Parting of Ways

--

Part II: Broken Hourglass

Even the innate cannot escape

The unrelenting hands of Fate,

The glass rose is no exception.

The hourglass runs steadily,

As each second is claimed to time,

Destruction embraces the object,

It fades away, lost to time.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

The rhythmic tones pass over my ears steadily; the cool caress of metal along my forehead feels oddly familiar, though wholly different from the sensation I was once accustomed to. Scarlet tresses fall to the floor like rain.

Crimson rain.

I cringe mentally as I think back on that evening, now so many moons ago. Several moons have come to pass. And yet, with each dawn that surfaces, the chasm which should steadily separate me from that incident does not grow. Time passes, and yet it does not. It is as though the hourglass is running, dictating life as usual, but I am somehow lost to the flow of time.

Or perhaps I just dwell too much on the past….

Snip, snip, snip.

Metal slides seamlessly over my flesh. The tissue left in its wake is unmarred, and yet, red still flows. Lengthy streams of crimson descend before my eyes, onto my shoulders, spilling onto the linoleum floor. And yet, it is not blood.

"There now, we're done." The voice of a cheery female demands my attention, my eyes snap up to her face. She is smiling. Such a plastic, false gesture.

She passes me a small, circular hand mirror. I look myself over briefly. No longer does my hair spill gracefully about my shoulders. Left in the wake of my once-long hair remains only a seemingly unkempt short cut, a feeble reminder, at best.

"Thank you," I reply politely, handing back the mirror as she unties the uncomfortable string that has been fastened about my neck. The cloth falls to the floor, littered with flecks of red.

I stand up and bow slightly, feeling slightly off-center after having had to sit down for such a length of time prior.

Mother is standing at the counter with her wallet in hand as I approach her. She smiles at me — not quite as plastic, yet just as unassuming. I nod lightly in her direction to acknowledge that I have seen her as I make my way towards her and the counter.

She pulls out a few wrinkled bills and a handful of yen from her purse and passes them to the man waiting behind the counter.

--

"It's nice to be able to see you properly again," mother replies matter-of-factly, though I can sense the strain in her voice, once we are in the car en route to home.

"Hmmm," I reply mildly, not knowing what more to say.

"Though… I'll admit, seeing you with short hair again seems so odd, Shuichi, dear."

I nod. It has been a few years now since I last had short hair. I was fourteen, actually, if I remember correctly. Shortly before I had met Hiei for the first was when I had started to grow out my hair. It did not go over well with mother, at first.

"Shuichi, dear," Mother began slowly, her voice faintly reprimanding, "don't you think you should let me take you to the barber?"

The boy sitting in the chair next to her lowered his gaze slightly in respect. "But I like my hair this way, Mother."

"But dear, it's getting too long. Really, it's starting to look ridiculous," she rebuked, tracing her fingers deftly through the tresses growing long against the nape of his neck.

"It's not ridiculous. I look fine and everyone at school likes it too," the boy argued slowly, keeping his gaze to the floor.

She sighed. "Honestly… I just don't know what it is with teenagers these days… always acting so radically…"

"Mother, I assure you, I will look fine. Please trust me and my judgment."

She nodded, though reluctantly. "Of course, dear… I'll give this a chance… I promise…"

She had stayed true to her words, and he had been correct. His hair continued to grow out, and he really did look good, she conceded. He was growing up splendidly, and his long hair suited his gentle spirit perfectly as well as his naturally feminine features and build. He had many female admirers, for, whom was she kidding; her son was growing into quite the handsome young man.

Silence engulfs us. I stare blankly at what little is left of the bland winter scenery; mother seems to be lost in her own thoughts. Then, after a subdued moment of overdrawn silence, I hear mother giggle slightly and I turn to her questioningly.

"What is it, Mother?"

She shakes her head slowly, still giggling. "Dear, your hair isn't there any longer, you've nothing to play with," she tells me.

I blink, trying to make sense of what she has said. It is then that I realize I have been trying to twirl a strand of hair about my finger out of boredom. Needless to say, it is a strand of hair that is no longer present at the time.

I pull my hand back, laying it feebly on the armrest of the car door feeling slightly embarrassed at my actions. Mother only smiles.

"You must hate this." It is more a statement than a question.

"Pardon?"

"Having to get your hair cut, dear."

"It is not as though I had much choice in the matter."

At my response the teasing, cheerful tone in her voice falters and disappears immediately again. "Yes, that's true…" she sighs heavily. "It was getting very thin, wasn't it, dear?"

"Yes. If I would not have had it cut, I would have looked rabid. It looks better short, all things considered."

"I'm just surprised that it hasn't all come out, dear."

"As am I. Doctor Masaha seemed to think it should have by this point."

Really, it is not surprising that I still have my hair. Youko may be at bay, but he still resides within me and his soul gives me a certain amount of endurance most mortals don't possess to stand up to my treatment regimen.

"Especially since they increased the amount of your Chemo…" Mother's voice trails off as she makes this statement.

I nod in deft agreement, reflecting back to when the news that my treatment would have to be increased had first graced mother's and my ears.

"So, Mr. Minamino," Doctor Masaha addressed him as he and Shiori sat in his office, "tell me what you recall feeling before fainting."

The young man whom he had been addressing looked up respectfully, turning his gaze from his hands, laying without much abandon in his lap, to the man's face.

"Well," he began tentatively, not sure as to how much he wished to reveal to this man, "a burning sensation spreading throughout all of my limbs, and sharp searing pains feeling as though my veins were being ripped open."

The Doctor nodded, scribbling away at the clipboard held up on his knee and continued on, his gaze lingering on the papers upon which he was writing. "Anything more? Bleeding prior to this incident perhaps?"

He nodded. "Yes. Just minutes before, while still in the car, my gums had begun bleeding. Though it was only slight, and stopped very briefly thereafter."

At this, the Doctor added a final note to his clipboard and looked up at the young man, an odd emotion mirrored in his eyes. "Mr. Minamino, let me see your arms."

Confused by the Doctor's particular request, he held out both arms to the man. The Doctor pulled back the sleeves of the shirt the boy wore and examined the underlying flesh. Pale silken flesh, perfect and untouched all but for the steady knotted lacerations running vertical and horizontal lengths up the majority of his lower underarms as though crimson thread had been run through his flesh.

Nodding to himself, the Doctor lifted a hand to the said flesh and ran his fingers along the largest of the beaded trails in a quick fashion applying a persistent and gently pressure upon the tissue in question. Then he pulled his hand away and examined the fingers he had used to carry out these motions.

Neither Kurama nor his mother said anything throughout this strange examination, both just waiting in a cloak of thick silence for the Doctor to address them with whatever he seemed to have discovered for himself.

The Doctor turned to them both again after another moment, having added more notes to the clipboard propped ever presently on his knee.

"Doctor Masaha wha—?" Shiori began, intending to ask about his curious actions.

He shook his head to silence her and held his hand out to her, a fine stain of crimson adorning his fingertips.

She stopped abruptly, eyes lingering on his blood stained fingers with a look of pained understanding.

Kurama, having seen the remnants of his blood upon the doctor's fingers, glanced with a sort of intense interest and curiosity at his arms, bringing one of his hands over the self-same flesh. Replicating the Doctor's actions, he found that his motions granted the same outcome. Though why he was bleeding he wasn't quite sure of.

He looked back up, his emerald eyes dancing between the two adults before him. They seemed to have forged a silent understanding to which he was oblivious.

"Excuse me? Dr. Masaha, Mother?" he asked, directing their attention. "But, what exactly does this mean in correlation with my illness?"

At his inquiry, his mother turned away, eyes downcast.

The Doctor sighed, consulted his clipboard yet again, and turned at last to look at him. "Well, Mr. Minamino, although this points in one direction, the medical field has much room for misdiagnosis. Before I make any conclusions, I'd like to take some more blood samples for examination by our lab."

Clearly this was not good news.

He nodded. "Of course, do as you see fit."

………

A few days later he and his mother sat once again in Doctor Masaha's office. The look the he bore when they entered and took their seats was not very reassuring. Forgoing all the formality that was 'good day, how are you?' and such related small talk, he came straight out with what seemed to be on his mind. Instead of speaking to the patient, however, he spoke to his mother.

"Mrs. Minamino, after another blood test the results confirm my fears. His counts are reaching almost critical levels. His health is astoundingly stable for having such dangerously high counts, actually. But, that aside, I suggest increasing his treatments. Young as he still is, using too high levels can be dangerous, of course. But presently I find it to be the best available course of action."

She nodded slowly, her voice failing her.

Then, he turned to her son, sitting politely next to her, a look of deepest sorrow held on his features, though his sorrow seemed to be directed solely towards his mother and not at all towards himself in light of his lethal diagnosis.

"Mr. Minamino," the Doctor began, suddenly addressing him. "Since it is agreed, you shall be starting a higher level of therapy. With these higher levels of radiation and Chemotherapy in your system, the repercussions will, of course, be greater on your body. The pains, bleeding, drowsiness or weariness, and all other symptoms you have been experiencing will most likely worsen. You may also expect nausea, anemia, and hair loss among other things."

… … …

A mere week following the Doctor's revelation about his exponentially worsening condition life seemed to have taken on a hint of the normalcy it had once possessed for him and the household in which he resided.

He had started his new regimen of therapy, and was happy that the side effects mentioned by the Doctor had only been mildly apparent. Drowsiness plagued him often enough with the accompaniment of anemia, yet it did nothing to slow his daily routine too significantly. Bleeding and pain were a daily occurrence and one he had learned to live with. All things aside, however, it seemed that things had started looking up for him.

Standing before the sink in the bathroom one morning he washed his face, splashing it with refreshingly cool water in hopes of waking himself up. Having revitalized himself, he took up the brush lying next to the sink basin and began to sort through the tangles that had set in over the past few hours he had spent sleeping.

Pulling the brush slowly through his hair a few times he gently disentangled the worst of the knots and pulled the brush back, ready to clean it for later use. His eyes fell when he saw the brush. Caught spectacularly between the coarse bristles were long crimson strands of his hair — hair he hadn't felt being pulled out.

Mildly surprised, he brought a hand up to his head and ran it through the crimson tresses. Upon pulling his hand back, more silky wisps had fallen into his open palm.

"Shuichi? Dear?" The familiar voice registers faintly in my mind, and yet, only a gently laid hand on my shoulder draws me from my reprieve.

"Sorry, mother," I apologize listlessly, not really knowing what I am apologizing for. "What is it?" I mutter quickly, turning to her.

She is holding the car door open for me. "We're home dear. You were asleep almost the entire way home."

I nod, get out of the car, and follow her into the house silently, stopping briefly behind her to slip off my shoes and slide them along the wall. She does the same and hangs her coat upon the rack that Hatanaka had built onto the wall months ago. I slip the coat I was wearing off as well and placed it on its corresponding hook.

"Shuichi, dear," Mother begins from beside me suddenly, her voice alight with interest, "since when do you wear jewelry?"

I turn to her, confused. "What do you mean?"

She steps to my side and brings a hand to my throat, pulling gently on the leather thong I have about it. She pulls on it slowly, exposing the small spherical gem that is fastened onto the center of it.

I must have exposed the leather strap when I was pulling off the coat…

She fingers the small bead idly, admiring it. "Where ever did you get this dear?"

I take the bead from her hands slowly and hide it underneath my shirt once more, pulling up the collar on the shirt slightly to hide the leather band as well. "I dear friend gave it to me some time ago," I reply shortly, beginning to exit the entryway.

Mother follows me closely. "A dear friend? Why, Shuichi, dear, is this a lady friend, perhaps?" she asks almost coyly.

"No, of course not, Mother. You would be the first to know if that were the case," I reply off-handedly.

Not the best thing to say, and I have caught myself too late.

Mother stops behind me. I can tell because her slippered feet no longer shuffle along the marginal carpet behind me.

Apparently, my reply has startled her.

"Not a lady friend?" Her voice seems skeptical and oddly worried. "Surly, dear — you don't mean to say that… a-another young man gave you that?"

"That would be the case, yes."

A moment of silence ensues, in which I curse myself mentally for saying what I just had. Did the increased medication I was on alter my general awareness and reasonable thought process this drastically? Now only more awkward questions will ensue. That is, if mother has sense enough to ask them; she still has not said anything to my latest reply.

"Shuichi, dear." Her voice is calm and gentle, yet I know that whatever is to follow, I had best listen, because she is not in the mood for anything less of me. "I'd like to have a talk with you."

I nod, knowing full-well that I could expect nothing less.

I follow as she leads the way into the kitchen and sits down at the table, bidding me to do the same. I do so unquestioningly and await the barrage of questions that are sure to ensue.

"Dear, if I may ask—" I register that it is not a polite plea for my assurance but more a statement that she intends to regardless of my answer, "—who did you receive that necklace from, if not from a lady friend?"

"He is a dear friend who wanted to give me it as a sign of — understanding — between us upon finding out about my condition," I reply mildly. I will not lie; I just do not intend to divulge more of the truth than is needed to answer a particular question.

"I see. Which friend is this? That Yuusuke boy? He has a girlfriend you know—"

I shake my head. "No, it is not Yuusuke, mother. And I am fully aware that he has a girlfriend. Her name is Yukimura, Keiko."

"Then who?" she prompts, looking slightly flustered.

"His name is Hiei."

"Hiei…" she repeats, contemplating for a moment. "Which one is that?"

"You have met him," I assure her. "He is the shortest of them. Black, spiked hair, usually wearing black. Stubborn attitude. And if you have talked to him at all he is most likely to respond with a single syllable."

"Shuichi, dear," she begins gently as she realizes to whom I am referring, "not that I don't trust your judgment in friends, but really, you shouldn't be involved like that with people like him."

Her voice is so critical and worried I cannot help but smile wryly.

"Mother, I assure you Hiei and I are not like that. There is no need to worry." I chuckle lightly, my head shaking in disbelief.

"But…"

"He is only a friend whom I have known for years. There is nothing going on between us."

"You're sure?"

"Completely."

"But you'd tell me if… you…"

"Of course."

She sighs, a wave of relief noticeably passing over her features.

"I don't know what I was thinking," she laughs lightly to herself, though somewhat forcibly. "I… ah… I'm just going to freshen up then, dear…"

She stands and exits the room. I watch her go feeling more amused than I have in the longest time. This has been one of the first actual conversations she and I have shared in quite a while; what an intriguing topic of discussion.

Just as I am about to contemplate the nature of her concern, and whether there is a tangible reason that she should have worried at all, a piece of pristine paper catches my eye.

Naturally, I must look upon it.

I pull the paper towards me along with a few others that had been piled haphazardly atop it. From the looks of it, it is just today's mail. Hatanaka's pay stub, a letter from Omura-san — a long time neighbor of ours that had recently moved to Niigata — and then, the paper that had originally caught my attention.

A single white envelope adorned by the finest penmanship in black charcoal ink. The sender is mother's bank, which is intriguing in and of itself. Noticing that the envelope has already been opened, and the paper within it had been shoved none-to-neatly back in place, I make no hesitation in slipping out the paper again and examining it.

Trailing well past halfway down the page were several columns of seemingly insubstantial numbers, followed behind by their not-quite-as-insubstantial meanings: namely, the list of the company to which the certain amount of money is owed.

That company, which trailed each figure closely, was the hospital.

Ignoring the sinking feeling that has taken hold of me at the realization, I glance down the page, looking towards the bottom and the official seal that greets me. Reading through the lines of fine text that follow, my eyes widen at the last sentence.

"Notice of Foreclosure."

Following behind are the false words of 'have a good day.' My throat tight, I turn again to the figures near the top. Numbers followed by countless zeros followed by 'Nakayama General Hospital' in bold face behind them.

I put the paper back into the envelope slowly and replaced the mail, retreating soundlessly to my room to think. Once in my room, my mind, which had been momentarily fogged, buzzes with anger. Not anger at mother for not showing me this interesting little paper, and not anger at the hospital or the bank. Just anger at myself.

How, I wonder morosely, can things have gotten this bad? I know that mother had had to quit her office job, as well as her part-time job with Hatanaka in his Ramen shop. Well, it is not that she had to; just that she did in order to take me to my almost daily hospital or clinic visits. That left only Hatanaka's job to support the four of us. With mother not working it left us with one income and more bills than one household should ever have to handle.

The fact that we have bills does not bother me, and it should not, seeing as everyone has them — or, at least every respectable, tax-paying citizen does. What bothers me are three things: The first being the 'Notice of Foreclosure' lying on our kitchen table. The second being that the foreclosure notice has occurred because of increasing debts owed that mother cannot pay, being out of work. The third is simply the fact that the debts in question — the ones causing this all — are from the Nakayama General Hospital and are all being caused by me.

And it is irreversible.

Mother quit her jobs because I am ill, and the bills pile up because I am ill and she quit her jobs. Because I am ill, she cannot go back to work, or she will not; and because she will not go back to work, the bills keep piling up.

All goes round and falls full circle in an unending, unrelenting cycle.

However, just as with everything else, there is a way to fix this. It falls back on something relevant to cause and effect — problem and solution. To fix something, identify what needs to be done and do it.

In this situation, I have identified the problem.

I am the problem.

For things to get back to normal, someone has to exterminate the problem.

I have to be out of the picture.

But since no one wants to acknowledge me as being the problem in this equation…

I'll have to take myself out of the picture…