3/12/05
9:20 p.m.
I grew up with having laughter in my house every single day. Yes, we do have our rows, but laughter always follows. Every dinner cannot pass without it, every hour does not dare to dream to be left out, and every day ends with a smile. I think a lot of the credit goes to my mother. She truly is the original party girl, bringing light and love into our home. Without my mother, our life would be a void, and we had to experience that void…
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She walked slow and deliberate, as if she had to make every step count, heel to toe, heel to toe. She was hidden inside her mind, her body there but my mother wasn't. It was a shell, an empty shell.
After the day Sango came over, my
time was spent with constant visits with my mother, constant moments where she
hurt me irrevocably—constant moments where I couldn't stop my heart from
pounding because I was so scared, so scared to be around her. Somehow
she had just forgot how to live, and left us to take care of her. And I
did. She became my doll. Every day I dressed her, fed her, showered
her and brushed her teeth.
The visits with her became annoyances. I couldn't understand why I had to take care of the woman who needed to help me from one of the darkest moments of my life. Where was she now that I needed to help her with my problems with Inuyasha and Sesshomaru? I couldn't even take comfort in Sesshomaru anymore. Inuyasha was a joke. Sango had her family. I was drowning and there was no one there to save me.
It wasn't even that she was there and that I couldn't be with her. It was that she was right in front of me, torturing me, looking like my mother and in reality being nothing alike. She looked, talked, smelled like my mother and I couldn't handle that…imposter pretending to be my mother. Sure, I knew, I knew she was her, that the logistics of the disease made her such—I knew it. But it didn't make it any easier. She was my mother for goodness sakes! I was going crazy because I didn't know how to handle Inuyasha or Sesshomaru and I wanted her comfort and guidance. It made it harder than anything had to be with her sitting there, rocking back and forth, not eating anything and not being herself. The doctors told us she would get antsy before we came; she had to take more drugs before we could see her. And she hated her shower. Martin and I had to force her to do anything.
I don't even know how you would describe the feeling that I had whenever I looked at her. I mean, it was so scary it was funny sometimes. The things she did, you could tell she wasn't all there. You could tell that this woman had problems. And yet whenever I saw her, saw that shell, I associated her with my mother. Soon, her hugs, kisses and smiles were replaced with her vacant eyes, wrinkled body from lack of nutrients and deranged activities. I began to not remember a time when she wasn't ill. It was like there was separation—my old mother died and had become this new mother—a woman who wanted to take off her pants in the hallway of the hospital. The worst of it all was that my mother was a brilliant woman. She had always been flighty but she always had something interesting to say about science, flowers or art. And now she was here and she could barely remember her home address, if that at all.
Martin and I took her out on her regular walks. The sun had come out for it was mid afternoon. The cherry blossoms on the trees were shedding and the petals were swirling around the air. I felt like I was in a proverbial fairyland, pink petals decorated my hair and the air had a sweet scent to it. Martin and I were walking around the hospital grounds with my mother for our usual afternoon walk. I walked hand in hand with my mother because we wouldn't know what she would do if one of us weren't there to guide her.
"So, do you remember where you live?" Martin asked. The doctor had said it was good to remind her of things of her life. I had been all for it, I wanted my mother back and anything was worth a try.
"Come on mom, your house?" She looked at me and then glanced down at her feet. She was walking in that particular way again, so concentrated, like she couldn't do anything because walking was too hard for her.
"My house?" She said, looking at Martin again and then me. I nodded and she stared back, her eyes glassy from some unknown reason, haunting when she looked at me. It is said one could see your soul through your eyes and looking at my mother's eyes, it felt like I couldn't see anything that could even resemble a soul. It was like she was just gone. And I couldn't bear it. "Yes, my house. Vines…" she said while motioning with her hands up and down as if to mimic the vines. Martin patted her hand and smiled, nodding.
"What about your garden? Remember the garden you have?" I smiled, remembering my mother tending the garden she had made with my father. He was blessed with a green thumb, something that brought me endless joy in childhood. Whenever we walked or hiked somewhere he would point out the types and kinds of flowers and bushes, quizzing my mother and me. After he died my mother continued to slave over the garden—a tribute to their love. The garden mimicked her, as time wore on it began to thrive exponentially—blossoming with beauty and healing. The garden was a source of joy for me, something that was uniquely my mother and father's, something I could sit in and behold the beauty that is love. With the garden, it was if my father was just around the corner, pulling out weeds and watering the bushes. In my childhood, even though I knew he was gone, I would look for him sometimes—convinced he was just around the next corner, the next bush.
"Flowers…my husband…" she began to rock back and forth on her heels, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. She gripped my hand tightly and I turned to Martin.
"I think its time we brought her in." Martin nodded, afraid of what memories he had brought back with his innocent mentioning. Turning to new topics, he once more smiled at me.
"It's your daughter's birthday coming up," he said, and I giggled like a little kid again, hoping to her something, at least a birthday wish from my mother. The doctors had expected she would be able to be out by then; the progress in her treatments had vastly improved. With her back I could deal with anything—Sesshomaru and Inuyasha would be taken care of in a heartbeat, if I could have her by my side. Then our family could be normal—together again. It was my greatest birthday wish. However, life wasn't kind. She stopped walking entirely and let go of my hand. With a puzzled look at me, she murmured,
"What daughter?" Her cold, steely blue eyes bored into my heart. I stopped, unable to breath. The flower petals stuck in my hair became limp and lifeless just as I felt. My mother didn't know who I was. She didn't know her own daughter anymore. The daydream of my family being normal was ripped from my mind. Instead I took the picture at face value: we were walking around the grounds of the hospital and stupid flowers that would be stuck in my hair for hours afterwards smashed under my feet. I wanted to go home. And soon enough, I did.
No passion
It hurt. I could see myself in my mind's eye, pounding on the box surrounding me, holding me in, trapping me.
No expression
I sunk to the floor, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood. Tears, mixing, bleeding, denying. Tears became the currency of the night, paying its dues to the blood.
Last place
It felt so freeing, if this was how life felt, I would never be doing this. It was addicting. I just wanted to feel again.
First race
Is it real? This, this life? This knife? What was real anymore? If I died in my mind, would it matter?
Can't get out
Deeper, deeper. Crimson, surrounding me, it felt so freeing.
Can't get out!
I hate her. I hate him.
Die in peace
If I could just hang on a bit longer, if I could just, if I could just push a little farther. I'll get to that place.
Live in hell
It was just like I remembered it, all those years ago. The exquisite piercing, the knowledge that just more, more, one more—that if I bleed enough it would all just go away.
Love forever
Ripping, tearing, existing. Pain was my only love. My only oxygen.
Never dwell
She doesn't know if I'm alive anyway.
Be yourself
What am I?
On the way home
I'm ascending…
I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. But it could also be the blood smeared over my reflection jarring my view. It wasn't enough, I realized, to ease my suffering. Blood, that is. Pain. Intensity. Life. It wasn't enough. I kept on thinking selfishly, wondering if Inu would come and find me—would he be sad? Would Sesshomaru find me, would he ever come back? Does anyone even care? What is real?
Throbbing, I could see the tiny red lines covering my body. I hadn't been picky where I cut, where I bled. I could feel the sharp stabbing lines dig into my flesh, searing my body where I had felt I deserved to hurt, deserved to die, deserved to burn, perish. It was pretty, almost. The designs I made on my skin were representations of past hurts, past crimes. I sat in my bathroom, staring at my wrists, thighs, arms, stomach in a sense of bewilderment. I had done this. I had control over something in my life. I no longer had to worry about Sesshomaru and Inuyasha, it didn't matter. My mother didn't matter. She wasn't important. I finally had a grasp of the situation. I was in control.
I laughed, cruelly, as blood trickled down from my lip. Instead of the tinkling laughter I was used to, I heard harsh coughs, chokes—disgusting noises erupted from my throat. I had won, right? I had my prize—my trophy was my body, carving monuments dedicated to my pain on the surface of my skin. The exquisite agony when I brought the knife across my skin, tearing, splitting the flesh. The red line was worth it, worth the torture and white hot clarity. I was already bleeding figuratively, it fits that I bled literally as well.
Anguish
Salvation is the price you pay
To bleed a quart of blood away
Down the drain the blood, it flows
Only I know where it goes
White hot sensations as I slice
Burning scars are a worthy price
See the pretty designs I achieve
When I practice to deceive
Bandaids cover my blood stained hands
I am the queen of the nowhere lands
Knives adorn my weighty crown
Do you know I like the sick spiral I'm down?
Slicing, dicing, mincing pies
I see the only bloodstained eyes
They watch me as I lose my grip
I never go anywhere without my knife at my hip
Showers wash away the soil
Of a thousand soldier's toil
But where is my salvation when I die?
Each night, each day, in each bed I lie
Panting, crying, I lie in bed
Going over my thoughts in my head
Withholding information is what I do best
No one will ever know my inside jest
Would anyone even feel a betrayal
At my knife's well-beaten trail?
Could anyone guess my eternal pain
Or are they too worried about their own personal gain?
Screaming never relieves the stress
Of a thousand night's duress
When my pain finally reaches the crest
Only then shall l finally find rest
Then I wait until another day
When I need to bleed my troubles away
I won't ask for help, I have too much pride
This is my own personal suicide
I heard knocking on my door as I was slowly passing out. I couldn't really move, but the person either had a key or knew where my spare was because I heard the door unlocking before I could even move. Half of me hoped it was Inuyasha or Sesshomaru—my selfish side hoping they could see me in this disgusting state—see what I could do when I had control. There were long moments when I made no noise as the intruder glanced over my apartment for any sign of life. They should have guessed that there wasn't any—I was half alive on the bathroom floor. I wondered idly how much blood one needed to loose before they died. My blood was flowing sluggishly now and as I glanced over my body I hoped it would scar. Maybe it would help me remember how much control I could have.
"Oh my god…" It was Miroku. I didn't know why he was there, but there he was, standing outside of my bathroom door, looking at me in utter horror. I smiled at him slowly.
"Hey there," I said slowly, my throat not working from all the crying and sobbing I did while blocking out the pain of my mother's denial.
"What the fuck have you done?" He was leaning over me now, taking the knife from my hand and placing it on the counter. I was too far gone to even protest. As he started to run the water of the bath and strip off my clothes (what was left of them), he gasped at me. And my mind began to clear. My body throbbed with clarity as I suddenly felt disgusting. "Kagome, what have you done?" He gasped again, a tear trickling down his face and burning my lip as it hit my face. He lifted my body—replete from starvation and blood loss—into the bath. The water hurt. I gasped as I tried to hold onto the side of the bathtub, blood still oozing out of my arms. I could barely keep my head above the water. With a worried glance at me, Miroku took off his clothes and clad in his boxers, got into the bath with me—leaning my back against his chest. "Shhh, shhh…it's going to be alright," he whispered as I started to softly cry into his arms. He petted my wet hair, pulling it away from my eyes and tucking it behind my ear. "Shhh, Kagome…" he whispered and gathered me closer, pressing his head into my hair.
"Am I going to die, Miroku?" I scratched out as I turned around to face him in the tub. He worked at a hospital, although I was never really clear on what he actually did there. But since I felt like I was spiraling towards oblivion I thought he was the best (and only) person to ask at the moment.
"No, you aren't going to die. These are mainly superficial cuts. But I'll need to bandage them later." He kissed the top of my head and hugged me closer, careful to avoid open wounds and anything else that would be deemed inappropriate. The hot water slowed down my bleeding for a bit, even though I didn't understand why Miroku didn't mind that he was sitting in a bathtub mixed with my blood, practically. Relaxing into his arms I almost drifted off to sleep, but he shook me awake. "Don't sleep, not yet, alright Kagome?" I nodded half-heartedly and wondered what I was doing. I wondered what had set me off—if my mother was just the straw that broke the camel's back. Everything had been so confusing lately—nothing seemed right or normal anymore. When had it all become so complicated?
Finally I left the bath, feeling replete and confused.
Sidelined
Confused, stranded, life is a jest
Hardly concrete—
Bittersweet
Consciousness fading
My life is replete
Hands over time
With any clime
Maybe it's fatal
Not meant to be heard
Maybe it's dependent
On every which word
Does it really matter,
When you get to the end?
Or must we succumb
To a perpetual "around the bend?"
Clearly it's confusing
In every which way
For nothing really seems
To hold much sway
Should I fight 'til my death
Or give up and move on?
It all seems to me
Like one big con
I think it's really funny
How were not really there
We're not living in the real world
Because the real world is fair
Miroku bandaged me and put me to bed. I didn't really want to think about anything anymore, I just wanted to rest—leave me to my dreams, to my rest. It all felt unreal, unbelievable and yet when I looked down at myself, bandaged and skinny, I could see that I have capable of something like this for as long as I learned to think for myself. Had my whole life been waiting for this one moment—this one exact moment where I tasted sweet surrender? The thought that scared me most was how easily I did it. How easily I was able to cut myself, detach myself from the pain and hurt and just cut. How easy it was to just watch the blood red lines form upon my skin, like road maps to the emotional cuts upon my damaged and bloodied soul. Even though my wounds would heal, even though I would be able to touch my skin without it hurting, what scared me most was that I might never be able to stop the control, the freeing feeling. Sesshomaru told me his revolution was sex and at the time I thought mine was Inuyasha. And yet, what if what gave me the feeling of being free meant so much that you were caged, broken, buried? What if in order to be free, I had to kill my ties to life?
I sobbed silently as Miroku climbed into bed with me, holding me close under the covers. He didn't ask why, he didn't force me to talk; he was just there for me. Burying my head in his neck, I couldn't think of any other place I wanted to be. Maybe this whole Inuyasha/Sesshomaru thing was simpler than I had imagined. Maybe the answer was with me the whole time. Kissing Miroku's shoulder I feel asleep, as he continued to run his fingers through my wet and tangled hair. It was a comforting feeling that I had only felt recently—with Sesshomaru. I enjoyed that feeling. My mind made up I snuggled further into the warmth that Miroku gave. My last realization, although, haunted my dreams. It took me all that to finally realize something—it wasn't death I was afraid of—it was life.
Hey ya'll, wow…this was a really hard chapter to write. I don't know about it at all. But I'm posting it because it's a part of the story—no matter what. I know its short, but this needed to be its own chapter, definitely. Giving credit where credit is due, though—these two songs helped me get into the mood to write everything here. The poems and everything were inspired by this chapter and they are disgustingly realistic and fit into the chapter really well. Mad props to these inspiring songs—
Is it Real?
--Cowboy Bebop
Figurines that fall like leaves the disappear, keep calling
Is it real? Is it real?
Dark machines that wheeze and breathe then mock the air, appalling
What is real? What is real?
This world can really be too much
I can't take another day
I guess that I've just had enough
My minds slipping far away
I'm falling out of touch
Could someone please explain?
Set my mind for open sky, but couldn't fly, so sadly
What am I? What am I?
Sullen eyes shed teardrop lies then criticize, now laughing
What is real? What is real?
It's really all become too much
I'm not sure what I should feel
I guess I've finally had enough
I don't know if this is real
I'm crashing in and out of touch
Can anyone please explain?
AND…of course…
Tourniquet
--Evanessence
I
tried to kill the pain
but only brought more
I lay dying
and I'm pouring crimson regret and betrayal
I'm dying praying bleeding and screaming
am I too lost to be saved
am I too lost?
my God my tourniquet
return to me salvation
my God my tourniquet
return to me salvation
do you remember me
lost for so long
will you be on the other side
or will you forget me
I'm dying praying bleeding and screaming
am I too lost to be saved
am I too lost?
my God my tourniquet
return to me salvation
my God my tourniquet
return to me salvation
my wounds cry for the grave
my soul cries for deliverance
will I be denied
Christ
tourniquet
my suicide
Always good songs for a good depression—Don't forget to write me…
Hope you read and enjoyed—
--MC