Price of Forgiveness
--
Part III: Burning Bridges
Fate is a fickle creature,And the hourglass dictating our livesIs bolted down firmly in the hands of Fate.For us, who have a minimal say in our passing,Time can be altered ever so slightly,And Fate re-written.But for an innate object time passes regardless,It holds no say.Time erodes it; scars it,So that the glass will splinter,Will be lost to time,With no hopes of retribution.
Shifting uncomfortably in the hospital bed, I strain to find a fitting position to rest in, though with the troublesome I.V., finding comfort seems impossible. I sigh in resignation and struggle to open my eyes. My eyelids feel as though they each have one-ton weights attached to them and forcing them apart is a tedious and mildly painful thing. Lately, trivialities like breathing have become a chore.
Pale slivers of light greet my eyes as I manage opening them to a half-lidded state, and through the small squinting space I have left myself to gaze out of, I see two figures striding diligently around the room. I push myself carefully into a sitting position, being mindful of the I.V., and my unexplainable exhaustion.
One of the figures turns to me then, her brown eyes gleaming as they fall upon me. Her gaze seems friendly and warm enough, but as she speaks, her words come out crisp and orderly. Clearly, she is not at all happy with me.
I do not suppose anyone is happy with me for what I did. I cannot expect them to be now.
"Mr. Minamino, now that you are finally up, there are things to be discussed," she informs me impatiently. Her manner is professional, but she can definitely use some lessons on proper bedside manner, I conclude, hoping my obvious disgust is not as apparent to her as it is to myself.
"Are there?" I reply mildly, fighting back the bite in my tone. I must tread carefully here, and with the utmost respect.
"Yes," she replies matter-of-factly, offering a sharp nod that makes the knot of the bun centered on the back of her head bob.
I shift again, this time less watchful of the I.V. The all-too-familiar sting of the slender needle stabbing into my vein makes itself known once more and I wince slightly, acknowledging its continued, however irritating, presence. Then, turning my attention to her, I settle in respectfully. Something tells me this is going to take a while.
"Mr. Minamino," she begins again, snappishly. "When a sample taken of your blood was taken from the scene of investigation it was sent to our medical lab for examination." She stops, as though allowing me time — which I do not require — to absorb this interesting tidbit of information.
I nod curtly, pressing my hands together in my lap and twining my fingers. An age-old gesture of mine; a creature comfort of sorts for me, I suppose.
"Then, when we went about finding you a matching donor for you blood transfusion, you may well remember us taking another sample of your blood." It is worded as a question, but spoken as a mere statement; as the fact that it is.
"I remember," I reply slowly, recalling with a pang of seething anger at how much I had adamantly refused them, fought them.
I believe my logic followed a thought mirroring this: I let my own blood run in free accord — my own blood. Why, in the sweet name of Inari, would I want someone else's forced into my veins?
In the end, I lost that particular battle. It appears that minors are not entitled to make their own medical decisions. Even less, minors with suspected mental disorders that would account for irrational masochism and self-destructive behaviors.
No surprise.
She nods again. "Yes. Well, when the fresh sample was taken into the lab for examination, we discovered some… abnormalities… in your blood's distribution… So to say."
"Abnormalities?" I repeat thoughtfully. Surly, the Youkai soul at my core cannot be discovered through means of a menial human blood test? Now my interests are piqued.
"Precisely." She nods again, the barest tilting of her head. "And before we can draw any conclusions, we need to run a few more tests."
She falls silent and I open my eyes more fully to take in her entire figure. Pale brown hair bundled into a neat knot in the back of her head, oval-framed glassed perched jauntily on her nose, and no-nonsense brown eyes. To top off the attire, a white overcoat, boasting a blue ballpoint pen — which sticks out, point down, in her coat pocket, a clipboard held securely under her arm, and an air of unprecedented knowledge.
I suppose I can take her word for it. She seems professional enough, as far as professional goes by ningen standards, to know what she is talking about.
"Of course," I begin after studying her intently for a few moments longer. "You must do as you see fit, after all. Who am I to tell you how to do your job?"
Though there is no arguing that I undoubtedly know more about medicine than you feeble ningens can ever hope to — but that is not arrogance on my part. Just a fact.
"Glad to see we agree, then."
She offers up a tight smile. If she means for it to be comforting or some such thing, she has some work to do — far from comforting; it makes my skin crawl.
Then, she continues on: "Well, now that you have consented, Doctor Masaha would like to take some more blood samples, among other things. That is all, Mr. Minamino. Good day." She lowers her head in the mandatory respectful bow and stalks out of the room.
Good day? The irony is not lost on me. Yes. More tests and more annoying humans prodding and poking me ceaselessly….
This will be a good day, indeed.
Now, the other figure that has been lurking in the shadowed confines of these quarters makes himself known, introducing himself as the Doctor Masaha.
Without another word, he sets about checking my bandages — long since stained in the most vivid of crimsons I have ever seen. Then, he takes up my wrists; checking the pulse at various points, presumably; next he straps an annoying cloth about my arm and inflates it to the point were I am leery that he is going to cut off any circulation I have — corresponding pulse included therein. Studying the figures the contraption spews he considers them briefly and then unhooks the I.V., much to my pleasure.
As the syringe comes out a small bubble of blood issues from the punctured vein. He dabs a cotton ball into some foreign liquid and hands it to me, instructing me to apply it to the puncture wound with gentle pressure. I do so grudgingly, wrinkling my nose in disgust at the foul-smelling cotton ball.
He then goes about readying another needle, my suspicious gaze following him steadily. Placing it momentarily on my bedside table, he begins to unravel the bandages around my most severely lacerated arm. He inspects the damage — the skin is red and inflamed. Open wounds still issue a subdued blood flow. The flesh is still raw and painful; prone to infection.
He cleans the wounds, applying some thick paste to the open portions, and then proceeds to wrap my arm tightly with fresh strips of medical gauze. He finishes off by wrapping firm bandages about them. Then he turns to my other arm — I have long since stopped applying pressure to the needle-inflicted wound.
Peeling the bandages from around my other wrist he gazes thoughtfully at the beaded line of dark red blood clotting at the lips of the self-inflicted wound. Then, he continues to clean, re-dress, and bind my wrist again.
Having satisfied himself, he then turns back to the surgical syringe he has abandoned on my bedside table some minutes earlier. Picking it up, he lowers himself to me again and inserts the thin, sharp point into yet another of my ill-fated veins. Being so close to me, I can smell the burning scents of the hospital emanating from him — the disinfectants, antiseptics, medications, and a lingering smell of death, ill-covered by a thin cloud of bleach. I recoil slightly at this, swallowing back the bile rising in my throat.
One would think that an object as thin, minute, and hollow as the needle would be easily broken, and horribly brittle, but no. Not needles. Never needles.
I watch as blood pulls from my vein and steadily fills the needle's empty inner cavity to a predetermined mark. The thick scarlet liquid settles quickly in place and he removes the needle again. He deposits the drawn blood into a small veil and discards the needle.
"We're almost done Mr. Minamino," he informs me when he finishes with my blood. Then, smiling more to himself than me, he adds: "Now, there's only one more test."
I raise my head in silent acknowledgement.
"If you'll please stand, then?" he dictates.
I draw myself from the bed, with more grace and ease now that the I.V. has been removed. Drawing myself from the bed, I stand, suddenly aware that my legs are being attacked by the pins and needles feeling of having lost circulation.
My next thought is a mutinous: A good day, indeed…
He nods and turns from me, striding to a small, wheeled cart near the door. When he turns back to me, he has a large needle in his hands, and a small veil of some mysterious clear liquid.
Somehow, the needle troubles me more than the mysterious liquid substance, however…
--
"We'll call you to confirm the results of the tests, Mrs. Minamino," Dr. Masaha informs us, as I stand beside my mother half an hour later at the receptionist's box, waiting for my out patient paperwork to be returned so that we can leave this God-forsaken place.
"Thank you, Doctor," mother replies appreciatively, bending into a low bow of gratitude.
He smiles. "Not at all. Also—" he hands her a roll of gauze and bandages. "—See to it that his wounds are treated and dressed regularly to avoid secondary infection."
She takes them, nodding in understanding.
"Mrs. Minamino? Your son's paperwork has come back," a quiet voice says from behind us.
Mother turns and takes the papers the receptionist offers her, hands pale and trembling.
"Thank you, and good day."
With that, mother and I turn around and begin the trek back down the hallway, down the corresponding white-washed and maze-like floors, and to her car. Then, finally, I can return home. Ironic that I have only been gone for two days — Yuusuke's house and the hospital combined — but after the series of tumultuous events that I have gone through, it is a most welcome reprieve.
--
"Shuichi, dear, are you sure you're all right?" mother asks anxiously, peering towards me in the passenger seat from over the steering wheel.
My attention, which has been on the flying scenery, snaps back as I turn my head to look at her. Her face is taught and anxious, and her warm eyes reflect something highly reminiscent of fear. The sight of her so wrought with pain and worry is enough to make any words of assurance I have to offer her stick in my throat and threaten to choke me.
"Yes, of course, Mother. I am perfectly fine," I reply slowly, voice low. My voice threatens to betray my calm — threatens to break, and wavers just enough to assure me of this fact — but I restrain it. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Why, indeed.
"You look so pale," she replies sternly, her eyes narrowing as though she is trying to take in some unforeseen part of me that she cannot make out at first glance.
"It is quite alright, Mother. Doctor Masaha said that I had lost a fair amount of blood, and that I would be anemic for some time afterwards because of it. It is nothing to worry yourself over."
As the words leave my lips her eyes widen, as though she cannot quite believe I have let such a remark fall from my tongue, situation considered. She directs her gaze back to the windshield hurriedly then, and I am certain that as she does so I see her eyes cloud over with moistness; things unsaid, things undone — just a shade too late now.
Such a shame that life doesn't come with erasers…
She takes a deep breath through her nose, reigning in control of her voice again. "Yes, you're right," she nods lamely, accepting my rebuttal of her concern. "But, how are you feeling? Especially after that last test?" Her voice is steady, but I can hear her straining to keep it so.
"Last test?" I think for a moment before I realize which one she is referring to. "It was not so bad. Although, I will admit that the needle was rather ominous looking, and my entire lower back is still numb."
"Well, it's bound to be, isn't it?" she replies almost snappishly. Almost. "Lidocaine." She shakes her head, and judging by her expression the word leaves a foul taste in her mouth. "You had to choose the local anesthetic; it's no wonder you can't feel your back, Shuichi, dear."
I nod; her words ring true. Instead of allowing them to render me completely unconscious, I had chosen a local anesthetic to use when the needle had been forced into my lower back. As a result, both of my legs are numb and heavy, feeling almost as if they are not presently here, attached to my body.
When she says nothing more I turn back towards the window, my eyes gazing half-lidded at the rush of green foliage that blurs by my vision as we continue on.
"Oh, Shuichi. One other thing." Mother's voice echoes through my mind, and I turn back to her reflexively.
"Yes, Mother?"
"Shuuichi and Hatanaka were still out when I heard news of what had happened to you."
I nod lightly, the slightest tucking of my chin. "Of course…"
"—When they returned, I told them there had been an accident at school, and you had been involved. They don't know about your—" She breaks off awkwardly, her eyes shimmering and clouded by unshed tears.
"Mother…" I intone gently, my voice bidding her to stop, lest she hurt herself more deeply.
"Well, I never told them that…" She shakes her head and a quivering laugh follows. "So, please be careful about the bandages. I don't want to worry Shuuichi and Hatanaka. It's worry enough for me; they needn't know as well."
Her last words echo painfully through my skull, eschewing my thoughts as they tap dance along my line of consciousness and draw out the thrumming of a dull migraine behind my eyes.
It's worry enough for me…
My heart beats within my chest, hammering agonizingly against my ribs. I have to take a succession of deep breaths, over a series of a couple of droning minutes, before I find myself contented with the knowledge that my heart has stopped beating so violently as to threaten cracking against my ribs in its arrhythmia.
I had not meant for it to come to this. I had not intended to hurt her. In fact, for all of my own intentions, selfish as they might have been, all of this has gone sorely wrong. Everything has been thrown so horribly askew.
"I am sorry, Mother…" I mumble quietly.
Yet, even saying so, I know it is not enough. The words taste bitter on my tongue and they fall cumbersomely from my lips, foreign as paint. They sound — to me — insincere. I do not truly mean the words as I say them — not in the context they ought be meant, at least.
I know I will never truly mean it.
But I had to say it — if only for her. If only for her, will I continue to say it.
She does not deserve the hand that Fate has dealt to her; she does not deserve this unnecessary trouble and worry. But of course, I do nothing to stop it; I make no effort to lessen the burden for her. I am being selfish — I know this without being told in quite so many words. The sad truth, I must admit to myself, is that I am not sorry. About any of it.
"Why?" Her voice is a strangled sort of wheeze, and I shoot a curious sidelong glance to her that makes my heart jump promptly into my throat and the breath freeze in my lungs.
Silent tears are streaming down her cheeks undisturbed; they drip into her lap leaving red streams of suffering to trail from her eyes in a twin march down her suddenly age-worn face.
"Why?" she repeats, gulping in air.
Why indeed…
"Why would you? Aren't you happy?"
Sometimes happiness is just an illusion…
"Don't you feel loved and cherished?"
I do not feel worthy…
"Isn't it good enough for you? Aren't I good enough for you?"
You are all any son could ask for, and all I do not deserve…
"Shuichi — why?" Her voice constricts as she continues, the last of her resolve crumbling with her, with each additional word: "What would you do such a thing for? I th-thought you were content — I thought…" She breaks off again, the tears overcoming her.
"Mother," I sigh quietly, gathering my composure with a sort of calm dread. All the while, sharp daggers are shredding through my heart, gouging my soul and ripping painfully at my conscience. I ignore the damned thing. "It is nothing you did… I do not know why I did it. I am truly sorry…"
Yet, somehow, I know that no matter how often I say those three words, I will never truly be sorry.
She does not answer; just wipes her eyes on a handkerchief she pulls clumsily from her pocket, and continues on silently.
Taking the cue, I too, say no more.
And so, in silence we carry on.
And so, in silence, I suffer.
My heart drums painfully in my chest, much to my displeasure, while my soul falls to pieces: its tainted, demonic, fragmented bits gouging into my core. My conscience screams at me, a litany of ill-tempered ranting that pleads that I should apologize for everything I have done and not done; for all I have said and left unsaid; for all she knows and all that she does not. My head rages that I should be sorry.
But my heart will not let the words get past my lips again.
Saying the words will not make them true; nor will it undo what I have done. It will do even less to alleviate the pain I have caused the woman beside me. How can I be sorry? How can I say the words from the bottom of my — still beating — heart, and mean them with ever fiber of my — shallow, tainted — being?
How can I even contemplate saying any of it when I had loosed those wretched demons — shorn at my own veins, let my own blood — willingly? I knew the consequences before I began to experiment; I knew the risk. I had known. And now? Now, I simply cannot bring myself to be sorry for something I did of my own accord.
Fate is indeed fickle, and unrelentingly cruel. And Karma is deplorable. Yet, in the end it is still all my fault…
--
I am greeted by the familiar ivory radiance of the living room walls as I follow mother silently into the house. Throughout the return trip she has refrained from saying a word to me since her breakdown; I cannot blame her for it.
Slipping my shoes off and resting them against the wall boarder along the carpet line, I make my way slowly towards the stairs, in the hopes of reaching the second floor landing and my room undetected.
No such luck.
"Shuichi?" My stepbrother's voice calls from the dining room in innocent tones of a voice caught in the throngs of adolescence, and I see him emerge. His blue eyes are wide in worry, and his voice is concerned. "I heard you were at the hospital! What happened?"
Mother, I see, is still in the entrance hall, straightening out our coat rack. At my stepbrother's inquiry she has visibly tensed, no doubt waiting for my response.
"Nothing to worry about, Shuuichi," I assure him, being careful to leave my arms hanging at my sides. Moving them too much may make my sleeves pull back, and will risk revealing the pearly white bandages that have been wrapped around my wrists and forearm.
He gives me a skeptical look, the line of his brow quirking into his hairline as he regards me.
"There was a fire during our Chemistry lab and I had to be treated for smoke inhalation and kept overnight for observation, that is all." I shrug mechanically, but the gesture is unnaturally stiff and does nothing to assume the false nonchalance I bid him to accept.
"Oh-kay…" he breathes out after a painfully pregnant pause.
A thin smile twitches at the corner of my lip in relief as he answers. I am mildly surprised by how easily this particular lie has flowed out of me, but it is of little consequence — it has served its purpose; Shuuichi asks no more idle questions, mother relaxes against the hall door, and the truth has been avoided.
After another moment, Shuuichi nods in understanding and sprints off again to find Hatanaka. Surely, he intends to tell my stepfather the lie I have just told him. I sigh in silent thanks for a temporary distraction from any more idle questions. Then, I look toward mother again, hoping that she may at least cast me a small smile my way in thanks for keeping any further questions at bay, but she refuses to meet my gaze and hurries off toward the kitchen.
And with that, another piece of my soul splinters.
So I head up to my room silently, avoiding the rest of the family. Entering my room again I am slightly shocked to find it still intact with everything just as I had left it. I had assumed that ever since mother had seen me with the roses in the garden she would have dismantled my room. Apparently, I am wrong in that assumption. Whether I am grateful for the fact I cannot quite say yet.
I close the door behind me, listening as the door's catch clicks and locks in place with the frame. There is something calming — downright comforting — about being behind a securely closed door. I never quite understood the feeling, but now and presently, I am quite thankful for it.
In here I am secure; safe from prying eyes and idle questions. Safe, however temporarily, from the catalyst of lies that stand between me and a normal existence — and safe from the truth I so adamantly hide from. Safe from everything and secure in knowing I am alone. Left in solitude.
And in taking advantage of my solitude, I promptly slip into some more comfortable clothes. The ones I am wearing now are the same ones I had worn during my stay in the hospital, and they are far from being comfortable — far from being entirely sanitary at this point, as they reek of hospital, disinfectants, bleach, and death. The clothes I had worn on the evening of my collapse had been washed and then thrown out given the fact that blood does not come easily from white fabric, and even after washing it, it still harbored the unmistakable rustic red-brown tinge of aged blood.
Feeling better in new clothes, I gaze around my room once more. Everything seems in place. Everything is just as I had left it.
Except, of course, my life, which I doubt will ever quite be the same again.
My legs are still numb and feel as though they are made of ice blocks. I must admit, standing feels unnatural. Without feeling in my legs I feel oddly disconnected from my body, almost as though I am floating; floating like the spectral being my whole family must surely regard me as, now.
An interesting, if not slightly unnerving feeling in itself.
Best not to contemplate the thought of it, however…
After a few minutes of aimless staring at everything and nothing in particular, I make my way to the edge of my bed and sit down, still not really feeling myself move. Shadows are dancing across my walls slowly as the sun shifts positions behind the clouds and the cherry tree standing near my window, and in the dim light they wink happily at me. I watch them for lack of anything better to do and gradually, the dim lighting in my room shifts to ever darker, until I realize that the crescent moon has risen, and the stars have come out to greet me…
The only things to truly come greet me since my return, now some hours ago.
--
Tingling in my legs wakes me discontentedly. As I move my foot around gingerly in an attempt to regain its circulation, I sit up. Unbeknownst to me, I must have fallen asleep in a sitting position during the previous night, because in waking, I find myself leaning placidly with my back to the wall — a not entirely compliant pillow through the restless night.
Standing up, I am slightly put off to note that my legs and lower back still feel mildly separated from the rest of my body. They still feel extraordinarily heavy, as though I am carrying heavy shackles around both of my ankles, as I make to exit the room.
Sitting down at the kitchen table I pick slowly at the toast I obligingly make for myself. But, ever since my hospital trip, my appetite has waned to virtually none.
Shrill ringing erupts from the wall behind me and I turn my head toward the sound, listening as the phone rings again. Mother rushes past me and picks up the receiver, so I turn to staring half-heartedly at my uneaten piece of toast.
"Oh, Doctor Masaha! You've got the test results already?" Her voice is mingled with exhaustion, shock and anxiousness.
I lift my head slightly, training my ears on the conversation intently. Perhaps listening to another's conversation is wrong, and eavesdropping is definitely frowned upon in society as a whole, but the conversation is centered around me — or my well being, at least — so surely I am entitled to some sort of listening rights on those basis.
"I see. So, what have you concluded from the tests?"
Her voice falters when she speaks again. "Really? You're sure?"
Silence.
"Yes. Yes, of course."
Silence.
"Very well. I'll be down shortly. I'll bring him along."
Silence again.
"Yes… Thank you… Doctor… Goodbye."
I hear the line click dead on the other side.
She places the phone back on the receiver slowly, deliberately, and turns to me. The movement is stiff, her whole body rigid and hardly moving. Her expression is difficult for me to read.
"I presume the doctor has gotten the test results?" I ask, hoping to start her part in the conversation.
"Yes…" she begins slowly. "He wants us to come down to the hospital. There's something he wants to discuss with us."
"Indeed." I nod slowly, hazarding a quick glance in her direction. "Well, did he tell you what they found out?" I ask mildly, voice neutral.
"Somewhat…" she replies slowly, her voice as easily measured as my own.
I raise a skeptical eyebrow. "Is it something serious?"
Somehow, I know that this encounter will change it all. After this, I will never be able to go back.
What is it they say about burning bridges, after all?
"Oh no, dear." A note of forced unconcern ekes into her voice. "Don't be foolish. I'm sure it's nothing," she replies lightly, a tight smile working along the line of her lips.
Oh no, I won't be foolish, Mother. That much I can guarantee you.
But I am not to be fooled, either.