White Bear

I think about the life I left behind, sometimes.

I think about the life I left behind, and the cursed rune twitches.

I think about our home and the stone walls that warmed me in the winter. I think about Cleo, and trying to sneak peeks in her diary --

"Young master, you should knock before entering the room of a lady"

-- and Pahn, and the cursed rune burns.

I think about Pahn, who could have killed my father once, should have, should have spared me --

I think about Pahn, whose diary held notes about meals. Gremio's meals. Meals he ate, delicious recipes prepared with the food my father earned for us, and the rune laughs and I don't think about Pahn anymore.

I think about Cleo, her warm smile, and how she would always chuckle and pretend to swat at Ted when he'd cross an invisible line with her.

I think about Ted and my world falls apart.

---

Gremio enters the next morning, and I'm certain he knows. He's made a career out of watching me, after all; I can't so much as flare a nostril without him throwing tissues and blankets in my direction and rushing to close windows.

I don't mind.

But I won't think about why.

---

Gremio has learned with time, though, and rather than betray his suspicions that all is not well, he simply invites me down to breakfast. He gently asks where I would like to go next, but that requires that I think about where we are now, and that requires that I think about how and why we got here.

I close my eyes, and breathe. The rune thrums in time with my heartbeat, but it seems content to stay silent for now. Thank you, I want to say, but I don't know who I'd be saying it to, and I stifle a sudden urge to laugh hysterically. Instead, I open my eyes.

"Banner Village," I say softly, and half-smile. Gremio's eyes widen just a fraction, and I continue -- quickly, before the words freeze and die in my throat. "I hear . . . I hear they have good fishing there."

My father loved to fish, but I can't think about that.

Fin

Author's Note: I went as Tir for Halloween this year, and the remnant of the Soul Eater I drew still hasn't completely come off my right hand. (This is what I get for using permanent marker, I suppose.) In the middle of class yesterday, it starts itching, I kid you not. So I flip a page in my notebook, I start writing, and...this is what I wound up with. It turned out way, way darker than I'd intended when I sat down to write it. Maybe I shouldn't write in statistics after all...?

The title will make sense to anyone who's familiar with work on thought suppression. If you're not, try reading it sometime; it's some pretty good research. :D I apologize if anyone took "Bear" to mean the story would be about Viktor...sometimes, these things happen.