A/N: As usual, please read, and review!

Chapter 9

Mitsui left her in front of her gate. She smiled at him and promised to walk to school with him the next day…if he was not late. She let herself in the gate, and walked the few steps to her front door, her mind still preoccupied with the happenings of that day.

Her hand wrapped around the cold metal doorknob, as she removed her shoes and stepped into her home. She did not register the cold at first, as her mind was distracted, but as she removed her windbreaker, the cold penetrated her skin and senses. Confused, she looked around the living room. Her mother was usually home by this time, and the house's heater would be up and running. A gleam on the living room table caught her eye, and she saw the broken fragments of a porcelain tea cup shining softly on the table as they were caught in the last of the daylight spilling in from the windows.

It was her mother's cup. The black tea it had held was now spilled over the table and onto the carpet on the floor, where the tea had soaked in, and left a brown stain. She gasped as a thought hit her. Moving swiftly, she threw her windbreaker on the sofa, and her bag plopped heavily onto the floor. She scrambled up the flight of steps leading to the second story. Once there, she could hear the murmurings of voice coming down the hallway.

The girl knew which room the voice was coming from. With a feeling of déjà vu, she strode towards the room at the end of the hallway, and stood in the open doorway. Strewn across the floor of the room were crumpled up balls of paper, charcoal pencils, and paintbrushes of various sizes. Water of a muddy colour was splashed across the white walls, and it dripped to form small puddles on the floor. Next to the window sat a lady clutching an open sketchbook in her hands. She was sobbing and talking down at the sketchbook, her right hand kept running over the open page, caressingly.

For a moment, the girl at the doorway stared disbelievingly at the scene before her. A myriad of feelings crossed her face; disbelief…confusion…anger. She crossed the door's threshold and walked towards the lady before the window, not caring if her feet stepped on soggy paper. 'Mother, what are you doing?'

The lady looked up, and for a moment, her glazed eyes did not register her daughter. Her eyes cleared a little, and she reached up an unsteady hand, almost desperately, and dug her fingers into her daughter's arm. 'Come, tell me who you see!'

She shoved the sketchbook into her daughter's face. The girl winced and stepped back. She saw a half-drawn portrait on the open page. Some features were distorted somehow, not exactly as she remembered them, but she still recognized the face. 'Daddy…It looks like daddy.' The girl reached out to touch the sketch, but it was thrown away from her.

'No, no it isn't! I cannot remember his face…I can no longer see your father's face!' Her mother wailed, and buried her face in her hands. 'Oh, Kyat, I have forgotten you…'

The girl pulled her mother's hands away. 'Mother, what are you doing? Look at what you have done again…I'm going to bring up your medicine.'

'Medicine?' the lady looked up sharply. 'I am not sick-'

The girl sighed exasperatedly, and tried to keep the bubble of anger within herself. 'How many times do we have to go through this? Please mother, let me get you your medicine…please.'

Something in the girl's tone may have gotten to her mother, for she now allowed her daughter to lead her from the room, and to her bedroom down the hallway. She obediently followed her daughter's instructions to lie on her bed, the earlier burst of energy having sapped her energy. Tired, she waited placidly as her daughter brought up a cup of water from the kitchen. She downed the three pills she was given with the cup of water, and laid back on her bed, closing her eyes. The girl, thinking that her mother has fallen asleep, uncurled herself from the bedside, and prepared to leave the room.

She barely took a step when she heard her mother speak. 'Kimiko, I-I'm sorry. It won't happen again.' The girl did not reply, but walked out of the room, and closed the door behind her.

Automatically, the girl's feet lead her back to the room, to her mother's art room. She proceeded to clean up the mess. She gathered up all the crushed pieces of paper. She unfolded one and saw another unfinished portrait of her father. After that, she just threw all the papers into the waste paper bin without another second look. Next, she took a piece of cloth and scrubbed the stained walls and floor, hard, as if she could wipe off more than the water stains.

The soft sound of cloth against the wall was broken as a harsh sound ripped across the room. The girl felt as if her throat was on fire, and the first sob was wrenched from her unwillingly. She dropped the cloth and concentrated on taking a few deep breaths. She hated crying.

With the room tidied, she picked up the sketchbook again. With her hand trembling slightly, she ran her fingers over the familiar face on the book. She tore out the page, and her fingers tightened as if to crush the page. At the last second, she straightened out the page. She folded it into four, and tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans.

She made her way out of the room, closing the door behind her. The girl headed downstairs again to sweep up the broken pieces of porcelain on the living room table, and floor. She moped up the spilled tea, and wiped the stains on the threadbare carpet as best as she could. She went into the kitchen where her mother's medicine was kept. She took out the pill boxes and counted the pills in them. Her suspicions were right, as the number of pills confirmed that her mother had been behind in taking her medicine for the last several days. Angrily, the girl kept the medicine. It was her fault that she had lagged in keeping an eye on her mother. Things had gone smoothly for a while now, but she should have known better, even more so as her father's death anniversary came near. It was this time when her mother was the most vulnerable. She should have done her duty as a daughter better.

The girl's shoulders slumped. She picked up her bag on the floor, and gathered up her windbreaker. She headed to her room and dumped them on her bed. She gave a deep sigh and turned to her table, where there were unfinished paintings and mini clay models on the table. Normally, seeing her works will calm her down, but today, they irritated her. They reminded her of her ill mother, who was an artist, a painter. The girl carelessly sweep her unfinished works aside, and shove her paintbrushes and tools into her drawer. She did not want to see a single art-piece.

The choked, fiery feeling in her throat refuse to die down, and the girl flopped down on her chair helplessly. She remembered the piece of paper in her pocket, and took it out. The girl smoothed out the folded paper, and stared at the picture for a moment. Next, she retrieved a key from its hiding place in her closet, and inserted it into the keyhole of a drawer.

Slowly, she pulled open the drawer. The topmost object was a photo frame. Gently, she picked up the photo frame and looked fondly at the photograph in it. Taken years ago, it was a photo of the two most beloved males in her life. She sighed deeply as she looked down at the smiling face of her father, standing next to a young Mitsui. Almost regretfully, the girl placed the sketch of her father into the drawer, and returned the photo frame on top of it. She shut the drawer, and locked it.

She returned the key to its hiding place, and lay on her bed, burying herself under the covers, too tired to move.