fled me and I am not so sure calling it back would be in my own — or her — best interests.

"Well, since I was weak from radiation and the chemo your sister was stillborn."

Never before have I heard mother speak so openly about her firstborn. I remember having asked several times about the child in my younger years but learned to quickly keep my mouth shut when each question garnered nothing more than tears. Right now the woman, my mother, is truly baring me a piece of her soul.

And honestly, I am not entirely comfortable with it.

"That's why they told me the chances of me having a healthy child were virtually none. I was still fighting the disease when I had you. I never told you because — well, after your father died, you saw how rough it was on us. I didn't want to alarm you any more."

At this confession a brief surge of anger flares through me. Of course, I understand why she had kept it from me, but it does not excuse the fact that she had. Especially not for so long. But, seeing her now as she divulges this to me, I am acutely aware of just how taxing this is for her and wish she would have kept it from me still, if only to spare herself the pain of having to reopen such old wounds.

"But then, on your 15th birthday, I was hospitalized."

And finally, there is a piece of the story that makes a little sense. I remember that night and the day — my birthday — with perfect clarity.

And suddenly, the pieces of mother's story are starting to fall into place.

"I had been in remission for almost three years and it came back full blown," she nods, a tight smile — more a grimace, actually — at her lips as she tells me this. "The doctors hoped that a bone marrow transfusion would help me, so I received one. But my body didn't accept the new marrow. Since my immune system was weak after the transfusion, when I got a nasty infection it would've been the end of me."

Yes, it is all starting to make sense now, I think mutinously at this latest adage of hers. At the news I feel the twinge of a migraine start to form behind my eyes and I bring my hands to my face. Hair spills through my fingers and sways with me as I shake my head in disbelief. I cannot believe this.

Oblivious to my discomfort, or else ignoring it in sway of continuing to get if off her chest, she finishes: "You remember the doctor telling you that my time was near, yes? Well, somehow I pulled through. And since then I've been in remission again, with no signs of the disease. But, I should've known that somehow you'd get it…"

She falls silent and the only sound I am aware of is the sudden humming sound enveloping my senses. I cannot believe this. How could she keep this from me so long? Yes, now it all makes sense. Every last miserable word paints a picture of the last few years in my mind, and it is perfectly clear. But how could she not have told me?

I nod, words failing me. I do not know what else to do in light of this news.

The car jolts to a stop. "Shuichi, I don't want you in school today. Just go in the house and rest. I will call the school and tell them you're not feeling well. Don't worry about Shuuichi and your Hatanaka. Shuuichi is at school and Hatanaka is at work. You'll be alone all day because I have to get to work. So rest. I'll see you this afternoon." She leans over in her seat and takes my face in her hands, bringing her lips softly to my forehead, then slowly pulls back.

I got out of the car slowly, watching as she pulls away from the curb and disappears behind the corner. I retire to the house, suddenly numb.

Well, this is worse than my diagnosis.

--

Ding-dong.

The timely echoing drone of the doorbell sounding off pulls me from my misguided thoughts and forces me back into reality.

Ding-dong.

It sounds again and I tread slowly through my room and off the second floor landing. My mind reels in thought, who could this be? Mother hasn't told anyone — no one knows. Perhaps it's just a neighbor…

Standing before the house door my attention is momentarily drawn to the dancing light show that is painting itself across the carpet as the sun's rays cast light through the painted glass window decorating the upper portion of the doorframe.

Ding-dong.

My head snaps up and I remember what has bidden me to come down in the first place. Averting my gaze from the lights splaying over the floor, I open the door.

My gaze falls upon the figure of a young woman wearing blue jeans and a white sweater and for a moment my thoughts escape me and I cannot, for the life of me, think of who this is. She is of medium build, nearly as tall as I, and is standing demurely before me, no doubt waiting for me to acknowledge her somehow. I look at her for another quick moment before my brain spins back into overdrive and a quiet voice in the back of my mind starts parroting:

Kurama, I don't care who you are — what you are. But I will always love you for whomever you chose to be, or become. You're not immortal. I guess we'd to well to remember that, huh? I won't give up on you, even if you've given up on yourself. I never will…

I am looking at the figure of none other than Botan.

I look at her oddly for a moment before giving her a small smile. She merely sidesteps me and walks into the house, clearly abandoning all respect in doing so. Confused, I close the door slowly and turn to join her on our couch, where she has taken up residence.

"What brings you here, Botan?" I ask slowly, sitting beside her, but mindful enough to keep the distance between us respectable.

At first, she cannot meet my gaze, but gradually she lifts her head and looks at me. Her violet eyes, usually so full of life and vigor, appear suddenly dead and devoid of happiness. Something serious must have happened to cause such a tremendous change in her.

"I've just come from Reikai with the others," she mutters, her voice flat and hollow. "Lord Koenma said he needed to talk to us. So I fetched Yuusuke, Kuwabara, and Hiei. Lord Koenma told me not to summon you," she sighs. "Because he had to talk to us about you."

"Did he?" I ask, mildly surprised. "And what did he tell you?"

"He told them about what you've been doing to yourself, and why you were in the hospital."

"They all know why I was in the hospital. Yuusuke found me and took me there. It is nothing they don't already know, Botan." I tell her coolly, suddenly getting irritated.

"No," she shakes her head. "You don't understand, Kurama. He told them that you're sick."

"He knows then, does he?" I sigh tiredly. It's not at all surprising that he knows, really. Still, I would just as happily pretend that he did not.

"Of course he knows. He's the Crown Prince of Reikai, did you expect him not to know?" she asks, sounding incredulous.

"Certainly I expected him to know, Botan—" I snap in irritation. "But seeing as how this somewhat personal, I would still like to pretend that he did not," I finish, parroting my prior thoughts.

After this, she falls silent and bites her lip. I see the light shimmer in her eyes and pick up on the tremble in her lip — I have made her want to cry. Brilliant.

I sigh, and decide to try a different angle since anger seems to be getting us nowhere. "But, what brings you here, then? Surely you did not come just to inform me of this?"

Her gaze drops to the floor at my words, and I see the faint traces of a blush lining her cheeks softly, which is, altogether, worse to see than her threatening tears.

"No. I-I came because…" her voice trails off and she looks up at me again, her eyes shining suddenly bright. When she speaks, however, her voice is quiet, a meek sound. "You're hurting aren't you?"

"Pardon?" I ask, slightly taken aback by the question.

"Hiei told us that you were tapping your ki dry to stave off Youko. I understand your reasons I guess," she shrugs at this and it is a painful throwback to the incident at Genkai's for me.

"Botan, please—" I cut in, about to ask her not to travel down that particular road quite yet. As things stand, I would rather not have to rehash that night.

"But… that means you can't heal yourself as effectively, can you? And your arms — they must hurt," she finishes, raising her voice the slightest bit, speaking resolutely over me.

"I suppose they are a little sore from the last few days," I concede slowly, relieved that she had not brought up the day at the compound. "And you are right; I haven't been able to manifest my powers well since I've been holding back Youko. But why do you ask?"

She brings her hands slowly to my left arm, her fingers tracing silent pathways down the fabric of the sleeve and resting steadily on my hand. I can feel her trembling, but her voice is firm. "I can heal some of your hurt, you know."

At this inclination, I stare blankly for a moment. I had expected her to come in anger, or at least some emotion mirroring dismay, disgust. Something utterly different than what she sits offering me now; unquestioned understanding and unconditional compassion.

Still, despite what she so clearly is offering, with open arms no less, I find myself shaking my head in a polite rebuttal. "No, you need not worry yourself with me, Botan," I assure her gently.

"You're right Kurama," she nods with a watery smile, "I don't need to, but I want to."

"Botan…"

"Kurama, please?" she hedges, scooting to the cushion beside me making the distanced I had put between us prior a non-issue. I feel her fingers tighten around my hand as she whispers a teary, "Please?"

I stay silent because I have already said no and she does not want to hear that, and I do not want to make her cry, so more words are futile. There is nothing to say, so I merely look away, hoping she will take note of it and leave me be. Instead, she takes this as her incentive to push up my sleeve. The bandages are slightly dog-eared, the edges of the bindings frayed and coming loose; the fabric is stained a dull rust color. I hear her inhale sharply, almost here the "oh" I know must be resting on her tongue.

Then slowly, I feel the gauze strip being pulled away and her hands coming to a rest slowly upon the wounds. Surprisingly, her touch brings no pain with it, only a white-hot slow burn the pulses through my veins steadily. Still, I cannot bring myself to look at her; despite my compliance, this is the last thing I want — the only thing I probably need; her unconditionally-loving soul — and I remain completely slack under her healing caress.

"It's just basic pneumatic-therapy," she explains as if I do not already know this, filling the silence with empty conversation, and only succeeding in making the continuing stillness that much more awkward. "Nothing really fancy, but it should heal some of this up nicely."

I nod and turn to her; not until I feel her pull away and can once more take relish in the sleeves of my shirt covering the bandages, however. "Thank you, Botan," I mouth, and far from sounding sincere it is an entirely mechanical thanks.

She smiles, ignoring my pointed displeasure, and reaches into the pocket of her jeans. With some difficulty, given her seated position, she pulls a small folded object out of her pocket and offers it to me in her open palms. "There's just this one other thing, Kurama."

"Is there?" I ask, dread welling in my stomach as I obligingly turn to face her fully.

"Here." She thrusts the object into my hands. "Take this; it's the one thousandth one I've folded."

I study the object closely; incredulously realize what it is. The small, ivory mass has been molded into a pristine, perfectly folded origami crane. Its pointed, beaked face seems to regard me, the paper radiating and I close my eyes, disbelief the only thing my mind has room for

I feel a frown tug on my lips and am not shy in hiding this from Botan as I open my eyes again and face her. When I find my voice, string a thought together, the words come out somewhat harsher than I intend for them to: "Really now, Botan. We don't need another Sadako, do we?"

"What do you mean?" she replies indignantly, her eyes blazing with a wounded look; she sincerely thinks I am to be happy to be presented with such an insufferable thing as a paper crane.

"Think if you will what the paper crane symbolizes," I snap, closing my fist angrily, feeling the paper — even folded as it is — give easily beneath my fingers, crushing the damnable thing.

And slowly, slowly, I feel long-laid chains stirring in my soul; feel familiar Makai breezes on my skin, smell the air, gorged with rain, taste metal. And I know that Youko has something to say about this.

"Peace, and hope," she breathes slowly, a hitch in her voice giving way to a fresh onslaught of tears, idle raindrops from cloudy skies. "Which is something you sorely need."

"We do not need another Sadako," I grumble, this time not caring that the words are harsh or that they are hurting her. What she did was out of place and she should be aware of it. "You should not have folded them."

"I'm not trying to turn you into another poster child!" she argues, glaring daggers at me from tearful eyes. "I just what you to know that — that…" her voice breaks off suddenly, her expression hard to read.

"That what, Botan," I snap, growing tired of her antics. "What?" I feel my pulse quicken, my muscles tighten. "What is it!?" I demand, glaring openly, my tone dripping venom. I am angry and I have every right to be.

"It's nothing," she replies quietly, drawing away from me, no doubt frightened by my sudden onset of rage. "Just forget I said anything, alright?"

"I doubt it's nothing," I reply, the words no more than a primal snarl as they fall from my lips. "Tell me," I demand.

"Look," she sighs, eyes resting for a brief moment on my clenched fist and the poor bird held within it. "I told you that was the thousandth one. You know the legend, don't you?"

"Of course: complete them and the deepest wish of your heart will come true," I tell her bluntly, affronted that she could take me for such a moron as not to know this. "It's an urban legend, nothing more."

She shakes her head, a quiet laugh slipping off of her lips. "You've become overly fatalistic, Kurama. What's happened to you?"

"Can you truly be so naïve," I toss back at her, my tone slowly finding its way back to my usual tenor; my eyes remain cold, however.

"I've been folding them since Genkai-sama died. And now, they're done. I hoped my wish would come true, but seeing you it's proof enough that it hasn't," she explains sadly, shaking her head at me; a pitiable gesture.

"Wishing on a folded piece of paper is not a promise, Botan. Of course your wish hasn't come true. It is urban legend and folklore. There's no proof that points otherwise," I tell her dryly.

"You just don't get it do you?" she asks slowly. "The cranes are a sigh of hope. The hope that I had, the hope that you lost." Her voice tapers off into silence and tears leak slowly from her eyes.

"You aren't making sense," I reply gruffly, feeling mildly guilty for having brought her to tears. Despite my anger at her and my disapproval of her antic with the crane, I cannot stand to see her cry; cannot bear the knowledge that I am the one responsible for it.

"Botan, please," I sigh in tired resignation, knowing that I have to let the anger go. It is not the path I should be walking now. "I do not know what you mean."

"Forget it — just forget it," she hiccups between her tears. And now it is her turn to sound angry. "I wanted you to know; to see the truth. But I know it obviously won't happen. All I can hope for now is that with this final crane you see the truth."

She stands then, an abrupt and rigid motion, and walks to the door, holding it open. "Maybe you'll realize it — just maybe." But even as she says the words there is a doubtful tone to the words. You've given up on yourself and on everyone else. But we haven't — I haven't." She steps out the door, "I wish you would realize that you're not alone, and I wish you knew that it's not hopeless."

And with that, the door slams shut with a menacing clack.

A moment of silence follows in which the sound of breaking glass catches my attention. I turn towards the noise and see tinted pieces of glass lying shattered on our carpet. Slamming the door had dislodged the delicate stained glass windows from the frame, and had sent it crashing down.

The pieces lay in fragments, a litany of color upon the otherwise blank canvas of our simple carpet. A once whole and beautiful thing now lies in thousands of splinters, its past beauty as lost now as the image it portrayed is.

The paper crane has fluttered to the floor — released from my crushing grip upon the arrival of Botan's departure — and my gaze flies back to it. Pale reflections of shattered glass cast opaque shapes and colors upon its blank sides and shadows dance off of the crumpled paper.

The scene is highly reminiscent of my life; a metaphor for it, really.

Hope and Peace; the crane symbolizes what had been and the shattered glass is the picture of now. The glass is broken; it can never again be what it had been. It will always be broken and no amount of repair will ever restore it to its prior glory. It may be put back together, but the cracks will always remain.

I pick up the crane and set it back on the couch, and then turn to the broken glass on the floor. I smile inwardly. The difference between my life and the eloquent little metaphor that accompanies it is simple. The glass is broken and cannot be fixed; it has no more hope

I kneel on the carpet, my back to the crane, which stands as a lone sentinel from my couch, the sole bystander to this spectacle, and start picking up the glass fragments.

And with them, I pick up the fragments of my broken life.

Once the larger shards are removed from the carpet I turn to the trash and throw them out; I will vacuum later to remove the smaller fragments and then I will throw out the trash.

And with it, I will throw out the fragments of my broken life…