She left his apartment in the dead of night at a dead run. She had left him passed out on the couch, the television babbling an infomercial, spittle oozing down his chin.
A horrible pity dwelled deep in her heart, terrified her, and drove her from him now. The boy's fate horrified her, and bound her to him by day, but, when he fell asleep the horror would overwhelm her and she would leave him to his dreams.
She had met Ame a year before, and at first, she had been honestly interested in him. The confusing coupling of filthy, dark, and disreputable image and charming smile, quick wit, and innate talent for romance had been nearly irresistible to her, but now…Now she clung to him out of pity and fear: fear of herself, of the bizarre fantasy that had come to rule her life, and pity for a charming boy who did not know he was dying.
It was one of the earlier things the mirror, which seemed to have deep insight into the health of the human body, had shown Michiru. Fixing her hair one morning, worrying about what she knew she must tell Ame, she had watched in wonder as the surface of the hand mirror rippled, softly, like a bubbling stream. Slowly it had ushered forth the image of the boy's face, smiling wanly, dark eyes bereft of their characteristic sparkle. He was pale, and shaking; he coughed, harshly, blood spattered the hospital blanket covering his emaciated frame. The coughing weakened, lessened, but not, it seemed, in an easing of his travail, but an ending of it. As she watched in amazement and dread, he faded slowly with the intensity of his coughs. Finally, his head went limp against the pillow; the body ceased its heaving under the covers…
She seemed to see death, and life, and ills all around her now; whenever she glanced at the silver heirloom. Did the girl on the park bench behind her know she was pregnant? How long had that poor man suffered migraines? It was maddening, terrifying, and absolutely fascinating at the same time.
She liked the babies best, the tiny prenatal balls of beings, shifting ever so slightly in the warm, dark safety of their mothers…
She submerged her face in the bathroom sink, to free her skin of the salt of her tears, and sighed. He seemed frailer every day, and he refused to recognise it. If she expressed concern he would laugh and kiss her gently, "Ah, I'm just undernourished…Buy me lunch?" She'd have thought it denial, but he seemed so sweetly honest, and so oblivious to the doom she saw him rushing to…She was deeply sorry, now, that she had ever known him, for his sake more than her own. Some other girl, some other woman, might have had the strength to make him face his affliction, might have dragged him to a doctor, might have taken proper care of him. Michiru could not; she had seen too much of the crushing effect of illness on the spirit to bring him face to face with his imminent death.
She dried her face gently with the green hand towel hanging above the toilet, and gave herself a long look in the mirror. She didn't look much different than she had three or four months before, but….Nothing was the same.
