Hey, ya'll. How is everything going? I know this has taken outrageously long but I am just getting into the swing of things again, so don't you worry. I am trying to work in my free time as much as possible. I hope you like this chapter, not a lot of action wise things happens, but I think I like this chapter and the set up and stuff like that. So, enjoy and don't forget the feedback. I love it. And thank you profusely for all the reviews thus far, they are unbelievably awesome. I cannot thank you enough.
Read and enjoy,
-MC
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9/24/00
3:09 a.m.
Have you ever pondered the meaning of your life and what exactly you are on this planet, this earth, this creation for? Do you ever wonder if there is some deeper meaning to your existence, or do you think that it is just some crazy happenstance that you are here at all? Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be inside someone else's mind and think their thoughts and believe their beliefs and speak their words? Sometimes I feel like I just want to, for one day, get away from being myself. Just looking around me I feel like there are all these people who are smarter, cooler and far more interesting than I'll ever be. What if I was to go inside their heads and see what they really thought? Would I find that they are as confident and interesting as they seem or would they turn out to be as insecure and embarrassed and confused as I am? Would I, at deep analyzation, realize that everyone else puts on a mask, a front, just like I do? I want so desperately to realize that. But there is something in my mind, something that is constantly convincing me that I am alone, that I am confused and that I cannot be correct in any of my assumptions. There is this terrible pull in my gut, there is this want, this need, this unnerving desire to be able to fit it, to feel okay about myself, to just do all these things at once that I am almost ready to crumble at the merest breeze of doubt. I want to be free. I want to be alive. I want to be myself. But this heart wrenching pain, this tear rendering reaction whenever I think about certain emotions I feel, I cannot help but desire to curl up into a ball and shut out the world. I want to be alone but at the same time I want someone's arms around me, holding me, protecting me, enveloping me in their strength and love. I want a beautiful relationship with someone who will do that, who will ignore my protests of being alright and just take the initiative to hug me, to allow me to be comfortable enough to cry, to just be me with. I want someone to not form their ideas about me based on my appearance. I want, for once, someone to look at me, look at the real me and tell me that I am beautiful. I want someone to seek me out and want to be with me because I am someone who they enjoy being around. I feel so lonely and afraid that I want to find someone but at the same time I cannot bring myself to find that person. The pain in my gut coils and my headache fatigues me. My heart flutters uncontrollably, wildly beating against my chest. I want to pretend to be sick. I want to know that something concrete is wrong with me so that I can fix it and be on my way. I hate this indecision, this unknowing, this utter confusion. I hate the lurch my stomach receives and the tightness of my throat restricts me from speaking my true mind. I am incomplete and broken, but I do not know the cause of the damage. When had I become so? Why had I let myself think that I could be fine, that I must be fine, that I could continue to be fine without doing something to help myself? What could I even do to help myself? Was there anything? I want to sleep, I want to sleep away the pain and hide under my bedcovers. I want my mother to come to me and wrap me in a blanket and tell me a bed time story. I want my father to be here with me and I want my cat to meow at me. I want all these things that I cannot have. I want to run away from my responsibilities and never face the world again. At the same time I want to embrace this new life that I have. I want to hold my burgeoning life close to my heart and run with it as far and as fast as I possibly can. But again I miss my old life, I miss how things were before, I miss everything that has been going on around me, things that are familiar and concrete. I want it all and I expect nothing. I want to be completed but I remain broken. What will happen if I shall always be broken? How will I survive? How will I continue? How will I ever know if I am truly alive?
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You never know what to think, you know. There is never that point where you just realize, woah, this is going on here, so, get used to it. Well, for me at least. And as you sat there, as I sat there, all I could wonder was what really was going on here. You never really think that something like this could happen to you. It is something that you see happen to a friend of a friend or some distant relative. It never happens to YOU, yourself. It's the type of thing that happens on television on some cheesy soap opera like show that is supposed to have no basis on reality. But you aren't watching it this time. This time, it is happening to people around you—it is deeply affecting YOU in every way possible. There is something amazing at that actual realization. That your life is supposed to be on some television show and that these people around you aren't real at all, they are "shop dummies propped up in attitudes counterfeiting life" (Plath). There was something incredibly disturbing at the thought that my life could actually be a basis for a daily show that people would watch religiously and talk about with their friends that would be equally involved. All the while they would secretly wish that their life could be just as dramatic. But you never want this. Because this is life, I guess. When a person dies on television, they are just leaving a show. When someone dies here, they aren't going to show up on some sitcom or movie screen any time soon. Actually, they never will. Never.
So this was my train of thought as I walked into the hospital that night. Martin (?) wouldn't tell me what was going on over the phone but I could only suspect it had to do with my mother's obvious stress and altered behavior. But when I was lead down a pathetically white hallway, stark in contrast to the colorful entrance of the hospital, my heart began to pound faster. Finally, as if in a daze the hallway of white ended and I found myself in front of a door. No one was around me. I raised my head slowly, afraid to read the name on the nameplate.
Psychiatric ward.
I was twenty-five going on fifty and my mother was clinically insane.
Well, that had to be the conclusion one draws from being positioned in front of this door after a distressing call from your sort of father. I mean, what else would you think? That she decided to take a vacation and this is where my mother ended up? I don't think so.
So I opened up the door. Martin was waiting by the door and so he quickly took my hand without a word and led me to my mother's room, I guess. The ward was a veritable asylum, separated from the hospital by large, locked, steel doors, and a buzzer with an attendant that would buzz you in. The walls were stark, furniture worn, and the rooms, humbler than a convent. And it wasn't just the scenery, it was the patients; the patients were frightening. They were hollow. Seeing people who I didn't know, shallow and broken was one thing, but when you saw your mother, the nurturer from your childhood, empty inside, it scared me to death.
She was sitting in her room with a vacant look in her eyes. It all went by very slowly, it seemed. The doctor came in and took my other hand and told me the problem in non-medical terms. I remember looking deep into his eyes and wondering what the fuck I was actually doing here. I remember wanting to desperately cling to the man and beg that he cure my mother. I never wanted to see that look in her face again. I never wanted to look at her like that. The bare, whitewashed walls and stark furniture matched the constant expression my mother wore on her face: lifeless. It was almost as if my mother had become a turtle. She had somehow been frightened of something so on instinct she crawled into herself and left Martin and I holding the shell. She looked like my mother, talked like my mother, but the mind wasn't the same. Diagnosis: severe depression.
That night I remember looking as if I was hollow as well. I barely spoke a word to anyone once I left the hospital, in a cab by order of the doctor, and ever since then I have sat here, in my living room, keys in my hands, jacket on and purse on my shoulder. Just staring, dumbfounded, confused and utterly in shock. What were you supposed to do? I heard a knock on the door.
"Com—come in." My voice was raspy with lack of use. The door opened abruptly and I almost paled even further at who now stood in front of me. He looked so good. So, clean, so fresh. I didn't want to taint him with problems. He didn't seem like he deserved it.
"Kagome, why haven't you returned my calls? I have—"He immediately came to my side as I turned my face towards his. Obviously, there was something wrong with my expression. What if I had become hollow too? Was it a disease that could be caught? "Darling, whats wrong?" He gently took the keys out of my hand and took off my purse and jacket. He then led me to the bed where he gave me another searching look. I sat down shakily, not really wanting to tell him anything at all, but sensing the need to, and the assurance that he would do the best he could to help me. It had to be those liquid amber eyes; they settled my nerves.
"My, my mother is in the hospital." He kneeled in front of me and rested his hands on the side of my cheeks. After stroking them he brought his hands to my neck and started to lightly massage it. God, I needed that. I hung my head forward to give him more access and then gave up as I sank into his lap on the floor.
"Come here, baby," he whispered and I felt ready to doze off.
"I missed you, Inuyasha," I whispered back, my head lolling into his chest before I was claimed by the sandman of my dreams.
3/4/99
9:02 p.m.
Just wondering...
I have a question, God, which I'd like answered
Why do bad things happen, leaving you not so self-assured?
Why does the grass seem always greener on the other side?
Why am I so selfish and worry about my pride?
Why can't I be happy with who I really am?
Why can't I find that certain chum that will make me spurt my story like a clam?
Why do old people die, and young ones too?
Why does the sky have to be so blue?
Why does it hurt so much when he says no?
Why can't I just let things go?
Why do your parents love you so much?
Why do we pretend they don't matter or care about our life and such?
Why can't we have world peace?
Why would it be bad for a love and openness increase?
Why do friends grow apart?
Why isn't everyone good at art?
Why is death so scary, God?
Why do we put on this grand facade?
Why is life so worth living?
Why can't we all be more forgiving?
And finally, God, this is the question;
Why do you still love me after all I've mentioned?
As I awoke to the painful memories of the day before, I tried to snuggle into the comforting atmosphere in which I found myself. It smelled familiar, felt familiar and even looked familiar in the odd angles at which I could see. Pressing down slightly on the chest to bring myself closer I deduced that this familiar atmosphere was a person, a man, and it had to be a Kingston brother. There was that scent that people had to them, a certain smell, not necessarily bad or good, that went along with them. And this, from whatever it was from; either laundry or otherwise, was what the Kingston's smelled like. Fresh, clean and with a hint of authority, if smell could have authority over something. But I suppose that if it could be done, the Kingston's would have found a way to make their scent superior to everyone else's. It just seemed like some family ethic or whatnot. Or perhaps it was just Sesshomaru that one night so long ago.
Anyways, I was in the arms of one of the brothers. Now, logically, Inuyasha was in France, although we could not rule out the fact that he could have come back. But it is highly unlikely. Second, it could be Sesshomaru, but if it is Sesshomaru, then I don't know if I can handle telling him anything right now not after everything that has happened between us. This, in essence, is a problem in itself. Because, well, yeah. Let's not even discuss what we did together on this bed, well, no, not on this bed, but somewhere in the vicinity of my room, I think. Damn it, it is a little too late to be thinking about what the hell I did with Sesshomaru! I have my mother to think about. My mother that has been…institutionalized, for lack of a better term. Even though that term seemed to describe it well. Damn well.
"Hey," a soft voice whispered in the general locality of my ear. I shivered imperceptibly. His breath was warm. And my ear was…cold. Turning my groggy head around towards him I tried to discern who the hell I was with. But the gentle morning kiss that left me a little shivery afterwards told me who it was. "Shhh, don't talk right now," he murmured against my lips. I absolutely loved it when men did that. When they spoke sweet things against your mouth. Well, that wasn't particularly sweet, but it still got the job done and he was rewarded with another shiver. "Are you cold?" Again, against my lips. He pulled the covers over me more and then wrapped his arms around me under the duvet. "Better?" I would stop shivering if he wasn't practically kissing me every time he spoke and if my blasted lips weren't swollen with the teasing.
And at that moment, I just didn't care. I didn't care about my mother, about Inuyasha, about the consequences, about anything, really. I grabbed his face with my hands and slammed his lips upon my own and began to kiss him mercilessly. He replied with much the same vigor, as if his teasing had been dangerous to his HLL's (Healthy Lust Levels) as well. And unlike the night before, this wasn't because he was frustrated and that I couldn't resist. It was a mutual, burning desire, a need almost, to be reminded and satiated; a reminder that we both found comfort in each other, even though the comfort came in the form of sex.
2/13/03
2:40 p.m.
When one thinks about sex, I guess the first thought is who the sex is with. You know, you dream of the person being your crush, your love, your obsession, whatnot. But I guess I never thought of sex that way. Sex, to me, in my dreams, was intimate. My lover didn't have a face and instead of passionate lust there was this comfort, this happiness and this feeling of being at peace. It was simultaneous giving and receiving; everything was equal, no one had power over the other. In my dreams, my lover's embrace was what told me who it was, his breath on my lips, his tender caresses. Everything he did and said told me that he was my soul mate. And I guess that is what I dreamt about; the man who would, inevitably complete me. And yes, there would be lust and passion present, but instead of sex we would be making love. The kind of love that for a moment, nothing in the world mattered, not your job, your problems, your worries, your stress—nothing. It was something that just completed you, explained your love for each other and allowed you both to revel in your love for one another. Something that made you want to be with that person for the rest of your life, no matter the difficulties. Something that transcends all rational thought, but at the same is simplistic in nature. Something, something that I guess I just don't have now.
I woke up once more. It seemed as if I was living a perpetual dream and I couldn't really discern what really happened and what was a dream. I was alone in my room. Did I have sex with Sesshomaru again? Or instead, was the horrific nightmare the one where my mother was sick? At the moment I wasn't quite sure what I wanted the dream and what I wanted the reality. Either as a dream would be unusual and would be necessary for me to dwell on the thought for a while. For, if nothing happened with Sesshomaru, then I would have to think about the suddenness of my obvious lust for him. And if my mother was sick was the dream, then I would have to realize the fear inside myself of my mother's death. On the flip side, if either one was real then I would have to think of a reality with a complicated relationship with my sort of love's older brother or the possibility that my mother might never recover from her depression.
I think I am going insane.
Perhaps I am the one who went insane and I am configuring this weird universe in my mind and in reality I am sitting in some whitewashed room making therapeutic crafts that don't help with my insanity at all.
Okay, perhaps I just need to breathe, relax, and think for the best. Perhaps everything is fine. Everything is normal, sane, and I am just worrying over nothing.
But I know that I can't sit here in my bed and just think that things are okay. I have to go out and do something to prove that things are okay, or perhaps just to prove that I am alive and this is not just a perpetual dream that I cannot wake up from.
I wandered around my apartment and just touched things. You know when you do that thing in the movies, where you touch a picture or some item and it seems to take you back to that time or memory? It was like I was doing that now. I went over and he laughed hysterically until I couldn't help but laughing touched the too, us laughing together over two large hat that I wore with Inuyasha when we went line dancing. Or the time when he was holding my hand, breathing on my neck and it brought shivers down my spine we went to the beach and just walked along the sand. Or when Sango and I just lying on the warm deck, the air so crisp and ripe with purity took a cruise to Australia. When Miroku took me his hand was gently running through my hair, whispering…to some play or other but we didn't even watch it. I had all these pictures around me. My fingers grazed the his fingers burned with their touch, white heat spread everywhere he went, his eyes alight with some deep desire book Sesshomaru let me borrow the last time we went on our Tuesday dinners. It seemed so long he delicately licked my neck, nipping and caressing me with his teeth and tongue ago that we went on our Tuesday dinners even though this, this supposed reality had been happening burn, burn, hot, passionate, fire, fire…comfort only for less than a week now. And now, now heart pounding, beating against my chest, pleasure, pain, surrounding me all I could think about was that time, or times. It had been so vivid, so lucid, so real. Had it all really been a dream?
Sesshomaru walked through the front door and swept me up in his arms and kissed me. He smelled of a scent that was uniquely him, something that both brought me desire and comfort, but I figured it was because it was so close to Inuyasha's smell that I had to take comfort in something while he was gone. This reminds me, he hasn't called me in a while. I hope everything is going well…not EXTREMELY well, but good enough that he is having a fun time and not having hot gay sex every night with people he doesn't know and then getting a beautiful French boyfriend and he just forgets all about me. Nope, I'm not worried at all. Not at all.
And with Sess being here, it meant that this, at least, wasn't a dream. This probably meant that my mother wasn't really sick which, of course, to say the least, was definitely a good thing. A very, very good thing.
"Darling, your father called while you were sleeping. He was worried about you from yesterday. Are you okay? I was worried…" What happened yesterday? Did something happen? I remember crying, and being depressed and thinking I was… "So I don't know if you want to see your mother just yet and I told him that. But whatever you want—"
"What did you say about my mother?"
"Do you want to visit her today or tomorrow?"
"Where would I visit her?" This was not shaping into how I thought it was be.
"The hospital. Come on sweetie, it's alright…"
But I wasn't listening. Denial obviously wasn't just a river in Egypt.