Mireille in Japan, Chapter 6
Kirika's bags were packed, but she wasn't scheduled to leave her hotel room for another hour. She stretched out, her hands balled into fists, her feet pointed like a gymnast's. In five hours she would see Mireille.
There was a knock at the door, and reluctantly Kirika sat up. She'd forgotten to hang the "Do not disturb" sign on her door again. In soft Spanish she asked the cleaning woman to come back in an hour. Closing the door again, she returned to her bed.
In addition to her love of painting, Kirika had discovered an uncanny talent for learning languages. She had been warmly received into the group of language teachers at the local high school and they often ate lunch together and talked about students and such. Kirika had become especially close to one of the Spanish teachers who had once been to Japan (none of them knew she had lived in Paris for almost six years), and the young Colombian had somehow unknowingly ignited a desire to learn Spanish inside Kirika's heart. Later she would have to admit that part of the reason had probably been to take her mind off of Mireille, but the more she studied, the more interested she became in not only the language, but also the culture. In her spare time Kirika had checked out books from the library and perused them late into the night, also relying on websites for further information. The bottles of paint and canvases she had bought in her first few months in America were thrown aside and forgotten for the time being.
In five years she had built up a solid basis of knowledge of the Spanish language and culture, as well as enough money to make a short trip to Spain. Whenever she stepped into her friend's classroom, her eyes were inextricably drawn to the map of Europe, first to Spain-and then to France, where they stayed. Many times she had stayed, staring at the tiny little black star labeled "Paris" until the bell rang and she had to hurry to get back to her own class.
She missed Mireille terribly those first few, lonely days in Rhode Island. Kirika had taken up a tiny but cozy apartment of her own yet never spoke with any of their neighbors. It had been harder for her than Mireille to fit into a normal life, but she had had more success than the Corsican blonde. No one looking at her today-not even Chloe or Altena, had they been alive-would have recognized her as the tiny child who held a gun up to Roland and Odette Bouquet.
Unlike Mireille, she still kept her gun. It was here in Rhode Island with her, unloaded and ironically hidden in a drawer beneath layers of clothes she never wore. She had experimented with fashion and makeup after arriving in the United States, but most of it had wound up as a cloak for the Beretta. She didn't intend to ever use it, just kept it to remember the Corsican, the blonde that she still loved. The young woman that she had once tried to kill with the same gun.
Kirika left her room and locked it securely behind her, carrying one of her two bags on each shoulder. Outside, she called a taxi. "El aeropuerto, por favor," she instructed. He nodded and she sat down inside.
The brunette turned people's heads everywhere she walked in the Segovian airport. Most Segovians had never seen a Japanese before and stared at her as she walked briskly past them.
On the plane, Kirika fell asleep almost immediately, still thinking of Mireille.
= = = = = = =
The sun set slowly down behind the building facing Mireille's apartment as the clock struck seven. Kirika sat on Mireille's chair before her computer, facing the pool table. Briefly she amused herself by playing with the colorful pool balls, but grew tired of the smashing sounds. The balls sat at random locations now, silent as stone.
The apartment grew darker and darker, though Kirika didn't bother to turn the lights on. She wanted time to think over what she wanted to say. She still loved Mireille deeply, but felt as if she was becoming less and less important every day. Something had to change, and Kirika hoped it would be for the good.
Outside, the city grew quieter and quieter as night fell. Soon Kirika was sitting in blackness, illuminated only by a few rays of moonlight. She walked to the window and looked outside at the road below them. There was no sign of Mireille, only a pedestrian now and then. Kirika was lonely and worried, anxious about how Mireille would react.
She didn't sleep, but stayed for hours more. When the door finally opened and Mireille's dark shape came in, it made straight for the bed.
"Mireille."
The word was hurried, not sounding the way she would have liked for it to sound. Mireille stopped and turned to look at the bed. "Kirika?" She gasped upon noticing Kirika's silhouette moving towards her. "Kirika."
Kirika didn't say anything. Her carefully planned out sentences had become a jumble of words in her brain, and she tried desperately to reorganize them. Mireille stood in the doorway, and although Kirika couldn't see it in the dark, her eyes suddenly widened in understanding. Kirika opened her mouth to speak, but Mireille had begun first.
"Kirika, we're different now. Before, we were bound by the name of Noir, but now. . .we've begun trying to lead normal lives. We've tried to put Altena and Chloe behind us. We-"
Kirika broke in at this point, but got no further than "I-" before her throat closed with emotion that she could not bear to release. Mireille stopped, crossing her arms across her chest. Although Kirika couldn't see her face, she knew that the expression on Mireille's face was an impatient one. (However, Mireille could see Kirika's facial expressions, due to the moonlight and their different positions in the room.)
Kirika whispered, "I miss-being Noir, Mireille."
Mireille gasped. Kirika wondered if it was out of shock or disgust. She knew that Mireille had deeply hated and regretted their days as Noir and wanted to forget about those times. Her voice was slightly wavering, yet filled with as much annoyance as astonishment as she said, "How can you say that? Those were some of the darkest days of our lives. We made a living killing people, killing Chloe and Altena-"
"No," Kirika cut her off. She didn't want to think about Chloe, didn't want to think about Altena. She took a deep breath and went on. "I don't miss any of that. But we were closer then. We knew each other. Mireille-I feel like you're a stranger to me now. You're never home and when you are, we don't talk about anything anymore."
She had told Mireille her feelings now, and she felt as if she could relax. Mireille knew how she felt and would change her ways to suit both of them better now. Instead, Mireille's sharp voice cut into Kirika's thoughts like a laser on glass.
"Kirika, when we were Noir, we had to know every aspect of each other's life and be able to read each other's minds. We've left that life behind. We're living like normal people now, people who-"
"Don't need to know each other all that well?" The words were out of Kirika's mouth before she knew it, and her tone was angry. Mireille noted it as well and was silent for awhile. When she spoke again, her voice was slightly softer.
"Yes, I suppose that's what I mean," Mireille said slowly. "I'm not saying we're not friends, Kirika. It's just that we're each leading our own individual lives now and."
Kirika waited stonily for her to go on, but the Corsican blonde said nothing and only stared thoughtfully off into the distance. Neither said anything, but Mireille broke the pregnant pause with the only thing that could have hurt Kirika more than a direct rejection. She brushed her off-as if she was something unimportant-yet again.
"I'm exhausted. We can continue this in the morning," she pointed out as she stepped up to their beds. "I'm going to go to bed now."
Kirika was shocked and hurt beyond words. For almost another hour she stood there, hoping that Mireille would speak again, but when she heard her ex- partner's soft breathing in the silence of the night, she knew it was over. Anger and hurt streaming through her veins now, Kirika packed her bags. She didn't bother to be quiet, figuring that if she woke Mireille up, she might be able to talk some sense into her, but that just didn't happen. Finally Kirika Yuumura stood by the door of the Parisian apartment, her bags by her side, and Mireille lay undisturbed and asleep in bed.
Kirika opened the door and stepped outside. She didn't know where she was going, but it didn't matter anymore.
= = = = = = =
"Señorita, por favor despiértate. Estamos llegando en Francia."
"Gracias," muttered Kirika sleepily as she sat up. Having woken her up, the flight attendant smiled and hurried off to wake another sleeping passenger.
Kirika had just pulled her seat upright when there was a bump and a loud whirring noise from the engines. Disappointed, Kirika looked outside to see only the runway. She had been expecting to see the French countryside come into view as they descended, but had slept through it all. And she'd dreamed of her last conversation with Mireille-something she had never dreamed of before.
This was the same airport that she had landed in six years ago with Mireille. Back then she'd been cautious and afraid of everything; today she breezed through customs and was out of the airport within thirty minutes. She called a taxi and headed straight for Mireille's apartment.
Little did she know that at that moment, Mireille was sitting in her old home in Japan, wishing that she would come home.
Kirika's bags were packed, but she wasn't scheduled to leave her hotel room for another hour. She stretched out, her hands balled into fists, her feet pointed like a gymnast's. In five hours she would see Mireille.
There was a knock at the door, and reluctantly Kirika sat up. She'd forgotten to hang the "Do not disturb" sign on her door again. In soft Spanish she asked the cleaning woman to come back in an hour. Closing the door again, she returned to her bed.
In addition to her love of painting, Kirika had discovered an uncanny talent for learning languages. She had been warmly received into the group of language teachers at the local high school and they often ate lunch together and talked about students and such. Kirika had become especially close to one of the Spanish teachers who had once been to Japan (none of them knew she had lived in Paris for almost six years), and the young Colombian had somehow unknowingly ignited a desire to learn Spanish inside Kirika's heart. Later she would have to admit that part of the reason had probably been to take her mind off of Mireille, but the more she studied, the more interested she became in not only the language, but also the culture. In her spare time Kirika had checked out books from the library and perused them late into the night, also relying on websites for further information. The bottles of paint and canvases she had bought in her first few months in America were thrown aside and forgotten for the time being.
In five years she had built up a solid basis of knowledge of the Spanish language and culture, as well as enough money to make a short trip to Spain. Whenever she stepped into her friend's classroom, her eyes were inextricably drawn to the map of Europe, first to Spain-and then to France, where they stayed. Many times she had stayed, staring at the tiny little black star labeled "Paris" until the bell rang and she had to hurry to get back to her own class.
She missed Mireille terribly those first few, lonely days in Rhode Island. Kirika had taken up a tiny but cozy apartment of her own yet never spoke with any of their neighbors. It had been harder for her than Mireille to fit into a normal life, but she had had more success than the Corsican blonde. No one looking at her today-not even Chloe or Altena, had they been alive-would have recognized her as the tiny child who held a gun up to Roland and Odette Bouquet.
Unlike Mireille, she still kept her gun. It was here in Rhode Island with her, unloaded and ironically hidden in a drawer beneath layers of clothes she never wore. She had experimented with fashion and makeup after arriving in the United States, but most of it had wound up as a cloak for the Beretta. She didn't intend to ever use it, just kept it to remember the Corsican, the blonde that she still loved. The young woman that she had once tried to kill with the same gun.
Kirika left her room and locked it securely behind her, carrying one of her two bags on each shoulder. Outside, she called a taxi. "El aeropuerto, por favor," she instructed. He nodded and she sat down inside.
The brunette turned people's heads everywhere she walked in the Segovian airport. Most Segovians had never seen a Japanese before and stared at her as she walked briskly past them.
On the plane, Kirika fell asleep almost immediately, still thinking of Mireille.
= = = = = = =
The sun set slowly down behind the building facing Mireille's apartment as the clock struck seven. Kirika sat on Mireille's chair before her computer, facing the pool table. Briefly she amused herself by playing with the colorful pool balls, but grew tired of the smashing sounds. The balls sat at random locations now, silent as stone.
The apartment grew darker and darker, though Kirika didn't bother to turn the lights on. She wanted time to think over what she wanted to say. She still loved Mireille deeply, but felt as if she was becoming less and less important every day. Something had to change, and Kirika hoped it would be for the good.
Outside, the city grew quieter and quieter as night fell. Soon Kirika was sitting in blackness, illuminated only by a few rays of moonlight. She walked to the window and looked outside at the road below them. There was no sign of Mireille, only a pedestrian now and then. Kirika was lonely and worried, anxious about how Mireille would react.
She didn't sleep, but stayed for hours more. When the door finally opened and Mireille's dark shape came in, it made straight for the bed.
"Mireille."
The word was hurried, not sounding the way she would have liked for it to sound. Mireille stopped and turned to look at the bed. "Kirika?" She gasped upon noticing Kirika's silhouette moving towards her. "Kirika."
Kirika didn't say anything. Her carefully planned out sentences had become a jumble of words in her brain, and she tried desperately to reorganize them. Mireille stood in the doorway, and although Kirika couldn't see it in the dark, her eyes suddenly widened in understanding. Kirika opened her mouth to speak, but Mireille had begun first.
"Kirika, we're different now. Before, we were bound by the name of Noir, but now. . .we've begun trying to lead normal lives. We've tried to put Altena and Chloe behind us. We-"
Kirika broke in at this point, but got no further than "I-" before her throat closed with emotion that she could not bear to release. Mireille stopped, crossing her arms across her chest. Although Kirika couldn't see her face, she knew that the expression on Mireille's face was an impatient one. (However, Mireille could see Kirika's facial expressions, due to the moonlight and their different positions in the room.)
Kirika whispered, "I miss-being Noir, Mireille."
Mireille gasped. Kirika wondered if it was out of shock or disgust. She knew that Mireille had deeply hated and regretted their days as Noir and wanted to forget about those times. Her voice was slightly wavering, yet filled with as much annoyance as astonishment as she said, "How can you say that? Those were some of the darkest days of our lives. We made a living killing people, killing Chloe and Altena-"
"No," Kirika cut her off. She didn't want to think about Chloe, didn't want to think about Altena. She took a deep breath and went on. "I don't miss any of that. But we were closer then. We knew each other. Mireille-I feel like you're a stranger to me now. You're never home and when you are, we don't talk about anything anymore."
She had told Mireille her feelings now, and she felt as if she could relax. Mireille knew how she felt and would change her ways to suit both of them better now. Instead, Mireille's sharp voice cut into Kirika's thoughts like a laser on glass.
"Kirika, when we were Noir, we had to know every aspect of each other's life and be able to read each other's minds. We've left that life behind. We're living like normal people now, people who-"
"Don't need to know each other all that well?" The words were out of Kirika's mouth before she knew it, and her tone was angry. Mireille noted it as well and was silent for awhile. When she spoke again, her voice was slightly softer.
"Yes, I suppose that's what I mean," Mireille said slowly. "I'm not saying we're not friends, Kirika. It's just that we're each leading our own individual lives now and."
Kirika waited stonily for her to go on, but the Corsican blonde said nothing and only stared thoughtfully off into the distance. Neither said anything, but Mireille broke the pregnant pause with the only thing that could have hurt Kirika more than a direct rejection. She brushed her off-as if she was something unimportant-yet again.
"I'm exhausted. We can continue this in the morning," she pointed out as she stepped up to their beds. "I'm going to go to bed now."
Kirika was shocked and hurt beyond words. For almost another hour she stood there, hoping that Mireille would speak again, but when she heard her ex- partner's soft breathing in the silence of the night, she knew it was over. Anger and hurt streaming through her veins now, Kirika packed her bags. She didn't bother to be quiet, figuring that if she woke Mireille up, she might be able to talk some sense into her, but that just didn't happen. Finally Kirika Yuumura stood by the door of the Parisian apartment, her bags by her side, and Mireille lay undisturbed and asleep in bed.
Kirika opened the door and stepped outside. She didn't know where she was going, but it didn't matter anymore.
= = = = = = =
"Señorita, por favor despiértate. Estamos llegando en Francia."
"Gracias," muttered Kirika sleepily as she sat up. Having woken her up, the flight attendant smiled and hurried off to wake another sleeping passenger.
Kirika had just pulled her seat upright when there was a bump and a loud whirring noise from the engines. Disappointed, Kirika looked outside to see only the runway. She had been expecting to see the French countryside come into view as they descended, but had slept through it all. And she'd dreamed of her last conversation with Mireille-something she had never dreamed of before.
This was the same airport that she had landed in six years ago with Mireille. Back then she'd been cautious and afraid of everything; today she breezed through customs and was out of the airport within thirty minutes. She called a taxi and headed straight for Mireille's apartment.
Little did she know that at that moment, Mireille was sitting in her old home in Japan, wishing that she would come home.