CHAPTER THREE
Serena was still feeling numb when she awakened the next morning. She uncurled her slight form, lifting her head from her tear-stained pillow. Her body continued to ache from the ordeal she inevitably relived each night, and her eyes felt gritty with the grief she had yet to fully release. Her head ached, and she felt as though she'd been hit by a succession of very large trucks. In spite of all this, however, she was still surprised to find that she was just as exhausted as she had been the night before. Her muscles seemed to have been leeched of all energy, and she needed to expend a great deal of effort simply to drag herself from her bed.
He was coming today, the shrink her parents had chosen for her. She wasn't looking forward to the time she would have to spend with him, though she knew nothing about him and so could not, logically, find an explanation for the dread she was already feeling. He was, after all, only one more person to lie to, and she was becoming fairly skilled with deceptions and half-answers. She could do this.
She was still worried, though evasion had become an almost second nature to her since the discovery of her thrice-cursed destiny. She hadn't yet found a decent explanation for her behavior either before or after the tragedy, and she feared the risks of revealing more than she wished of her identity to one trained to discover her secrets. She knew there would be questions that she wouldn't be able to answer, and she hesitated to give a lie that might later cause more trouble than it prevented. The police were still investigating the deaths, and she could not predict which statements might later be revealed as falsehoods.
No matter how much time she'd spent thinking and worrying, she hadn't found a reason for her presence within that warehouse. The building had been on the other side of town, in a neighborhood not known for safety. A group of fourteen-year-old schoolgirls should not have been there at all, let alone been there in the dead of night. What could she tell the psychiatrist that wouldn't jeopardize her hated mission? She had racked her brains for hours, but she could not find any reason that might explain the deaths of her friends. Even if she had been able to excuse their presences within the warehouse, she could not justify the ends they'd met.
She hoped the shrink wouldn't try to delve too deeply into her thoughts just yet. Perhaps, if she were truly lucky, he'd try to gain her trust first, try to help her work through her guilt without forcing her to reveal her knowledge. She might have a little time to construct a feasible story before the psychiatrist came to know her well enough to detect her lies.
Serena shook her head, hating the situation in which her secrets had placed her. Why? she thought again. This isn't what my mother would have wanted for us, for me. She shouldn't have given her life for this.
Serena slowly padded into her bathroom, sighing profoundly as she caught a brief glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror. The nightmares that had interrupted her sleep the past few nights had taken a toll on her body, as well as her mind. Her skin was sickly pale, her eyes dull and empty. Her once glossy, vibrant hair had become dry and lifeless, and she looked as though on the very edge of collapse.
Even to herself, she looked awful, and she sighed again, knowing this would only increase her troubles. Her parents' concern would intensify if her body continued to fail on her, and this psychiatrist sent to torment her would take the lack of vitality in her face for guilt. He, too, would begin to doubt her, and she was not yet recovered enough from her grief to judge how terrible the consequences of that doubt might be.
Serena swallowed, attempting to ease the dull ache in her throat. When this attempt failed, she simply leaned forward, letting the top of her head rest against the cool glass of her mirror. She wished she knew of a way to ease the intense pressure in her heart, wished she could hear whatever her own mind had been trying to tell her since the day her friends had died.
You look terrible, Serena. You're not getting enough sleep.
Serena's head snapped up at the sudden voice echoing in her mind, though her only other reaction was a brief wince as the too-swift movement sent a wave of dizziness flowing through her. "Gods," she muttered, face white and eyes wide. "On top of everything else, I'm hearing things."
Her face crumpled with renewed grief, and she winced once more. For a brief, nightmarish moment, she'd almost thought she'd heard Mina's lyrical voice dancing through her mind...
"Stop it, Serena," she scolded herself fiercely, voice tense with emotion. "Mina's dead." She turned her face away, staring instead at the bloodless fingers clenching the bathroom countertop. "They all are." She sighed, rubbing at her tired eyes. You can't keep doing this, she told herself wearily. You can't keep thinking that they're still here, that they're still with you. They're gone, and you need to accept their deaths.
"You don't have a choice," she whispered.
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Darien's fierce eyes narrowed as he forced his way through the dozens of reporters cluttering what once must have been an immaculately clean yard. He scowled as he listened, face emotionless and blank, to the commentary each reporter was feeding to the cameras. None of it, he reflected sourly, was even remotely accurate. Speculation had already replaced truth, and he could only hope the Tsukino family somehow remained ignorant of the lies being told of themselves and of their daughter.
The Tsukino's small home had become the media's feeding grounds in the last twelve hours, and the tall youth felt yet another wave of pity for the girl and her family. Whatever her involvement with these murders might be, they did not deserve this.
Darien paused as he approached the front door, quickly flashing his I.D. cards to the group of law enforcement officers carefully standing guard over the Tsukino household. They eyed him suspiciously, and Darien supposed he was not the first man to attempt to break past their watchful gazes. He sighed, allowing the men ample time to examine the identification he had provided. Camera lights flashed in his eyes as he waited, and he suspected that his face would soon be accompanying Serena's on the evening news. Try as he might, not even his gruff, taciturn superior was truly capable of keeping this visit a secret. The media, Darien thought dryly, would be ecstatic to learn that Serena Tsukino was seeing a psychologist—proof enough, they would think, of her guilt.
His scowl only deepened as the officers finished verifying his I.D. They quickly ushered him through the front door as the reporters continued firing their barrage of questions, and Darien favored the cameras with one last, icy glare as he disappeared into the Tsukino's home.
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Kenji Tsukino stared coldly at the latest intruder to his once peaceful dwelling, hating the necessity of this visit. Serena, he thought savagely, did not need some upstart kid to counsel her. She needed an older man, one with more experience and a less handsome face—a much less handsome face.
Serena's father scowled, wondering why his friend had recommended this boy at all. Surely, he mused for the tenth time, Takanaka could have found someone more qualified? This youth was not more than a few years older than Serena herself. What could he possibly know about counseling? This boy, Kenji thought angrily, could not heal Serena. How could one as young as this possibly understand what his daughter was suffering, what she was going through? Death could not be much more than an abstract concept to one as young as this.
Though, Kenji reluctantly admitted to himself, the boy had sounded competent enough during the single phone conversation they'd had before the funerals. The upstart's tone, even then, had been brisk and professional, fully capable. Had Kenji never become aware of the boy's age, even he would not have doubted one who came with as strong a recommendation as Gregg Takanaka had given Darien Chiba. Still, even that recommendation could not control Kenji's hostility towards this young man and the need he represented. Serena's mind was fragile enough already, and Kenji was not willing to entrust his daughter's mental health to one lacking any significant experience, regardless of how intelligent this pupil of Gregg's supposedly was.
Alleged genius or not, Darien Chiba was not the man for Serena.
The boy gazed coolly back, clearly not intimidated by Kenji's continuous glare. "I don't mean to be rude, sir," he suddenly began, startling Serena's father with his mellifluously icy voice, "but I'd like to see your daughter now. I believe she's had enough time to ready herself, and I have work to do."
Kenji's glare deepened, but he nodded quickly and gestured toward the stairs. As much as he wished to keep the youth from his daughter, he knew, deep down, that Darien was Serena's greatest hope of recovery. If she was to return to herself, this boy had to at least be allowed a chance to speak with her.
Kenji sighed, gesturing for the upstart to follow. He pulled himself to his feet, truly feeling his age for first time in many years. Not wanting to reveal his weakness before the youth, he kept all expression from his own features as he motioned again to Darien. The boy nodded sharply in return, standing with a fluid grace that surprised the older man. His tall, tightly muscled form towered over Kenji by at least a foot, and Serena's father was, once again, forced to restrain his emotions.
Where had this boy come from? The smooth features and tall body were not Japanese, just as the cool expression in the blue eyes was not natural. There was something odd about this upstart, Kenji mused silently, something that left him feeling decidedly unsettled.
Serena's father refrained from complaining aloud, however, as he led the boy through his small, spotless home and up the flight of stairs to his daughter's room; the youth had, with what seemed to be a customarily emotionless tone, suggested that this first meeting ought to take place in an area where Serena felt safe, comfortable. Though Kenji had immediately seen the wisdom in this plan, his objections to the youth's unchaperoned presence in his daughter's bedroom continued to make him uneasy.
Kenji paused at Serena's door, sending another quick glare to the youth following him. "I'll be watching you," he growled, and his expression was fierce enough that even Darien's eyes widened slightly with surprise. Still, the younger man said nothing, merely allowing his sharp gaze to rove over the pictures hanging in perfect precision on the walls.
Darien sighed, seeing that Serena's smiling face was featured in most of the photographs lining the hallway. Her expressions in these photos held an innocent joy that had been almost entirely lacking in the pale girl at the cemetery, her eyes bright with laughter and bright with love. Where, he reflected unhappily, had this cheerful girl disappeared to? The despondent wraith from the funerals might as well have been an entirely different person as the one occupying these portraits, and Darien wondered yet again if he was truly up to a task of this magnitude.
What could he say to a girl who had lost everything, a girl who had watched her best friends being horribly murdered and then been forced to endure a public hatred and scrutiny not undergone by even the worst of criminals?
Was Darien even capable of healing her, after that?
He sighed once more as Kenji again rapped lightly on the wooden frame, not waiting for an answer as he pushed the door aside. Darien heard a slight movement within, and he nodded quickly to the girl's father before he entered Serena's domain. He did not, after all, want to give this man an opportunity to rethink the situation, and he had never been one to hesitate, even before a task such as this.
Irene met them at the door to Serena's room, giving a tired smile to the young man accompanying her husband. She didn't wait for a response, either, choosing instead to turn back to her still fuming husband standing belligerently in the doorway. "She's as ready as she'll ever be," Serena's mother murmured in answer to the question Kenji had not voiced, and her tone was as weary as both her expression and the despairing eyes that met her husband's.
Darien nodded, though the words had not been meant for him. He briefly eyed Serena's mother as the woman conferred under her breath with her husband, surprised to find so little physical resemblance between this woman and her blonde daughter. Though the dark-haired Irene was certainly a beautiful woman, she was not as lovely as Serena. Irene lacked the otherworldly grace and hauntingly perfect features of her paler daughter, her nose not as delicate and her mouth not as full. Her limbs were not quite so slender, her eyes not quite so large. More than a little attractive in spite—or because—of the laughter and age-lines around her eyes and mouth, she had not ever been the goddess her fourteen-year-old daughter already was.
Darien's eyes narrowed as he watched Mrs. Tsukino converse with her irate husband. Her tone, even when roughened by tears and pain, was brisk and matter-of-fact, the exact opposite of what Darien already knew Serena's would be. Irene, unlike Serena, was very much a part of this world, and Darien would never have thought the two could be related, especially since Serena—thankfully—also looked nothing like her father.
Could Serena have been adopted?
Darien frowned at this, forcibly reminded of the questions that had been with him since the start of this. Where had she come from, this strange girl with more grief and wisdom in her pale eyes than any one being should ever hold? What secrets did she possess?
Why did she not speak?
Irene was watching him now, and, in spite of her own pain, her eyes were sharp and clear. "Be careful with her," she was saying, and Darien turned his focus to her words and the cautions behind them. "Serena's fragile, and we don't want to hurt her. Go gently, Mr. Chiba."
The youth before her nodded quickly, but he doubted the veracity of Irene's words. Serena, fragile? While her youthful body might be as frail as these parents of hers believed, Darien had already realized that Serena possessed a core of steel. How could she not be strong, after everything she had faced? Though she had not yet revealed the truth behind her friends' deaths, he knew her pain was too deep not to have toughened her beyond anything Irene or Kenji might imagine.
Whatever else she might be now or had been before, whatever else she might have wanted for herself, Serena Tsukino could never be fragile again.
Darien mentally shrugged as Irene began to leave, stepping politely around her and moving further into Serena's bedroom. Kenji, still scowling, turned to accompany his tired wife from the room, silently obeying the warning in her eyes. "Remember," he murmured softly as he left, keeping his voice low enough that his wife would not hear, "I'm watching you."
The door slid shut behind him, the latch fulfilling its purpose with an audible click, and Darien breathed a quick sigh that would have been relief in anyone else. Though the tall youth was not one to be easily intimidated, this man's clear anger was more than a little unnerving, and Darien was not eager to remain in such close proximity to Serena's father. He was also, however, not one to dwell on an unpleasant character for long, and he quickly dismissed Kenji. Now, he thought, I can finally do my job.
Still enjoying this temporary respite from the father's intense glare, the psychiatrist-in-training took a second step into Serena's bedroom. Grateful as he was to be away from the man's stifling presence, the professional within him was now calling out a command for Darien to follow his duty, and he redirected his focus to what clues Serena's bedroom might afford.
Serena herself, of course, was nowhere in sight. Darien cocked his head to one side, and his sharp ears caught the sound of water flowing behind what could only have been a bathroom door. From the force of the water, Darien guessed that Serena was in the shower. He sighed again, leaning against the nearest wall and trying to calculate how long he would have to wait until the girl with whom he'd so quickly become obsessed finally emerged. He'd already been forced to wait for nearly half an hour, sitting in silence with the girl's father—how much longer could she possibly be?
Was this her way of avoiding the visit he knew she had not wanted?
Darien shrugged again, mentally filing the suspicion away for later use as he began to catalogue and assess Serena's things. His gaze became curious as he looked around, attempting to learn something of Serena from the arrangement of her possessions. The room was not, he mused, as spotless as the rest of the house. To the contrary, this bedroom was easily one of the most untidy places he'd ever been in. Rumpled piles of clothing were scattered haphazardly across the floor, shirts draped over even the girl's wicker desk and chair. Stacks of torn manga were lined against the wall, booklets flowing out from beneath the small bed. Laceless and worn shoes spilled from the closet, and dozens of overstuffed animals cluttered every other available surface.
Everything—including the carpet and walls—was pink.
Bright pink…
Mind-numbingly pink…
Pink enough to make him feel slightly nauseous, in fact…
Darien repressed a slight wince as he moved towards the wicker chair, trying to avoid staring too closely at all that pink and wondering at the child-like atmosphere of this room. Serena, he thought, was certainly not a child. The terrible wisdom that he'd seen in her eyes had proven as much, and Darien could not help questioning the infantile and overdone décor of her bedroom. Was this her mother's doing, perhaps?
Surely no sane person would ever choose to spend any significant amount of time in such a room? This place would drive just about anyone nuts!
Of course, Darien thought wryly, maybe Serena truly liked the bunny-shaped stencils covering her walls, and maybe she enjoyed having her bedroom look as though she lived inside a dollhouse. Some people had odd—or simply bad—tastes, after all.
Still, he'd never seen so much lace in his life—and he hoped he never would again. He wouldn't, he mused, be surprised if the room alone had driven Serena as mad as those reporters now believed her to be.
Darien sighed as he settled his large frame into the girl's much smaller chair, listening to the wicker creak under his greater weight. He folded his hands across his lap, waiting patiently for the girl to leave the doubtful sanctity of her bathroom and trying not to become sick from the excessively bright pink of the walls.
