It's been forever since I updated anything, many of you probably gave up on me. I apoligize for the delay. The second have of junior year was hell, I was always sick, balancing 3 APs and pre-calc. Summer happened and I spent most of my time recovering and working on college stuff. Senior year started and more AP, college stuff, family problems, and spending the last year of high school with my friends, especially those who won't be staying in FL. Also, I've been re-writing Understanding. It's not what I really wanted and there are many holes and flaws in the story, after re-reading the chapters I wanted to stab my eyes out with a spork. When I finish with that, I shall post the new chapter.
In a way I'm lucky, my work is not that popular and I'm not recieving reviews telling me to update, or threats. If anyone considered it, you may try but it won't get any results.
Now I present the second part of Flor Sin Retoño, which was always supposed to have a second and final part but I never finalized til now.
Snow blanketed the ground that he walked on, boots making impressions in the cold substance, the snow packed down from his weight. Western culture possessed too much influence for his liking; too many of their beliefs replaced the truth, the beliefs that made up Japan. Purity, that is what they believed snow represented. Purity due to its whiteness, unmarked perfection, immaculate, unsoiled; snow was clean and pure, but they did not understand the true nature of snow, cruel and callous it was and its "pure" façade masked horrors unbeknownst to society. White, it hid so many things, obstructing so much from view.
Snow swathed, covering the ground from view hiding any secrets that may lurk beneath; it was bland, unemotional, maddeningly plain, far reaching. Snow was dead; it killed everything that lived by suffocating it, smothering the inner flame, freezing the warmth. White, symbolized death – it always symbolized death until the westerners arrived with their beliefs that black was the proper color for death. They did not understand, foolish westerners, that white was the true color of death. Winter was proof of that, all colors muted, bleached, covered in snow – plants frozen – trees exploding due to the freezing sap within; animals that did not have shelter dying from overexposure. Snow, such a light and fluffy substance - crystallized water, each individual flake melted quite easily. Such was the force of white; a small speck covered nothing, masked nothing, but a patch of white like a patch of snow hid much.
He continued his trek through the snow, unfeeling of the cold, uncaring of the snow – it suited him. He always wore white; it was part of who he was. He was perfection, like the snowflake with its six points, and he was death like the snow. He was callous and deadly. Despite this, he knew he was not a perfect relation to snow – snow had a weakness the warmth of spring. No, he believed he was more like the illustrious moon in the sky; it was dead, luminous, and held no life.
He paused in his walk, a blotch of color amidst the white catching his eye – crimson. He walked over to it, slowly picking the silken object up – a crimson hair ribbon, a hair ribbon that was agonizingly familiar but completely foreign. He had seen a ribbon so similar to this countless times before, tied amongst ebony locks; he had held a ribbon similar to this so many times while his free hand ran through the same ebony locks. He dropped the ribbon on the snow once more, attachments created weaknesses and he refused to be weak, he needed no one and needed nothing. He rose, fully prepared to turn away from the ribbon, away from this place and all the memories it held for him – memories he wanted to forget but somehow he knew that was impossible.
If he was the moon then she was the sun, if he was winter then she was spring, she was his opposite in every way but there were still so many similarities between them. There was so much that occurred between them, so much that he wanted to remember but wished not to, the choices he made were haunting and bitter not fleeting and sweet. He gazed at the ribbon once more, drawn to it, drawn to its vibrancy the crimson stark against the paleness of the snow entrancing and mocking. Memories, unbidden and saccharine floated through his mind, brushing against his inner walls, a gentle pressure on his heart that was easy to ignore but impossible to forget, always remembered and always familiar. He felt the touch of phantom fingers, brushing against the nape of his neck, tracing the delicate point of his ear, moving to the stripes on his face; he closed his eyes lost in the sensation, an intimate gesture that was lost to him forevermore. He wanted, he wanted, no, there was nothing that he wanted from a female, nothing that she possessed appealed to him it was merely curiosity that drew him to her, nothing more this he repeated and this he tried to believe.
He picked the ribbon up once more, running his fingers across the smooth surface; the sensation was a familiar one, just as familiar as the texture of her hair brushing against his bare arm, of flesh beneath his questing hands. He knew her, new every facet of her personality, her hopes and dreams, and every inch of skin hidden beneath her silk kimonos, beneath the white make-up. Her form, her eyes, her smile were as familiar to him as the stripes on his wrists and she became a large part of him moving closer and closer until he was unable to determine where he ended and she began. She was the part of him kept hidden, locked away, forbidden from seeing the light of the sun for it was weakness and he was the dark recess of her soul also locked away, hidden deep beneath the surface.
As a child, she was innocent and carefree, the first time he saw her, a young dirty child in tattered clothing running barefoot through the grass damp with morning dew and laughing with the wind that flowed through her hair tangling it with invisible fingers. It was not the laughter, nor the actions, nor the clothing that caused him to pause in his movements, but her eyes larger than most children's eyes and a rich chocolate brown, unfathomably deep. She did not see him, hidden as he was by the foliage of the trees but he saw her, knowing that the possibility of him ever seeing her was miniscule but unable to draw away. He never expected to see her again, never expected to find himself held prisoner by her stare, despite the beginnings of womanhood her eyes remained large and deep, retaining the innocence he remembered.
Despite this, despite the innocence that radiated from her there was also a deep sadness hidden deep within her eyes, behind the smile a lingering desire, an old pain and bittersweet memories. Her smile was an honest one he remembered, nevertheless, the sorrow still lingered in her eyes from soul-wounds that had long since healed but left jagged scars that never lightened in color and texture. He felt himself drawn to her, felt himself wanting to rid her of that ancient hurt to rid her of the sadness hidden within her eyes buried underneath the layers of paint, silk, training, and well-practiced smiles. She intrigued him such hidden sorrow juxtaposed with such vibrant happiness, true the smiles occasionally appear pasted and false; she retained her sanguine nature from childhood. It was a welcomed change to the eyes he always saw; empty, devoid of life, filled with resignation, easily matching the blank painted white faces that resembled masks instead of a living being.
She drew him towards her, drew him deeper into her warmth, embracing him warming his once frozen heart, chipping away at the walls that surrounded it. He knew her, nothing about her was a mystery to him, her past her body everything was laid before him to see, the ancient wounds reopened before him, only for him and this touch, easing the hurt, bandaging the wounds. Haunted by the first time he had her, the memories plagued him, every action clearly visible, his senses tingling, he relived the experience; the softness of her hair between his fingers the feeling of raw silk and the satiny smoothness of her skin. He was thankful that he had not been the one to participate in her mizuage, it freed him from the sight of her blood, from causing her pain, and he never wanted to see her in pain. It scared him, scared him to feel devotion for her, to care so much about her that he drew away from her, away from her sweet presence, her laughter, and her warmth. He drew away from her, she was not the type of woman he could claim as his, of ignoble birth, a peasant not worthy of his class, not worthy to be called lady because of the blood in her veins. Lineage, social status, pride, these things mattered to him, he could not taint his family name anymore than it already was, he would not deign himself to walk the same path as his father, to repeat the same mistakes, he was above that. He wanted the separation to be easy, pretended that he did not care, that she was simply some object to be discarded when she had served her purpose, believing a lie was much easier than facing the truth. He left her, without a backwards glance, but he already knew what he would see if he dared to look back, tears in her dark brown eyes, eyes filled with hurt. He never felt remorse, regret, sadness, or sympathy, such sentiments were a sign of weakness and he was not weak but as he left her, he felt strange, leaden and he realized that he loathed the feeling.
Not a day passed that he did not wonder about her, a thousand times he vowed never to think of her and a thousand times he failed, so deeply was she buried into his being that life became greatly altered once she disappeared from his sight. Words never sufficed in expressing the depths of his feelings, unaccustomed to the loneliness, the regret, and unable to express his thoughts to ease the burden he carried, each day growing heavier and heavier he felt himself continuously drawn back to her. Her memory rivaled the siren's song, drawing him to her, calling, sensuous, forbidden but desperately wanted, how he wanted to be with her to assure himself that she was there that she was still his. He never gave into his desires, to do so was to show weakness, and would seal his fate, to approach her once more and hold her in his arms only had one result, he would never be able to walk away from her again.
She was the sun the source of all life - more exactly she was life the flower that grew in the garden hidden under a large tree, struggling to obtain enough light to grow, a plain thing when it first began to grow but a beautiful flower in bloom. She was his flower, struggling to grow in such oppressive circumstances, but it was such suffering that made her so much more appealing, the ability to retain such optimism, innocence, and sweetness for all the pain. She was the spring, the rebirth, the time after the death of winter when everything came to life, when the world was once again filled with color and life – the blooming of flowers perfuming the air and the songs of birds serenading all that had ears. Spring was the time of rebirth, but for her spring was denied to her, the dormancy of winter would never be removed, she was locked in an eternal winter.
He dropped the ribbon on the snowy ground once more before turning away from it and walking away leaving the crimson to stain the ground like the blood of so many soul wounds.
Esa flor ya no retoña
Tiene muerto el Corazon
Charlie Zaa - Flor Sin Retoño