Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha nor am I making any money off of this story. None @ all.
Author's Note: Random ficcy. Most likely continued.
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'When you're in love, it's always your fault.'
Someone told me that, a long time ago. So long that I can't even remember whom. And it was so insignificant, such a small thing, that I can't even remember what I was doing, or where I was, or why we were even talking about it. Obviously, the someone was someone smart, someone wise and educated. Someone experienced, unlike you and me. Someone who knew what he – or she – was talking about. Someone who knew what it felt like to be at fault, and to be in love, and how much it hurts to experience either, and how much more it hurts to experience both.
Right now, it's my fault - again. It's my fault that you're hurting. Hurting from a wound to your arm, and poison in your leg, and aches and pains from getting tossed around and thrown about. It'll be gone by tomorrow, though; the pain – a mere memory. You'll sleep soundly and dream of her, and I'll faithfully volunteer to stay by your side all night and keep watch over you, changing the warm compress cloths so your wounds don't get infected. Not that you will be in any danger without me, but it makes me feel needed – wanted - by you. That I'm important to you, even for a little while, even if you're unconscious. But then this night will fade into tomorrow, and you'll wake to the smell of Kaede's tea and turn to find me beside you, a compress in hand, like the last time and the time before that. And you'll bug me and poke me until I wake up, and you'll complain how you're not a pillow, though you've never known how nice it feel to sleep beside something so warm as you are.
It always comes back to me, my fault that you all need to protect me, my fault that you always get hurt. Sango, Miroku, you, my faithful guardians and dear friends who suffer so much, all because of me. I never suffer, never hurt, instead I watch as the three of you take the pain for me and that is my silent torment. I can do nothing but to weep silently as I bandage your injuries, new wounds over old scars, a never-ending cycle. Even when you try to cheer me up by smiling, I can see a grimace behind the that gentle smile, an effort of energy that costs you dearly. Your words are empty of any reassurance and grunts of pain are behind each swathe. I watch as your lips waver into lines and I know the smile doesn't make it hurt any less. Believe me, I would know.
I wish it wasn't like this, I really do. I'm trying to be better at archery, or more capable with a sword, but I'm not. I'm sure she was, though. I'm sure she could aim an arrow such that it wouldn't kill you, but it'd be enough to keep you dormant, inactive, for fifty years. I'd never do that. Not that I could, never in a million years, but I'd never harm you in such away as she did. Not only to your body, but to your mind, and to your soul. I'm not that strong.
I really wish I were better at protecting myself. Then you could focus on the shard, the jewel, and not me. I hate it when you focus on me, on my safety, because I know you don't like to. I know I'm a burden, to everyone. I know that I'm strange, and that I speak odd and dress differently. And I know that I'm weak, the vulnerable spot in the brigade. Even Shippo is better than I am.
Even though I'm not hurt, I'm hurting, and I have been forever. Since I've known you, but that's really the only thing that counts. A sore bruise is growing inside me, throbbing erratically and systematically, so that I'm always feeling it, as it makes its presence known. Sometimes it's only a small throb, like the beating of my heart, and sometimes it chokes my throat and snatches my breath away, and makes me want to cry my heart out through my salty tears. And sometimes, you wake up from your slumber, and your skin is moist and salty because I could not hold them back.
Your words pierce the bruise like arrows pierce flesh, and no one treats them with warm compresses. The way your interest strays like the wind guts my insides and no one stays awake to pour ointments and oils on their fresh wounds every two hours. The way you look at me weakens me to the point where I cannot walk, but no one offers to carry me back to some village so that I may rest. But if I ignore them, the words and looks, and not dwell on them, I can forget about them, even for a little while. But there is never a time that I'm without them, their pain is a part of my daily life and I could not live without it.
But, in some twisted, perverse way, I bear the pain like a trophy – it's something that's given to someone for doing something. It only reminds me how much I – dare I say it? – love you. Unrequited, true, but one-sided love makes me love no less and makes the love no less. It only makes me want to love you deeper, smile brighter, look better. Maybe if I look like her, or act like her, or talk like her, then you can forget about her. And you'll think about me, and you'll talk about me, and you'll dream about me. But it's hard – nearly impossible – to imitate someone, anyone, let alone someone as perfect as her, who has skin so white and hair like midnight.
Sometimes I'm amazed you even know my name, Higurashi Kagome, when nothing I do can compare to her, except maybe loving you.
Because she's perfect, and I am faulted. And I'm always at fault. But it's only because I love you so much.
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Author's Note: please review!