We'll Go Together
An angsty deathfic by Tenshi no Ai
Yeah, yeah, for a writer named as angel's love', why am I writing an angst that doesn't end very prettily and happily? And trust me, it doesn't. Um, the standard disclaimers apply. Besides, if Toei saw what I've done to their charas....well, I don't want to think about it. Yeah, the reader's identity is in the last line....if you look.
To my dearest and closest friend,
If you are reading this, I suppose you know what I have done. Please don't be mad at me, I don't think I could take your anger, even in the afterlife. I doubt that you will ever be able to understand why I've done what I've done, and I hope that you never have to go through the pure physical and psychological torment that I have went through the past 3 weeks. It is one thing to read about rape, to hear about it on the news, to hear that one of your closest friends has experienced that horrible crime. It is another thing to experience it yourself.
Many times I have asked myself why. Why would someone ever want to inflict that kind of pain onto another human being? Why? Can you answer me why? No one seems to be able to. You know, my parents sent me to a shrink who had dealt with other rape cases. I asked her why, and she gave me a long answer about the mental judgment of a rapist. But when I asked her why again, she couldn't answer. That's when I knew that no one could understand.
That's when I knew that I didn't belong in this world anymore.
It's nothing you could've stopped me from, so don't even start blaming yourself. I was determined after the appointment with the doctor. But I made sure that I would die in the quickest, least painful way possible. I had already experienced pain, and I didn't want to experience it ever again. I thought about jumping off a bridge while we were planning for your eighteenth birthday. Eighteen years old. I wish I had been there to see it. But it would have been so full of life. Life. What a funny word. I used to think that I understood the meaning of it; only now do I see how fragile, how pointless the word is. It can be taken away so easily.
Anyway, so I ruled out bridge-jumping. It would be too public, you know. Even though I am a public person, it seemed a little too movie-like for me. I thought about slitting my wrists, but then I remembered the blood I would see, seeping out of me. It brought back the memory, the pain, the dirtiness. So, as you've probably heard, I chose the safe one, the way of least resistance and pain. Sleeping pill overdose. It was easy for me to get a prescription for the pills. All I had to do was talk about how stressing it was to be a singer/model, and the doctor practically gave them to me for free.
I bet he's really kicking himself now.
I don't want my death to hurt any of you. That's why I tried to take the least painful method, so you all would know that I hadn't suffered in death. I would've suffered more in living. I would've relived each moment of the rape, again and again. I already do. I see the look on his face, that expression of unbridled lust; I feel his hands on me, caressing me, staining me everywhere; I feel....
I'm sorry, I don't want you to know all the details. I want you to be as free of all of this as much as possible. I remember the look on your face when I stumbled and crashed against your door. I must've scared you with the blood everywhere on me. I remember you worriedly asking me what happened, and I remember my mute response. See how I was trying to protect you even then? But you and everybody else have been trying, so desperately, to understand, to unlock the memories of that night from my mind. I will carry that night to the grave. I don't want to soil anyone with my presence, especially you. You deserve so much better to associate with. I remember something Michael said to me once, that suicides go to Hell. So I guess I won't see you after you die, right?
So, to you, my dearest friend, I leave you this letter. Only you, because you were so enthusiastic about wanting to know what happened to me. You wanted so eagerly to help me be the old Tachikawa Mimi the most.
But you can't make the dead alive again.
-Tachikawa Mimi
After the letter was read a second time, in the same apartment where the famous singer/model Tachikawa Mimi had instinctively gone to after her brutal rape, the reader silently put down the final letter onto the kitchen table. The letter which had been found, tacked to the front door with a note forbidding anyone from reading the contents until after watching the evening news. The tears flowed freely, mingling with the pink ink on the paper. There was no need for words, as there was no one in the barren apartment. There was only the emotions of shock, with a slowly distinctive idea of what to do next.
Actually, the idea had already been conceived when the famous singer/model's death was announced for the whole world to gossip about. But no one had felt what I had felt when the announcement had run its course. Of course the other digidestined had been devastated, but nothing like what I felt. This person, the only one who Mimi had seen fit to write a goodbye letter to. Why had she bothered? The figure at the kitchen table thought bitterly, rising from the wooden chair and heading into the kitchen. Why was it me she had written to when she had been thinking of death while we had been planning my birthday? How sincere can she really be if she couldn't even tell me, her best friend what she was thinking?
The figure stood in front of the knife holder, with a choice of six sharp kitchen implements to choose from. Practical at heart, the smallest, most economical knife was pulled from its slot. The silver blade, gripped tightly in one hand, lightly traced the throbbing vein of the other. Hesitation gripped the person's heart as well, but memories of the genki girl with the chestnut, pink, or blond hair floated around. You were so beautiful, physically and emotionally, before it happened. These memories contradicted with the recent memories of the same person, quiet and morose, who flinched at a harsh word or, more recently, any word. In so much pain and I couldn't help you.
The silver streak danced across the thin veil of skin that covered the pulsing canal of blood. The blood was escaping out of the vein in beat with the heart. Minutes passed, and the heart gradually began to slow down, but the blood was still running away. I don't blame myself. The figure slowly fell to the floor, into the lifeblood which had escaped. Suicides go to hell, you said. The figure clutched onto that sentence while everything else went dark. Well, I'm going to find you there then. And we'll be there together. Don't think I don't understand. I do understand why.
The figure's eyelids closed as the puddling blood drifted toward the eyes. The eyes which were the same crimson as the shifting, thick liquid.
We are best friends forever...
~Owari~
Well, that was......dark. And depressing. Honestly, I hope you figured out who the receiver of the letter was. And no, this wasn't meant to be shoujo-ai, at least not in the romantic way. It's supposed to be an angsty-deathfic friendship. Oh, and please review. That is, if you aren't totally disgusted with this.