The Cursed
By River-Spirit-of-Anora
Chapter Two: The Watchers
First of all, thank you all very much. The reviews made my day /smiley face/. Uh, first I didn't say Inuyasha's girlfriend was not Kagome. Why does Miroku groping people never stop being funny? Hmm...
A page was gently curled, and moved. A small puff of dust went up through the air, but the reader took no notice. With an exasperated sigh, she crawled slowly, painstakingly so, toward the window on the other side of the room. Moving aside books soundlessly and cautiously, as though the man standing in front of her door could hear her movements anyway.
Steady, steady, steady...Her head rose oh-so-slowly. For a full minute she stared at the white wall, covered with peeling and dirt plaster. Then, for roughly fifteen seconds she stared at the edge of the windowsill, cracked and water stained.
At long last she rose in such a way that the top of a brunette head of hair, a peach forehead, and hazelnut eyes poked out. If one could have walked in the room at that moment, they likely would have laughed at the comical way she was hunched against the wall, and as she appeared that she honestly thought moving slowly was less likely for the watcher outside her door to see her.
Alas, lucky for her at this time, but probably in the long run really not worth it, no one came in the room to have a chuckle at her expense.
Her eyes wandered around her ailing yard, sighing at the illness that lingered around like a dark cloud, looking at the cobbled walk, elegant in its own aged way. Mentally, she walked around the yard grass between her toes. In her own daydreams, she walked up the cobbled walk, decided she really really hated this house, and decided to move...
In the actual world she sat crouched near a window and stared at the man, who, of course, was still standing there, and still banging on her door bellowing something about how he was just showing affection when he groped her.
Hm. She'd almost forgotten about that little incident. In all honestly, she doubted he had. Well...He probably still had the bruises. Okay, so maybe the two-by-four was overkill.
Still, a Paranormal Investigator, or so claimed the van that was, of course, still in her driveway. Those were ones you didn't see everyday.
Whoever said silence was golden was a lying bastard.
It was all around, crushing her ears, her heart was leaking out of her chest, drop by drop, chunk by chunk.
A single scream tore through the air, and relief flooded over her. If you were well enough to scream...well, you weren't dead.
'Kohaku...' That's who it sounded like. So that was who it had to be.
"Kohaku!" she called dully, but no matter how she moved she couldn't get to him. She really wasn't going anywhere; anytime she so much as twitched she was rewarded with a tiny cut on her arm.
'Really,' she thought, staring at the large wound on her stomach, 'cuts are the least of my worries.'
Thump! Pound! Thump!
One in the same situation as Miroku might, and keep in mind this is just a wild guess, might be wondering, 'What the hell have I been doing for the past three hours, and why am I still thumping on this damn door?"
Alas, instead of wondering such...practical thoughts that make sense, he slumped against the wall, breathing heavily. One could only shout so long.
With a sigh he stood again and...
Thump! Pound! Thump!
It was when he once more took a break that he looked up and saw something wonderful.
So.
She didn't die in her sleep, nor was she deaf.
He honestly couldn't have stopped himself if he tried. He grinned.
He just saw eyes widen and a glimpse of a scarlet forehead. Then. There was nothing.
"Oh, come on!" He bellowed as loud as he could. "It's just how I show affection! And...erm..."
It would be this moment that her determination, as well as the thing that kept her bound to that house alone. Also known as her conscience.
It was that moment that she heard a fated call. "I have chocolate!"
Her stomach grumbled, like some wild animal crawling around within her. Her mouth watered, she had to reach her hand up to wipe off the drool off of the corner of her mouth.
Fine. That's what she would do. She would go forth, claim the chocolate, and then run. She would not say a word. She most certainly would not talk, laugh, or even get a good look at him.
Oh, no. She glared at the shadow that wasn't exactly a shadow that was sitting near her, and it shimmered in reply. It most certainly wasn't a pleasant sort of shimmer, like that of a gem or of the purest whitest of feathers. It was a nastier glimmer, one that spoke scores of scars, bruises, blood and bodies.
They both knew the rules.
They both knew she was losing the game.
Sighing heavily, wondering exactly what she was getting herself into, she rose and exited the room.
He was in the middle of lifting his arm to hit the door, once again.
It was then a pale, skinny little thing of a hand, grasped a doorknob. It was then that, like everything else she did, she opened the door oh-so-slowly.
It was then that a blown head of hair suddenly appearing. It was followed by a set of weary eyes, a delicate nose, and lips set sternly in a leg. The rest of the procession was gently sloping shoulders, decidedly strong arms, a -- he couldn't help but notice. Really. It wasn't his fault. -- Very well-toned body.
It was then that she gave him a look that stated clearly she most definitely came out here for the chocolate.
Silence might be golden; she would never really be sure. The only thing she knew was that blood is the prettiest red.