In Sess We Trust Chapter 13: Memory's Truths, an inuyasha fanfic

5/17/01

6:28 p.m.

I suppose that I could say that I don't have a favorite color either. I mean, I guess you could say that colors could represent my life in some way. At one point, I enjoyed pink as my favorite color—being a 70's-80's child it had to be neon pink-you know what I mean. I guess that pink was sort of my acceptance that I was a girl and could be cute and wear those dresses and play with those Barbie's. But then, I guess I grew out of that. And then my favorite color became turquoise. I was a tomboy interested in sports and the outdoors. I hiked the Grand Canyon and Yosemite Falls, I hiked and trekked the Mexican rainforests in search of Mayan and Aztec ruins. I took karate and beat the shit out of all the little boys. I was in love with everything having to do with nature. I surrounded myself with trees, insects, birds, animals and anything that was wild. I read books having to do with animals. I joined girl scouts and camped even more. I started the tradition to camp for a couple days in Mendocino every summer with my family. I snorkeled. I played volleyball, soccer and softball.

And then it changed. My favorite color became maroon- much darker shade of pink mixed with red. I began to think boys weren't the disgusting creatures they once were—only a good opponent in games at recess. I wore dresses more often. I quit karate. I still played volleyball and softball. I was fat. I was made fun of. I cried a lot, hurt and alone. I never told anyone. Knives and Clorox became my new best friends. My parents never knew. My father died. And then I lost it. And my favorite color became red—red like blood. It was a summer that would never end. And then it finally did. My favorite color was still red.

I was still fat, but red that stood for only blood changed and some love mixed in. It was two different guys, both that hurt me. But the red was being overtaken by love. It was growing inside me more and more everyday. It wasn't love for anyone else anymore. It was a love for myself, for my body, and for my life.

And now my favorite color is anything that represents life. I know what death looks like-and it isn't white. A good friend once said that white is a blank canvas—something you can make entirely your own and paint it with all the colors you want. I guess that is what my canvas is. It is plain white, starting out and new beginnings. Change. It has my previous colors there too, but a major part is still white. I still have a long time ahead of me to paint it any color I want. And I am not afraid anymore.

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After everything I had decided to take advantage of my holiday and do what I do best: ponder. I know, you were probably thinking shopping, but honestly, a credit card isn't every girl's best friend. (Although mine is a close acquaintance, alright?) But that is what I did. I went out with my journal and took to this place that I always go to. And I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I was going to sit on this rock that I usually sit on but it was already occupied. Two lovers. I should have guessed the world would like to spite me so.

Today is a momentous occasion. Today I am totally honest when I write in my journal, instead of lying about what I really think about myself. I am honest. I tell the absolute tuth: I am a very confused and lonely person. You should know that about me. I tease and I laugh and I smile but I truly hurt inside. I don't know why I can't be happy. I seriously don't. I mean, I've been through shit but for some reason I can't forgive myself for past mistakes. I carry them with me. Everywhere. I don't want anyone to turn out like me. The head on my shoulders is teetering in any direction and I am afraid it's going to fall. Just please don't let your heart freeze up like mine. Always stay warm.

I guess that I am the best actress in the world. I only tell people what they want to hear so they'll leave me alone in my pondering solitude. No one has truly met me, the real me that I keep hidden inside so well. I keep it all locked away in a safe that cannot be opened. Only I know the combination. And I forgot it long ago.

The lovers have left the rock, laughing and smiling. I don't know if I can ever do that. They looked so happy and free together. Sometimes I want to be free. But I can't take the risk. I really am a coward inside.

It would be easier if I wasn't such a thoughtful person, but I think too much for my own good. I over analyze and am too ignorant of the real world to understand anything. That's how I feel, but we all know that I have a penchant for exaggeration.

The wind rustles around me and the birds are calling. My shoulders and back are tense.

This is why I read these happy stories and why I cannot stand unhappy endings. My life is unhappy—and I don't want to read my life.

An old man runs by. I wonder what his life is like. Does he run to get away from it all like I read? Do you think things would be easier if I was a skinny girl as a child with a great figure? Do you think that life would be more fun? Do you think I'd make different choices, meet different people and be totally different myself?

I mean, being fat makes you mature faster and you develop your personality sooner. It shapes you differently than if you had to just wear anything and shop anywhere and you would look great. I don't know if being fat makes you a better person or just a more thoughtful person. Because it certainly doesn't make you a popular person. Or a sought after person. Or a person a gorgeous man would want to be with…

A woodpecker drinks from a bowl by the side of the water fountain. He looks around and spies me watching him, squirrels and birds alike flock to the little watering bowl on this mildly hot day.

This animal is thirsty too.

The old man runs by again, breathing hard. This is the third time he has finished the loop. I want to go home but I want to be alone. I want to sit in my childhood room and just remember who I used to be. I don't want to be bothered by anyone calling and asking me if I am okay. I want to be alone today.

The old man doesn't run by again but I know by the time I leave he will. I am still tense and confused and lonely but this is natural to me now. At least I am finally being honest about it. So, I finish my journaling as my hair whips around my face from the wind.

11/3/94

9:17 p.m.

But I think this is where I am right now. I am on the cusp of the unknown. I am teetering on the edge of childhood and almost ready to plunge into the great abyss that is adulthood. I can't even imagine what will become of me then. If I died tomorrow, I wouldn't ever experience my future, this great, vast beauty of the rest of my life. I think that if I died tomorrow, today I would just lie my head down on my pillow and weep. I wouldn't weep for my death; I would weep for my life. I would cry because life is so short and beautiful. I would cry because I never found that love of my life, had my first kiss, drank beer, have the pleasure of turning into my parents with age, and dying old. I would have cried because I wasted my best years on just red, blood red fury and anger and craziness. I mean, you don't know me very well. I've experienced things kids my age shouldn't. I have experienced tragedy and have come out a person who I can look in the mirror every morning and actually like. If I died tomorrow, then I wouldn't have the chance to look in the mirror once last morning and just smile. After what I've been through I think that would be the thing I would miss the most if I died. Being able to really know that I am who I am because I made myself who I am.

After I finished crying I would dry my tears and take a shower. It would be a slow shower, not really washing but just letting the water wash over my body and pound into my back with its intensity. After that I would change and go climb on my roof. I would then lie on my roof and stare at the stars all night. I wouldn't think about anything, really, but thoughts would periodically run through my mind. I would write them down, of course, it is my habit. I write down anything I think of just in case I could ever use it in an essay at some point in time. Which helps a lot, because I recycle a lot of things I have previously written in my writings. It is strange how things connect. I write about something, I just get this inspiration to write about it, and then I get an assignment on it. Sometimes it is immediately after I wrote it. Sometimes it is a year or two later. But it always happens. It is just so strange. So I would write something that perhaps if I wasn't dying I would use later. Then I would get down and wake up my mother. I would tell her I loved her and then sleep on the side of her bed like I used to when I was a kid. My mother would hold my hand while we slept and I would be comforted by her touch. When I wake up, it is the early morning, before anyone is up. I never get up this early. I hate waking up early. It means you have something to do that day. I would then sit down on the computer and write something totally inspired by my soon to be demise. It wouldn't be a goodbye letter to anyone in particular, but it would be widely circulated to my friends and family. And then, as the first light pierced through the darkness of the night, I would walk to my mirror and smile. And at that moment, outside under the Laurel tree, I would curl up, next to the grave where I buried my rat, Monty. My cat would be curled up in my lap. He never sits in my lap but he would do it now. He would purr as I scratched his ears. Then, when I stopped he would look at me with his big black and yellow eyes and know that I was dead. He would get up and nuzzle my neck and meow. And then he would walk away from me because he knows I am not there anymore. He would find his way to my room and lay sprawled in the middle of my bed. It's his bed now. And then across the world, somewhere in another country, someone will wake up, look at them self in the mirror, and smile.

After everything that has been happening—my mother, Sesshomaru, Miroku and Inuyasha…I still think about myself. Amazing. I mean, I know that I need to work through my problems first, but honestly, I can't believe it. But then, but then I realize it as I am sitting on top of my rock just for old times sake. I finally realize something important about myself. About Inuyasha. About Sesshomaru. About Miroku.

Sesshomaru has been right all along. About everything. About my feelings for Inuyasha. About my feelings for him. And I realize my problem. I love Inuyasha too much. But it isn't a healthy love. It isn't a love that can be requited, first of all. But most importantly, most most most importantly, it isn't a love that I can be comfortable in. For some unknown reason I have always felt as if Inuyasha was above me, better than me. Even before I knew he was gay I never thought I deserved someone like him. I never thought I could be with someone like him. And it made me guilty. It made me vulnerable and god damnit, it made me a carpet. It made me Inuyasha's doormat so he could walk over me any time he liked. And there I was, sitting there on the ground saying, "Please, please, just wipe your feet one more time, okay?" I became so dependent on his opinion and thoughts that I could barely get out of the house without consulting what I thought he would like and enjoy. I became his bloody lap dog and I, I became a shadow of my other self. The self that was not entirely confidant, but on her way there. The self that was, if not comfortable with herself and her body yet, sure as hell getting there pretty quickly.

2/1/02

10:01 p.m.

Ah. My favorite animal. I would have to say my favorite animal is a penguin. I love penguins. They are so unbelievably cute it hurts. If I ever see one I will have to be physically restrained from picking it up and taking it home. This is probably a good thing because it would most likely peck my eyes out and I personally like my eyes, thank you. However, I also like that the penguins mate for life. I mean, that is something that I am afraid about. I don't want to get divorced ever. When I marry, I want to be absolutely certain that that man is the man who will stand by me for the rest of our lives. I don't think I could handle divorce. I know it happens a lot, but I made a promise to take care of that man for the rest of my life and I don't want to break it. So I guess I just need to wait. This is probably smart. I mean, rushing into things never got you anywhere. And then, opening up a whole other can of worms, I worry that I won't ever find that one person. You know. Your soul mate. Is there really such a thing? Is there such a person where it hurts to be without them and you love them so much you would do anything for them? Someone who you could have children with and be happy with for the rest of your life? Is it really possible? I mean, I want what my parents had. Yes they fought and yes they weren't always nice to each other. But, they didn't want to get divorced. Far from it. They loved each other immensely. I mean, I just saw it when I was around them and felt it when I was near them. I mean, I want that. I want their happiness. I want to have that comfort that the person I love so much loves me back equally. Sigh Is that too much to ask, do you think? I just wrote an essay on that. It was on Cyrano de Bergerac and how he symbolized the need in everyone to find their soul mate and how our insecurities about our bodies and ourselves hold us back from accomplishing that. I think that would be something that I would actually regret. Finding my soul mate and then loosing them somehow. What if I already met him? What if he died in a car accident? Is there only one soul mate for you?

But Sesshomaru was wrong about one thing. He was wrong that I would be independent if Inuyasha wasn't in my life. But that wasn't true. I was dependent on him now--Sesshomaru. He was my Inuyasha replacement and it scared me because I knew it was true. He was just there to replace Inu while he was in France. And then it hit me. That was why I wasn't really bothered when he kissed me and touched me. Because if Inu suddenly did those things I sure as hell wouldn't mind either. And since he was replacement Inu that meant that my feelings had been transferred over for the time being. But Inu was safe. He would never do anything like that with me. But Sesshomaru would. Because he is heterosexual. In essence, he isn't safe. Because I could get hurt. And that was the biggest blow of them all. I had gotten myself into a precarious situation where someone could hurt me. Badly, horrendously, permanently and heartbreakingly. After all these years of steering clear of pain and heartache I had unwittingly delved into it again. I felt so out of breath. And suddenly I was so scared. I was so scared that someone could have this much power over me and I had to fight the urge to throw up over the side of the rock.

He had created a monster.

7/13/96

9:42 p.m.

When reading Frankenstein now, I was suddenly struck with a horrific and terrible image. What if this monster, this "creation," was what we all hold inside ourselves? What if, as children, we were cast from society, from love, from anything we know as comfort and left to fend for ourselves in the wilderness--in the wilderness where you take what you can get, you fight for your life and you cannot help but kill those who oppose you--it is life and death? How would you react, if presented with a creature that was human, what would you do? They would despise you as the disgusting being that you are but instead they truly abhorred the disgusting nature of themselves. I suppose that we all have this inside ourselves, we are all capable of murder, of survival...but society and religion and bonds of love and friendship has changed our perceptions of "survival of the fittest" and now created a world where the meek are strong and the strong are stronger. What has our world become other than the result of morality and this innate feeling of what is RIGHT and what is WRONG. We know as children that killing is wrong and yet children still kill plants, birds, squirrels, ants and bugs to satisfy their curiosity of the secrets of life. The monster is simply the child in us, but unfortunately for him his curious soul was not encased in a delicate, precious body of a child--one which no creator or parent can resist. How disturbing is this tale of woe now when you read from the perception that we are all, in essence, the monster--the monster embraces this side of him because he knows not better and yet we deny that part of yourself because it is what we are TOLD is right and wrong by a religious background. We know wither this is right or wrong now. What if, by denying our baser instincts, we are undoing the world, we are creating a world in which one being, the meeker being in body and strength is the leader, the forefront of all thought and morality. How can we say what is superior and what is inferior? How can we decide between the savagery of our past and the sophistication of our present? Although many would jump to the present, we must realize that this is something we cannot decide--we were not left in the wild to fend for ourselves. And yet the monster, when he leaves Frankenstein's apartment takes great care in clothing himself before he leaves the premises but then lives in the wild as the poor wretch he claims himself to be. I am not surprised, that when surrounded by animals of the wild, the monster was influenced by their ways of life. A child mimics what the parent does and learns from observation. With the absence of his creator, the monster was left to observe anything he could set his eyes upon, be that animal or nature. So I do not think that perhaps it is terrible that a monster such as this resides inside ourselves, rather the thought that if we really had a choice, what side of ourselves would we choose?

Sesshomaru. Could I really go to him and tell him how I felt? Could I really go back on what I've been thinking and tell him that he really has taken part of me with him—that when he left I left with him. In a sad, pathetic way, but I did leave with him. to be completely contrite and "literature-esque," I left with him. but that isn't what he is-he is not literature-esque. He isn't perfect and…I like it. And as I said that my confidence rose a bit. What would I choose?

I've been thinking of things so much lately…things have been flashing before my eyes, things I haven't thought of for a really long time. Things that I was sure I had forgotten in the annals of my mind and that I could never get back—lost in the abyss that is the brain. But things were getting clearer and fuzzier at the same time. Through the haze, the thoughts I can only have one clear thought…

7/8/96

6:32 p.m.

So I'm reading Frankenstein and I actually think it's a really good waste of my time. I mean, one cannot certainly sit here and read books without liking them and I, as previously stated, like this book. Perhaps it could be the fact that Victor is so much regretful and torturous over his position that he cannot really understand how to feel any type of happiness. Is that how people really feel? They cannot be alright with themselves because they cannot forget the past, the mistakes, the embarrassments, the idiotic things they've done--everything, in essence? How can one feel that way, honestly, when you think about it? I mean, should we seize the day, live life as if it were our last and yet we have our memories, yes some are happy and joyful, but a large amount are also proof of the ridiculous in ourselves. How is that our past mistakes shape our lives in the future and yet it is BECAUSE of our past mistakes and mishaps that we cannot rise to another day with the confidence borne of yesterday. We, as children, do not touch the hot pan after we have burned and after we make a mistake we are very unlikely to reproduce the same situation to embarrass ourselves again. Are we all like Victor--trapped in our past mistakes, trapped inside ourselves, unable to escape the most excruciating torture that we can inflict upon ourselves--the simple remembrance of horrible decisions and past hurts and pains? How do humans, as a whole, survive, manage to live in a world where everyone who is coherent has at least a handful of disgusting events hidden inside their closets? Or is that the most successful people in life are people who manage to overcome this exquisite torture and are able to forget and disregard their past and live each day as if it were their last, like yesterday didn't matter and tomorrow was simply a chapter far ahead in their book of life? Memories, hurts and embarrassments haunt us all, haunt our minds as we go through our daily routines, show us what life really isn't when disguised behind the wet transparent newspaper print of our past years. And when you think of this torture, of this disgusting folly that is memory, can you also realize that this is all self-inflicted, all the cut from our own knife held in our own hand unable to even stop the past blood from flowing as we make ourselves a new cut into the skin of yesterday? However, as I look upon the "exquisite torture" of my life, I cannot help but say that this is not something that I could live without--it is true that we learn from our mistakes--in essence, our mistakes shape us as who we are and what we shall become in the ever-rejuvenating and changing life-world around us all. So I suppose the real question is not whether we are aware of what we are doing to ourselves, rather, if we had the choice, would we stop it?

One clear thought shines through the din. It's a bit hazy and it's a bit fuzzy, but its there nonetheless behind everything, behind the curtain of despair. I don't know why I kept thinking about—

3/3/99

2:46 a.m.

Transitions

Juggling bowling balls, oranges

He could do anything

I slept in his accordion box

While he played—

Slouching in the wooden rocking chair

Back and forth, back and forth

I laughed, spiritedly, loudly

His face crinkles when he smiles

He picks me up and swings me around and around

Trees blur in my vision

The seagulls laugh in my ear as I dance

The fire crackling as I crawl into the van

Roasting marshmallows, bugs

Finding slugs and frogs

My hand bleeds as a parrot fish swims away

Lighting candles, she laughs, eyes bright

She hugs me close, holding me tight

Piles and piles of books surround her

Important papers, letters, scribblings, crayons

Paints, splatters, art protég

It lines the walls, rooms, floor—littering

Keepsake memories, she never throws away

Leaves swirl, rain falls, my eyes grow darker

Curtains sweep swiftly across my face—

Push away the shadows, they drift away

I somehow forget the only thing I wanted to stay

Standing tall, alert, my laugh is gentle

The seagulls caw to the night sky

I distance myself, across the sand

It can't reach me

Hands, reaching out, gathering me close

But I'm already gone

I clutched my head. I couldn't even get one thought—

11/23/03

12:01 a.m.

Memory

Why did everyone seem like a better fit?

You never did like my quick wit

Was I not enough to keep around?