Act II Scene vii
In a hospital room with a large window to the west, pair of lungs rise and fall in rhythm with a mechanical beeping. For ten beeps, one steady breath in and out.
There is threadbare comfort in the beeping and the breathing for those who still visit.
For too long, they've stopped by, drumming knuckles tunelessly against the door frame to fill the listless, measured atmosphere with something spontaneous. Some of them sit in the chair beside the bed and stare hopelessly at the shriveled figure tucked between the stark sheets.
A few old friends come seeking a word, pouring out their troubles or triumphs or a snappy joke they might have overheard while waiting in line at the ramen stand around the corner.
One of them comes every Thursday with two shot glasses and a bottle of sake; somehow she always leaves with an empty bottle but her drinking partner never partakes.
Another of them comes every Sunday with candy and a newspaper which he reads aloud in docile voice, occasionally interjecting his thoughts on current events; the top drawer of the nightstand is filled with the individually wrapped candies from each visit.
The most common visitor prefers to leave her friend to his dreams, waiting for him to wake and tell her all about them; and while she waits, she jots down her thoughts in a worn notebook, so she'll get it all right when she has the chance tell him how much she has missed him. How much he matters.
The last of those faithful attendees doesn't bother with jokes, drinks, news, or notes. Under her breath, she provides a constant stream of insults, insinuations, and challenges, hoping to goad him into waking or, at the very least, siphon off her frustration with the impasse. Aside from her disparaging remarks, she likes to "do up his hair" when words can no longer contain her agitation. Whether frilly bowed pig-tails and rainbow beaded braids, she thinks he might wake up for no other reason than to escape the shame.
So far, her plan has been as unsuccessful as anyone else's.
But today is different.
The insult-slinging hair dresser's too exhausted to do much more than hunch over in the chair beside the bed and nod-off with her head drooping onto her unresponsive companion's arm.
And while she naps, Toushirou stirs imperceptibly. One finger twitches to prove it can, and his brow crinkles as though under the weight of deep contemplation. Then, his chapped lips move wordlessly, capturing a shuddering breath and holding it to prolong the moment before he opens his eyes.
Then the moment in flux ends, and waking begins.