Learn to Live Again
Chapter One: More of an Object than a Child
By Kaen
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The scarlet dawn awoke slowly, extending her rested arms across the sky in a lethargic stretch. Her rising was greeted by the cool clouds of morning, stained shining gold, royal purple, and radiant pink by her infectious glow. In honor of the mistress on morning's arrival, the sky yielded it coat of midnight ebony and shed it instead for a delicate veil of the palest tones of blue and indigo, hovering just above the crimson mist. A light blanket of fog was bestowed upon the earth, bathing the life below in moisture while the dew that had formed on the vegetation during the warm night began to conjure into small assemblies of the sweetest water. Rapidly growing too large for their host to support, they began to flow to the ends of the petals and leaves, dripping away in such an order that they seemed strung together by some invisible thread that had spaced the individual drops apart with an expert precision.
The first bird burst into its joyous song, reveling in the opportunity to present the Lady Morning its solo in praise of her glorious rising that was completely unmarred by the noises that would occur during the day. The rush of the vehicles on the road, the chattering voices of humans, the shrill shriek of sirens; no, all were silent now. It was only the pleasant chirping of a single bird perched high in the branches of a lone cherry blossom tree, which had long since withered in the heat of summer. Waking to the cries of its companion, another bird joined into the song and it became a duet. Then another joined, and then yet another. Soon the morning was alive with the cheerful hymn and it was then that the golden sun peaked over the horizon, its light banishing the silver crescent moon from its view. The serenity of the new day remained as so for only a few minutes, its countenance like a sculpture of glass that was tipped from the edge and shattered when the first car raced by. It was closely followed by another, and so the new day began.
A tall building that rose from its surroundings like a pillar elevated amongst waves of sand blocking the rays of the sun and casting a dark shadow in its midst. Inside, this building was no more alive than the world around it, save for the staff of medics that were burdened with nightshifts. Sleepy as they were, they all continued to busy themselves with quiet work. It was all they could do to prevent themselves from falling into slumber like the patients the resided under their care. At the desk of the second floor, the intensive care unit, a nurse clothed in the standard white uniform sat typing at a computer with a stony look upon her tired face. She was not a young woman, but she was not by any means old; closer to middle-aged, really. But with the darkened bags that ran under her eyes, her pale face, and her thins lips set into a straight and solemn line, she appeared to be so much older. Perhaps it was the emotionally draining consequences of her work?
She had willfully worked in the ICU of the hospital for eleven years, and had seen more than her fair share of miraculous recoveries, as well as tragic deaths. Sometimes a patient would come into her ward with little more than a hope and prayer of living, would undergo the decisive surgery, and would then be able to return to a normal life after rehabilitation. But for every success, it seemed like there was an equal, or even greater, failure. These failures were the very thing that weighed down her already tired soul the most. She had entered into the medical field in order to help people, but when you couldn't do anything to save those entrusted to you… Like when a man would be rushed in after a severe accident and would die shortly after surgery, or when an older woman would die of a stroke, even if the surgery went well. Sometimes, it was necessary to acknowledge the fact that you couldn't save everyone, it was necessary to give up. All these things pained her soul, as they would for anyone, but even this was not what plagued her heart the most.
The undoubtedly worst consequence of her profession was being forced to attend to young people when those times occurred- children that didn't have the slightest chance of surviving. It was like watching a flower bud wither and die, never having had the chance of living their promising lives at all, none the less to its fullest. It was easier to accept that an aged person passed on, or even an adult, but to have to tell expectant parents that their child was dead left a careening abyss of guilt in the soul. It was never her fault that they died, though, it was her fault that she could never let go. Sighing heavily, she turned her worn gray eyes away from the computer screen to the impersonal aluminum-framed clock hanging on the equally impersonal wall.
It was 5:33.
She sighed again, using her arms to push herself away from the desk. A wheel on the chair let out a small squeak as she rolled it backwards, but in the quiet of the hallway, it was deafening. She winced, hoping that the noise hadn't disturbed anyone's slumber, but then berated herself. The only person who could possibly be awake at this time were the other hospital staff members, and the patient that she had gotten up to attend to. He was a young and precariously quiet boy who's life seemed to be stretched out like rice paper soaked with rain. He had never wronged her or lashed out at her, but she hated taking care of him, or even seeing him. You see, this boy had been in the same room of the intensive care unit for over three years, and instead of getting better, he always seemed to be getting gradually worse. The doctors couldn't even begin to diagnose any sort of disease even after all this time because all the tests they ran for the plausible sicknesses came out negative. It was as if the child was fated to die, despite anything that modern medicine could offer. To make matters worse, the boy was the only child of a rich and powerful family, hence the only heir. However, it was rumored that the family's bloodline was cursed with some sort of disease from a demon, killing some of the family members in unusual and inexplicable ways.
She wasn't superstitious, and it was only a rumor, but nothing else could explain it. She pitied the boy and felt more sympathy towards him than anyone else she had ever known, but she hated doing anything involving his treatment, primarily because he had no appropriate "treatment". All these procedures were only a way to prolong his life, which was already failing miserably. She unlocked the door to the medicine storage room, absently making her way to the freezer that held the boy's medicine. She didn't need to pay attention to her actions anymore when it came to this; it was always the exact same thing day in and day out. She would unlock the room, get the same type package out of the same cooler, string it on the metal rack, and walk to the boy's room. There, she would stare at the door for a minute before rapping on it lightly with her knuckles and then enter, saying: "Kurosaki-san, it's time for your medicine."
He used to acknowledge her presence in the room with a slight nod in her general direction, but hadn't done so for nearly a year now. She had heard that it had something to do with his stepmother scolding him on his sixteenth birthday, telling him that he was a murderer, that the only reason that he was even alive now was because his father needed an heir. She had said numerous cruel things to the boy- had even called him a monster- and all he had done-- all he could do-- was stare at her, wide-eyed. After that, though, Kurosaki-san had become even more distant than he already was and seemed to have lost any will he may have had to live. And thus, the nurse found herself in front of the heavy wooden once again, metal rack in one hand and the other held stilly next to the door. Casting her tired eyes downwards, she gathered her strength and rapped on the door.
"Kurosaki-san, it's time for your medicine," she stated monotonously, reaching down, grasping the worn handle, turning it, and then pushing the door open.
She breathed a sigh of relief to see that the boy was asleep for once, since he was usually awakened by her quiet introduction. Walking over swiftly to the side of his bed, she detached the empty bag and replaced it with the new one, watching for a moment to ensure that the drops were falling as they should. Satisfied that everything was in place, she turned her head to steal a quick glance at the slumbering boy in the room. His skin was deftly pale, making the comparison of him to rice paper even more realistic, but his cheeks were constantly tinted pinkish-red. It was due to the fever that wouldn't abandon its grasp on his fragile body, and it accented the ghostly white of his skin even more. It reminded her of an unfinished painting that the artist has lost interest in, leaving the canvas as a chalky sketch with only a streak of red to exaggerate what would have been the face. It was really quite sad…
Incessant beeping brought her out of her silent reverie. She looked up, her eyes locating the heart monitor that was loudly chiming, and for good reason. Kurosaki's pulse had dropped drastically, his heart beating only about twenty times a minute, and quickly declining.
"Kurosaki-san! Kurosaki-san!" she cried in alarm, placing a hand on his thin shoulder in attempt to rouse him.
When she released him, however, his frame just seemed to sink further into the bed. Her own face paled and she fled the room, forgetting the empty bag left on the tray as she ran to the nurses' station to issue an emergency call to all paramedics available. Within less than a minute, Kurosaki's previously silent room was alive with commotion, eight doctors and nurses managing to squeeze into the small chamber. In the rush of the moment, it would have been impossible to list all the attempts to revive the boy. After an hour a failed efforts, the team of medics stood quietly over the unconscious body, some silently filing out of the room since they didn't want to be present when the teenager finally passed on from this world of pain.
Kurosaki's parents had been informed within minutes of the nurse's alert to the rest of the nurses and doctors, and had arrived a little less than thirty minutes after the call. One would predict them to be rather flustered or upset by the situation, but neither showed any signs of distress. Kurosaki's father stood tall and silent, his lips tightly sealed and making no request to see his son. His stepmother looked more smug than anything else; she actually appeared to be somehow amused to hear that her stepson's death was drawing near. But she remained equally silent, latching on to her husband's arm like the lecherous woman she was. Despite the powerful aristocrat making no demands to see his only child, he was shown to the cramped room that was still at the time abuzz with activity.
Kurosaki Nagare waited patiently outside the hospital room, true to his dignified upbringing, until some of the doctors and nurses quietly excused themselves from the room. He then entered with his wife, who was still looking smug with herself, and they both looked upon the helpless figure of the boy laying limply on the bed. For the situation, his breath was coming to him at a surprisingly calm rate. The heart monitor's alarm had been shut off and the doctors had fallen silent upon the entrance of the pair. The room's tense silence was heavy, weighing down on the nervous hospital workers like a yoke upon an ox. Nagare looked away from his son, allowing his emerald-green eyes to study the distraught faces of those left in the room.
"He's dying?" Nagare confirmed, his cold eyes practically boring a hole through the man that he presumed to be the head doctor.
He swallowed nervously before answering, "His pulse has dropped much too low to sustain him for much longer, and his body temperature his rocketed. We can't locate the source of these problems, however, and his breathing is light but normal…"
This was all that the intimidated doctor managed to squeak out, partially because he was not willing to hazard any more and also that Kurosaki Nagare's glare had become more acute. But then something most unprecedented occurred. Nagare carefully freed his arm from his wife's demanding hold and approached the hospital bed, leaning over the pale youth and grasping his slender shoulders tightly. He shook him gently at first, as if attempting to wake him from a catnap, but the yanks became fiercer. Nagare's frustration was quickly rising, being evident in the way his brow creased and his striking eyes narrowed.
"Wake up, Hisoka. Hisoka. Open your eyes. Hisoka!" he began, gradually raising his voice until it became nothing short if a shout.
Instead of becoming aware of his surroundings, however, the boy was engulfed in a wave of what was assumed to be pain. His eyebrows knitted together and his eyes squeezed closed tighter. His lips cracked open, allowing the rushes of air to pass easily as his breathing became erratic and stifled. A faint cry of pain escaped him, even though he appeared to be making a sincere effort to remain quiet before his father even in his oblivious state. Hisoka exhaled loudly, it being short and labored. This worried the doctors, gently trying to intercede by telling Nagare that whatever he was doing was causing the boy more pain than comfort. Hisoka's air continued to come in gasps and uneven pants, but, as unwilling as the medics would be to admit it, this pain might have been the very thing that he needed to regain consciousness.
Hisoka's pale fingers dug into the sheets, clenching them tightly, and his stepmother smirked.
"Little monster," she whispered under her breath, being fully aware of what Nagare was doing to her sister's child.
Nagare continued to shake the boy, his anger intensifying until it appeared that his son was actually responding to the strong emotion. A hush fell over the paramedics when Hisoka's eyes began to flinch. His pulse had leaped up with the touch of Nagare, more than likely matching his father's for a reason that was lost to the professionals. Finally, eyes of identical green met. Hisoka was gazing up cautiously at his father, though evidently the action did invoke a great deal of pain. His lips moved, suggesting that he was attempting to speak, but was having difficulty forming the words. He tried again, but no voice aided him. His father's frustration grew, his hands tightening on his son, and it was on the third try directly thereafter that Hisoka was able to find the strength to speak. The words were little more than a forced whisper, but everyone present had heard them as clearly as if they had been clearly spoken at a normal volume.
"Don't touch me."
Nagare gasped, his eyes widening at his son's blunt plea. His taught hands fell slack and Hisoka sank back into the bed, his eyes rolling back in his head as he returned to unconsciousness as if nothing had ever happened. His heart rate plummeted down lower than it had been before the encounter, but didn't simply remain beating at the low level that the staff had managed to stabilize before. Instead, it declined until only a few weak beats per minute were displayed on the monitor. Being aware that they could do no more, the remaining doctors and nurses quietly exited the room, still in shock from Hisoka's haunting command. He had told his own father not to touch him- what kind of child was this? Regardless, they left the room and closed the door behind them with a soft, yet firm, click. Very few actually left the hallway outside, however, intent on eavesdropping on the surprisingly normally toned voices coming from within.
"Your emotions hurt him, you know. He's suffering even more because of you," a female voice declared haughtily, taking a delight in whatever pain Nagare might have been experiencing.
"It was the only thing that would reach him, and then he tells me not to touch him. He's rejected his own father…"
"Your way of reaching him hurt him. Can't you see that? Humph… After three years of making us wait, the little monster really is going to die. It's about time, I'd say."
"You have no place to speak, woman. This boy is my heir. No matter how cursed he is, he is the only one who could carry on the family bloodline, but you celebrate the fact that he's near death. Without him, my brother will inherit my fortune and will leave you with nothing. Are your spirits dampened yet, and or need I go on?"
"… Forgive me…"
A constant, high-pitched beep resounded from the room, while some nurses cupped a hand over their mouths and others gasped in shock. The only doctor among them tightened his jaw, determined to remain emotionless by the death of the young boy. But any hopes that they might have had to not dissolve into tears were crushed when they heard the desperate words piercing through the heavy door again.
"Hisoka. Hisoka! Open your eyes, boy! Hisoka!!"
The nurse who had stumbled upon his condition just an hour ago retreated from the scene, walking quickly as she wiped the rapidly forming tears away. Wandering into the lobby of the floor, she stopped in front of a window to the outside where the sun had just barely risen.
'Ironic,' she mused sadly. 'How can it be the dawn of a new day when the sun has just set on the life of a child? How can accursed this day be so unrightfully beautiful?'
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So, how was it? Good? Bad? Indifferent? Don't know, don't care? Seriously! Let me know what you think! I personally believe that the story is off to a good start. I really made an effort to make this story original and I've never stumbled across something with a plot close to the one this fic will develop, although the first chapter was kind of... depressing. Before I get off topic, though, I should probably stop ranting. Thanks so much for reading a please review! I'd really appreciate any comments you have to offer!
-Kaen ^^