life in moderation
chapter 9: turn your heart to stone
AN: Thanks again to Numisma for betaing, and Kokuei no Onchuu for her insight on gore. Rating has been changed to M, for obvious reasons.
Disclaimer: I don't own Inuyasha.Red; like my father's eyes…
Red; like my coloured lips…
Red; like the blood pooling on the floor…
I pretend the ounces of pain making themselves known in my arms and chest are nothing but my overactive imagination. It disappears under waves of rage, racking my body and contorting my vision. I stand beside the door with my back to the wall, able to feel my ponytail digging painfully into the back of my head. Quite a bit of hair has fallen out of it, dark strands hanging about my face and neck, dampened with sweat. I swallow to wet my throat, rough and dry. My whole body is tingling, begging for revenge, some kind of release.
"Hitomi…" I'm able to speak, though it hurts, just loud enough for him to hear. But he must have noticed the window shattering, unless he's deaf, or a complete moron.
His footsteps hurry over, and I hear him replace the pin in the doorknob, quickly but clumsily, almost as if he's nervous. Even if I die, I'll have the satisfaction of that, I suppose.
Death is such a strange thing…. Some people who don't do anything with their lives are murdered, and countless people die every day from famine, disease and war. And yet some well-off people want nothing but to die. It never comes to them, as they waste away, trapped in the cage that is life.
As soon as I see artificial light peek though the crack in the door, I push it open all the way, catching Hitomi off-guard. My hand flies upward, the large piece of glass quickly finding the skin of his neck. I press just hard enough to get my message across, but not hard enough to actually draw blood… yet.
"Don't you fucking move!"
At my yell, he steadies himself, arms slightly out to his side to help him balance. Eyes wide, he stares. Why, hasn't he seen enough?
I glance around, though my gaze never leaves him for more than a second. My coat is still on the chair in the living area, near the door, my purse on the table. Shit, I bet he's gone through the whole thing by now. How dare he…
"Kagura…"
I tilt the piece of glass just enough to break skin, already streaked minutely with my own blood. His breathing is andante and controlled, like a calculating predator. And yet, he barely seems alarmed. Is it that you know me that well, Hitomi? Do you still think you know me now?
"Whatever you have to say, I don't want to hear it," I hiss, forcing him a step backward, and myself forwards - closer to the door. "I'm getting out of here, do you understand me? And you're not going to call me. You're not going to fucking follow me again, do you hear me?"
He inhales, the look in his eyes disturbing. "And if I don't let you?"
"You'll find out then, won't you?" I force him back a little more - we're almost to the table. My body is dragging, exhausted, but my mind pays no attention and urges me forward. The hand clutching the shard vibrates along with me, biting further into Hitomi. I'm not sturdy, head pounding as if a million soldiers are marching relentlessly over my head, and my bangs hang heavily into my line of sight, half-blocking him from view. If only he weren't there. But 'if' is just a concept built on wishes, and we all know that wishes don't come true.
"You'll kill me?" He smirks. "You may be angry, Kagura, but I doubt you have that sort of a hardness in you - even if you are Naraku's daughter. Could you really handle knowing you took life from me? But maybe I am the one who is wrong. After all, you did so easily get rid of our child, destroyed an innocent soul. What a terrible and indifferent mother you are."
"You're wrong," I tell him. "You don't know me at all, or what I will and won't do."
What I have done…
Droplets of crimson liquid swell over the pasty white skin, resting on the translucent dagger that threatens to slit his arteries. I can see his reflection in the glass, dirtied and stretched. He would bleed to death in a number of minutes if I were to press in far enough. I'm tempted to, and if he were to push me to a certain point in this state, I just might. But I don't want to. I don't want to have that tagged onto my soul. That past I let go of, and I don't want to create another similar one. The smell of blood still haunts me, unwilling to let go.
My other hand I place on his shoulder and press, signaling him to take more steps backwards. Under the cotton I can feel his flesh, his skin, the muscle and bone that is his being. A few locks of dark, greasy-looking hair fall into his eyes, causing him to look even more deranged than he did previously. He doesn't have the expression of someone who's about to die. The fear, the panic, stuttering, mouth open wide. No sound comes out, no protests heard. Most people die afraid, in pain, praying they won't be condemned to hell. Idiots.
What hell could be worse than this world we live in?
A draft touches the back of my neck, and I hear the clinking of glass from the bedroom, from pieces that had landed on the awful-looking curtains hung over the floor length window. The door creaks a bit as the wind pushes it open a little, swinging back into place in the frame. No other sound reaches me, just myself and him, our breathing, skin against clothing as we move one step closer to my bag.
The coldness of my hand against the gun…
Would killing him turn me back into the old version of me, that I just barely escaped before she collapsed upon herself?
"I don't quite understand," Hitomi says, leaning back a little, "why you would prefer to live like a dog, rather than a goddess? It wouldn't be so bad…."
"I'm not like you, or my bastard of a father," I insist, reaching one hand cautiously out towards my purse, "I'm not a heartless bitch. I don't want what you have, and you cannot give me what I want. So get the hell out of my life, before I'm forced to get a fucking restraining order."
As my hand closes around the burgundy corduroy strap, a coffee stain that caused the fabric to harden decorating the front, I feel coldness on my cheek, and I whip back to face Hitomi, who gives me that sickening smile. His right hand sweeps along my hairline, past blood and sweat, coming down to my jawbone. I push the glass a little harder into him, and more blood leaks out, small rivers that stain the light material of his shirt, like a scarlet rain. I've barely gone in though. I can feel the rumbling of his vocal chords, of his breath.
"Give me a good-bye kiss, at least ," he murmurs, and I scowl, pulling my body as far apart from his as I can manage.
"Go to hell."
"Very well then." He removes his hand, letting it brush by my shoulder on the way down. "Get on with it."
"I don't take orders from you." We take steps towards the door, closer and closer to my coat.
"I already told you," I continue, "I'm letting you live. Because…. You know what, Hitomi, if you know me so well, guess what I'm going to say next!"
"Because you, Kagura, are not like me?" he guesses, emphasizing how he says my name; sickening, sickening, sickening.
"Because living is often a hell of a lot worse than dying," I answer, pulling my coat off the chair with my free hand. Bundling it up, I tuck it under my arm so I won't have to risk losing control of the situation. Something so simple as a piece of glass means life or death to him. Knowing that I could kill him, right here and now…is somehow exciting. More than exciting.
Just like your father…
"Good-bye," I say, trying to turn my voice into ice, as one hand fumbles for the doorknob. He stares back at me, my breathing difficult, body pained. He just dumps all this on me, more and more. I will never see him again. He better not come near me again.
Or else what? I'll kill him?
He deserves to be killed…
I won't kill him. I lessen the pressure on the shard, so it barely touches him.
I'm human, still. I won't let myself become what he is.
Can't escape, can't escape…
"Good-bye," he says in return, "my Kagura."
In one movement he pushes himself forwards, towards me, one hand just grazing my thigh, letting me know he's there. I feel my fingers meet the severed flesh of his neck, blood spurting, pouring out like a waterfall stained. Something not quite a scream, not quite a whimper, catches in my throat, and my breath stops as I jump away, falling back against the back of the couch. His body collapses with a heavy thump onto the ground, and all I can hear is the red liquid running over the floor, as if a flood. A bit of it touches my foot, and I jerk it away. The crimson stain is warm and alive. His artery has been sliced open, and it continues to let out life, the air becoming thick and coppery with the smell.
He leaned forward, sliced his own throat open. He did it, not me, and he'll be dead in a few minutes. Dead.
Of my hand and his will.
Damn you, Hitomi.
What have we done?
Maybe he heard the questions in my head, for he is laughing, though it sounds more like a gurgle, bubbles emerging from the slash in his neck. Eyes are wide open and he lies face to me. He watches me, taking in every inch of my fear, my hatred.
Killed himself with my hands.
I'm not sure how long it's been, but I watch him, his hands reaching weakly out and towards me. The piece of glass is somewhere away; it flew out of my hand as I fell back. I pull my legs in close to me, struggling to avoid the blood that is pooling near me.
Dead, dead, dead, the little girl inside of me sings. He's not coming back anymore!
Can't hurt me anymore…
I wish she would stop singing.
It's sticky, and drying, on my hands and up my arms. My jacket is heavily stained, probably ruined. I'm surprised I'm so clean, but maybe I'm just lucky. Better stop using up all my chances, though. I stagger to my feet, leaning heavily on the couch.
Dead, dead, dead.
Be quiet.
Made him go away…
Gone away.
I find myself at the sink, my mind a blank as to how I got here. My hands are under cold, cold water, washing all the blood away. Tainted water clings to the fine hairs on my arm, and my socks are stained as well. I splash water on my face, trying to ignore the smell of a corpse. So quickly it has turned from Hitomi to a lifeless body. His eyes are still open, staring at where I used to be. Wide, white, and dead.
When I was a kid, I hung out with a group of boys. I couldn't stand the other little girls, so prissy and perfect. We were throwing rocks at the frogs in a pond behind the school at recess; I was just five, I think, and one of mine, a large rock, hit one dead on. It lay there, half-in, half-out of the water, and it didn't move. The boys poked it with sticks, and threw more rocks, but it never moved. I didn't get it.
That it was gone, and was not coming back.
Everything does that, the teacher told me when I told her. She helped me bury the frog, and we had a little funeral. It was nice. The tombstone was the rock that killed him.
But I have no unhappy emotion about killing Hitomi. Good riddance. I hate him. He can't stalk me; he's gone, gone from me.
It's just that…
Could I have done that? Could I really have killed him myself? It almost feels like I did.
I don't want to think about this. I don't want to think about anything!
I want to get away…
Avoiding the cold and still Hitomi, I stumble over to the door, slipping on my shoes. I grope for the doorknob, my palms sweaty, my senses causing me to become dizzy, as if I'm watching myself from afar.
Down the hallway I run, firmly shutting the door as I leave. My footsteps are heavy against the floor, off-time with my rapid pulse, thumping in my ears. I reach the staircase and start down two steps at a time, recklessly, not looking back once. It wasn't the first time, no…. The inscriptions on my heart tell all, shamefully. My body had long since lost it's purity, but my heart was still beating strongly, with innocence. The virginity of one who has never killed.
I didn't mean to do it…
But I did. And I guess that's all that really matters. Maybe I did mean to, but I've convinced myself otherwise. It happened, though; I can't deny that.
My father…. When I was fourteen, my father dragged me into our car, after shaking me from sleep. He would not tell me anything about where we were going, besides 'a deal'. His eyes gleamed as streetlight passed over us for less than a second, before plunging us again into darkness. The headlights of other vehicles glared at me like demons, never blinking. We soon arrived at a warehouse, and he told me to follow him. I didn't want to, but I did. It would've been stupid not to.
Turns out, his client didn't exactly want anything to do with this 'deal'. The kid was backing out. He wasn't a kid, really; it looked like he was just out of college. But he stuttered when he talked, kept pushing up his glasses and pulling at his shirt. He was a little boy, who wanted some extra cash. That selfish wanting got him tangled up in the web that was my father's crime ring. He tried to explain to Naraku, while I waited by the door.
The idiot had demanded they meet alone, but he didn't mind my presence. He probably though I was my father's whore. I wouldn't doubt it; I wasn't dressed too conservatively. You could see the bruises on my arms, and an ugly scratch above my right breast. He looked from me, back to my father, and dove further into our world.
And so began the next ten minutes of his life.
I waited outside the room, half-asleep, and listened to them argue over pot. My father twisted his words, slowing sinking his fangs into the client. I stopped paying attention a few minutes in, but was brought back to it when I heard a scream. I peeked inside, and was greeted by the form of my father. The client was sprawled on the ground, a bloody scrape covering the whole left side of his face. His glasses were broken, and he stared at me with hazy eyes, as I realized what my father had shoved into my grasp.
The coldness of my hand against the gun…
"Kill him," Naraku said simply, touching on my shoulder. I spun around to face him, angry.
"What the hell?"
"Kill him."
"No! You bastard!" I stretched out my arm, holding the gun away from us. But the action was useless. Before I knew it, my father had spun me back around, and pushed my arm horizontally in front of me. The gun was aimed at the frightened man, and my finger was on the trigger, shaking, threatening to pull back just far enough…
"Well, Kagura?" my father asked in his superior tone. I could feel myself shaking as his hand traced from my temple down to my earlobe, his breath tickling the top of my head. His other hand still held out my arm, the grip strong and firm.
"Why should I?" I hissed.
"The only reason you shouldn't, is that you can't. You are still weak." I could hear him smirk as the man shook, trying to form words with his numbed mouth. I tried to put down my arm, but I couldn't. More venomous phrases dripped from my father's mouth, tightening around my heart. So tight, so very tight. I could barely breathe, barely stand up straight. I didn't want to kill anyone. I didn't want-
I heard the shot ring, and realized that in my fear, I'd pulled the trigger.
Through the left side of his head was a bullet hole. Because of the distance, it was an unclean wound, the skin pushed away and blood dripping down into his eyes. Through his skull, through his brain. He was dead, instantly.
The force of the gun going off had pushed me back a little, but my father caught me, giving a little 'heh' under his breath. The expression of pure fear stayed on the man's face as his body went limp, and he fell to the ground, dead. A smear of blood was left on the wall, bright red and almost glowing. My father's grip on me lessened, and I spun around, pointing the gun at him.
I could feel my heart curling up inside of me, being torn apart. Pins and needles carved words onto it, moulding it, encasing it in stone. I had a heart. But it was worthless.
"I'll kill you!" I yelled, voice hoarse.
My father raised an eyebrow at this. "Will you now, Kagura?"
My hands froze on the gun as I fell to my knees. I wanted to kill him then. But I was too weak. I wanted to kill him; I still do. But I didn't. He laughed, slipping his fingers under the straps of my tank top. I decided then I would live, if only to spite him.
If only to find some way to make him pay for what he'd done.
We left then, and Naraku told me not to worry about the body. In the business he was in, bodies were cleaned up in no time. The same thing will happen to Hitomi before morning, I'm sure. The blood stains on my body will become invisible to all but myself.
I stared at my hands the whole car-ride home, alighted every few seconds by streetlights. When I was a child, I believed my father loved me. And though he wasn't really my father, his fangs are still left in me. I still call him that; father. His cold, blood-red eyes somehow match mine. I don't know how old he was when he first destroyed a life. I was almost fifteen.
I am a murderer.
The memory recedes as I run out the door of the apartment, quickly losing myself in the crowd. Aimlessly, I jog down the street, trying to escape, trying to forget. Nothing here is familiar, and pain soon blossoms in my chest, causing me to stop. I duck into an alleyway; it's half-filled with garbage, but at least there's no one here to see me. Leaning against the wall, I let my stomach purge, and tears make their way out of my eyes. It was a mistake to go to Hitomi. Everything I do seems to be a mistake!
Father hated my mistakes.
I lean against the wall, knees clutched to my chest. Maybe if I keep running in my dreams it will never catch me. My head bows, and I rub my cheeks on my sleeves. Wrapping my jacket around me, I close my eyes and let my body give in. The wings I might have had are now crippled, nothing but bones and bloody anthracite feathers. I keep falling…
But even as I slip under the veil of sleep, I know I will be forced to return at dawn.
End of Chapter 9