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Mr. Speckers has taught her much over the past few days. She finds it stomach-achingly funny how much you can learn from some-one-thing that is almost dead (but not quite). The small wrinkle of life that is the secret crack through which wisdom slithers, a rare flower found growing on the brink of death; the yawning cavern of a volcano's mouth in its dangerous slumber.
But just because she's learned doesn't mean she isn't afraid. She tries to convince herself that It is getting better, that it's not as hard as it was the first day to look at him; that the sickness in her gut has lessened somewhat, the trembling in her hands subsided. That maybe his gurgles are the beginnings of a song—she just doesn't know it yet. But lies only end up stripped and naked as truths.
Every look is a forced one, a glued gaze of trembling steel balancing finely on the line of snapping and thrumming. One roll of one single toe will send her tumbling over the edge; she's so close she can smell the falling, the deepness of the emptiness that calls to her like moon to water.
Sometimes she thinks that when her back is turned Mr. Speckers will leap suddenly to life and strangle her from behind with his melted mummy hands, the fingers that have kissed fire and known intimately all its crackling magic. She gets the feeling he's only waiting for the right time. And somehow she knows she'll never be ready when that time comes, but she tries not to turn her back on him too much, anyways.
Because she still hopes a mad hope.
She and Mr. Speckers aren't much different, if you really think about it. She is much the same as him, he much the same as her—they might have even been the same person in lives gone past. She doesn't care to speculate, though, because she might stumble accidentally on the truth, kick her foot in the dirt and uncover a fossil that has lain buried for so long, distilled and silent. Knowing is a knife tipped with waiting poison, cradled in the hands of the one you love. She's seen the invisible wounds of knowing on too many faces (Kakashi? Tsunade? Maybe…maybe even Naruto, at one point); she doesn't care for the cuts herself.
She finds herself talking suddenly to him, hoping he'll listen with his burnt nubs for ears (knowing he can't really hear…but can he still listen? Oh, she hopes…) and wonders how did it all begin? How was it that the words flowed so, struck the air in precisely the way they did? They are infinitely strange—she rolls the taste on her tongue, trying to decide whether they are sweet or sour.
"Maybe you aren't so bad after all," she hears herself say. She inhales sharply afterwards, slaps her hand over her mouth. Stupid words! It was obvious she couldn't trust them, but still she had offered her trust so naively, thrust it in the hands of the enemy; handing over the rope that would become the noose tightened around her neck.
Her eyes narrow into angry Jack-o-lantern slits. Mr. Speckers regards her silently, a lump in the bed, a roll of bandages sticky with repressed sweat and dry with the skin of shriveled mushrooms. So many years of never feeling the light, not knowing when was day or night, evening or twilight, dusk or dust. Breathing only the transparent scent of gauze and darkness, hearing nothing but the electrical buzz of mechanical voices that say nothing. Is he saying it's her fault?
A hiss scrambles out between her teeth and her hands slide slowly to clench. She stands rigid and tall before the bed, staring hard at the thing before her, trying to wither away the accusation but only being withered away herself. Somehow the years of nothing but suffocation and darkness has strengthened the man entombed in death, and somehow the years of nothing but air and light has weakened the woman entombed in life. In the end, she can only be certain of one thing: her own weakness.
Before she comprehends what has happened a kunai has slid its way into her hand, the cool handle resting against her clammy palm like snake skin. She is comforted by the grooves, the keen metal with glittery eyes of mischief; its pupils hold the gleam of redemption's absence. She shuffles closer to the side of the bed. In front of her is the white stand from which runs a thin tube like a miniature river; it strings from the man's nostrils to the sac of fluid that rests placidly, clear and sinless. It is all that sustains the tiny flickering of life. If one were to cut the source of sustenance…
Mr. Speckers' heavy breathing rasps in her ears and for a moment she is content to listen to it, to ponder the ragged rhythm and wonder at how the jagged edges scrape the air. And then the contentment, the odd appeasement snaps, and she slices the thin tube with a neat swipe of her hand, a fluid upward motion. It divides magically in half and the ends slump tiredly to the ground. The sound of liquid dripping accompanies Mr. Speckers' suddenly heavier rasping. The springs creak heavily as he twitches morbidly closer, squirms like a child dying, smothered in his sleep.
Suddenly, all the calm and fevered reason within her has leaked out, and her hand begins to tremble uncontrollably. She lets the kunai fall from her numb hand, and hastily, frantically kicks it beneath the bed, the vile thing! It wasn't her fault! It really wasn't! The door slams as she slaps it behind her, knocks it into its hinges, and stumbles blindlydown the hall.
She can run, but she can't hide.
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His eyes are like black holes, the way to an infinite nothing. There used to be light inside the house, but his eyes have sucked it all out, swallowed it whole. The windows are rendered useless because the light does not penetrate anymore; its warmth is deadened to nothing but lukewarm cold, half-alive fish out of water. He says nothing, and still the way his silence works surprises her, jars her—amazes her.
How does he do it? Has he practiced all his life, rehearsed in silent hours for the show that never aired, never reached its melodramatic climax? How? Maybe if she asks him nicely, he will teach her the way. Whisper the sly secret in her ear and reveal its dark liquid heart to her—maybe she has the chance of learning the deadly skill she has for so long coveted, the skill he has kept hanging above her nose on a pendulum, never—quite—letting—her—catch—it.
It's almost as if he can read her thoughts. The ends of his lips are curling faintly upward, the budding of a grey and sinister rose. Is he laughing? Smiling at the silly impossibility of it all, at her foolish belief in its fulfillment? Her cheeks are revisited by the blush of failed years, those twelve-year-old years of big fore-headed girls. She quickly whisks the blush away in a whirlwind of indignant fury. No longer is she the tramp girl. No longer.
Her enamel grinds angrily together, and the budding of the grey and sinister rose flourishes to a greater dawn. He tilts his head to the side, as if by looking at her at a different angle she will become something different, something familiar.
"Your reason." It is a demand, not a request. He speaks to her like a contemptible stranger and watches her face carelessly (but carefully) for emotion, for the merest trace of reaction. She kills the emotion, the reaction quickly, behind a bloody hedge and then turns and greets him with a smile.
Give him nothing in return for the nothing he gave you.
She blinks slowly, lets her eyelids slide open and takes a second, closer look at the man who stands before her, blocking the doorway. For once she is glad that her mouth will not move; she will not forfeit an answer—not this soon.
He regards her, measures her, looks her up and down without once moving his eyes—how much she has changed, how much of her is the same? She anticipates his surprise and is disappointed beyond expectation when his expression remains the same, an engraving chiseled into unimpressed stone. Some things never change.
The observing takes a minute or so before he finally steps back, allows just enough room for her to slip inside. She doesn't bother to ask for his permission; knows he wouldn't bother granting it. He closes the door behind her with a soft click and turns to face her again.
"Your reason," he insists quietly. She snorts under her breath.
"Do I need one?" she asks, eyebrows arching: a challenge put out, sealed in the subtlest of envelopes.
"It wouldn't hurt," he says.
"Seemed to have hurt you too much to have one," she says, lightly. "You think we've all forgotten."
She whirls around to survey the space in which he lives, purposely disregarding his reaction (oh, it gives her so much satisfaction! more than she's felt in years). The space is filled with blank and cold, efficient grey, with one small sofa, one small bed, one small kitchen, one dying man who denies his disease as it festers deeper. One photo by the bed. She stares at it hard—the gloss has vanished with the time. He catches her stare, follows it, and marches quickly over to turn the picture to face the wall; she smiles at this, almost fondly.
Already, he has slipped. Maybe he isn't as strong as he makes out—in fact, she's certain of it. He faces her again, and this time there is a caution carefully concealed in his eyes, the faintest glimmer of suspicion. This strikes her as terribly funny. She's flattered that he'd be afraid of her, if only slightly so. Maybe the day has finally come.
It's her turn to do the scaring, now.
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Ah! Fourth chapter! And still no point. Yesssss. But don't worry...I'm working on the plot. It may take a while to unravel.Just to warn in advance..it'll be pretty confusing. Hopefully you'll get it at the end (not really sure if she gets it herself xD).In the mean time...>>;;