Title: In Twain
Author: Neme
Blood Type: Soft Scrub. Now with Bleach, to get your sinks even cleaner!
Warnings: Um. None.
Author's Notes: I hate having things not come to me immediately. This was one of them. Impatient? Who, me?
I like to wander down the hallways whenever we go anywhere new. And even sometimes when we go to the old places. I like to see how the old has changed and start remembering the new things. I like being by myself – especially in dark cozy places, like under Tohma-kun's desk or nestled away between the mops in the janitor's closet. Being by myself is good because I can think the things that I want to think and feel the things that I want to feel. Well, that is, when I am by myself or…as by myself as I ever get these days. There are crayons in my left coat pocket. And Kumagoro in my right. All these little reminders of who I'm supposed to be.
There are two of me, you know.
There is the me who everyone loves, adores. The one who everyone protects because they have nothing better to do. And then there is the real me. The one I have to keep hidden because he doesn't sell as well.
If you count Shuichi there are three of me. But that's a different story, perhaps for a different day.
That makes me sound like I have a mysterious past. Like the guy that the girl always falls in love with in a film from the forties or some French guy who smokes and uses ma cherie more often than necessary. But my favorites are the old American Westerns. I always wait for the line, that one line: "There's not room in this town for the both of us."
I always giggle at that point. One town? A town is large…ish. I mean, you could always live on the outskirts or something. Or you could pretend not to know each other. But my head is infinitely smaller than a town and there are two of me inside of it. And I have a feeling that one of them is going to have to bite the bullet sometime, just like in the old West. Because those Westerns are far more real than you might imagine.
Real. What would it be like to actually be real for once? To not have to worry about what Tohma-kun said or…
I haven't done much research on the subject yet, but there's evidence to show that if you are told something enough times, with the right incentive, you will start believing it's true. At least, I think that's what it means. They use a lot of big words like 'synapses' and 'acetylcholine'. I never was the smartest kid in our class. Book-wise, I mean. But give me a crowd and I can make them fall to their knees in adoration. The power of charisma.
That's exactly what drives the fans to proclaim their love for me, to declare unswerving loyalty to Nittle Grasper. If we wanted to, I'm pretty sure we could take over the world. After all, we already have an army of brainwashed civilians. Just like in one of those suspense thrillers. Of course, at the end of those movies, everything goes horribly wrong and the conspiracy is uncovered. Then the people in charge are always --
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, being locked up. Or, in the worst-case scenario, we'd all get gassed, like the criminals in a cop drama!
It'd be exactly the same as what I'm doing here now; slowly smothering the real me to death while the fake me takes over. Have I already started believing my own lie? It's already been years. Is it even a lie anymore? I --
The door opens and the harsh fluorescent light streaks across the floor, nudging the toe of my shoe.
"Ryu-chan, what are you doing in here?"
Noriko. I didn't think anyone would find me for at least another ten minutes. She means well, but…
"Thinking." I pause when she looks at me expectantly. "Na no da," I offer weakly, looking over at Kumagoro. He needs a bath; who knew that a janitor's closet would be so dirty?
She smiles at me. That's the best thing about Noriko; when she smiles at you, you feel like everything is going to be all right. "Twenty minutes until we hit the stage."
Absently, I rub Kumagoro's ear for good luck. Twenty minutes. I'd better get my game face on. I giggle to myself; I make it sound like I'm in a movie.