Parting of Ways

--

PartIII: Lamentations

A presentiment of what shall come

Splintering and falling to pieces,

Only pride remains to dictate

The moral value it harbors--

The only whole thing it has left…

The knowledge that falling willingly

Into that which is inevitable

Remains the only fair thing to do,

And so, the glass rose shatters,

Giving in to darkness

"Shuichi, dear," a soft voice calls to me from somewhere within the black abyss that is my mind and, for once, my keen senses fail me because I must strain to hear it.

I open my eyes slowly, struggling to raise my weary eyelids; my vision swims momentarily before I can focus clearly on her. "What is it, Mother?"

"Are you sure about this?" she asks softly, lowering herself gently onto the couch beside me.

"I am," I reply softly, closing my eyes for a moment of pensive thought. The next words come slowly from my lips, and I know she would rather not hear them; but it needs to be said. "This is the last time I will be home, after all."

"You-you shouldn't talk like that dear—" her voice cracks lightly as she speaks. "Of course this isn't the last time you'll be home…"

I can tell she knows that I am right. For although she expresses otherwise, she is not stupid. The less-than-subtle way her voice trails off as she spoke those last words is proof enough of that.

I push myself into a shaky sitting position, wincing as pain shoots throughout my body. "It is all right, Mother; you need not lie to yourself any longer."

Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears and although her voice wavers in emotion as she speaks, it remains stern. "Don't be foolish, Shuichi."

"Mother, please—" I beg tiredly. "Please—"

"No." She shakes her head resolutely, cutting me off mid sentiment. "There will be no more talk like that, Shuichi."

I sigh tiredly. Honestly, sometimes human's can be so stubborn and ignorant that it rivals even that of the demons.

"You're looking a bit peaky dear, you know. Are you sure you feel all right?" she asks after a moment, her hardened tone being replaced once more by her naturally soft, caring voice.

She raises a hand to my forehead and presses her palm against it gently. It is actually a quite welcome feeling, I register, a soft, cool touch against burning flesh.

"Shuichi, you're burning up," she tells me, as though I am not already well aware of the fact.

"I am fine, Mother." I shake my head slowly, battling the consistent roil of nausea that the action brings with it. "It is only fever."

"Only!" Suddenly her voice seems borderline frantic. "In your condition it's not something someone can shake off lightly!"

"You need not bother yourself over it, Mother," I reply curtly, my voice loosing its trademark calm. "I am fine."

"Don't you take that tone of voice with me young man!" Suddenly her tone matches my own. "And don't tell me how and how not to take care of my own son."

I cringe mentally as her words rip through me and look away respectfully, training my gaze on the carpet — such an interesting thing, really.

"I'm sorry, Mother…" I mumble quietly, after a moment. "I spoke out of turn…"

"Shuichi, look at me."

At her soft-spoken request I am reluctant to turn my gaze back to her. But after a moments' deliberation I do so, only to see slow crystalline tears — presumably anguished ones, frustrated ones — slipping from her eyes, sliding down her gaunt cheeks. My heart clenches painfully.

She smiles weakly in an attempt to show her composure. "I'm sorry to be this way, you know," she begins weakly, taking in a breath of repose. "It's just that, in your condition…" her voice trails off somewhat feebly.

"I understand," I nod slowly. "But it is my choice, Mother. Let me stay at home just one last time."

"Shuichi, what did I say about talking that way?"

"Kaasan—"

"No. Shuichi, there will be no more of that. Is that clear, young man?"

"Of course," I reply somewhat despondently.

She gives me a thin smile, though the gesture seems forced and does nothing to settle my thoughts.

"Now," she sighs tiredly, and all at once she seems much older and more tired than usual, "I have to go to the store dear, we've run out of Aspirin. You've been running such a high fever lately, it's no surprise." She casts a tired look towards me.

Have I truly become such a burden upon her shoulders?

"You will be all right on your own for an hour or so, won't you, dear? I have to stop at the bank first and draw out some more money as well."

At her words, my thoughts return to the abandoned bank statement and notice of foreclosure I had seen on our kitchen table some weeks prior.

"I will be fine, mother," I reply nodding at her is assurance and closing my eyes. In the blank recesses of my mind the word 'foreclosure' drifts uneasily through my thoughts. I clench my eyes more tightly shut at this, as though it actually pains me — more than emotionally, at least.

"All right, dear. I'll try not to be too long. You just lie here and rest. You don't need to go wasting your energy pointlessly."

"I will."

She nods approvingly and turns, starting off slowly towards the door. After a few hesitant steps she turns around again. "Would you like me to get you something to eat, dear? You haven't eaten almost anything in the last week."

"No," I shake my head and bring a hand to my stomach, willing away the painful writhing that has erupted from within it at the merest mention of the word food.

"You're sure?" Her voice is almost pleading that I should change my mind.

"Yes," I nod, fully aware of the unpleasant acidic taste that has resurfaced in short time at the back of my throat. Cytoxan can do that to a person — make one horrendously nauseous even at the mere mention of food. Simply another side effect of my treatment regimen.

"All right. Well, I won't be long, dear. Just try to get some rest, then." She turns and resumes her walk towards the door.

I close my eyes, not wanting to see her go. It is hard enough to acknowledge that she is leaving; twice hard to acknowledge that it will be the last time I that I will see her go.

Part of me cannot bear it.

Part of me can.

"Mother…" The word slips past my lips before I can stop, or indeed before I register having said it.

She stops, already halfway out the door, her hand lingering on the doorknob, about to close it behind her. "What is it, Shuichi dear?"

"I just — wanted to say — thank you for all this… And — I love you…"

She gives me that same watery smile, the corners of her mouth quivering slightly, but she says nothing. Merely turns away and closes the door behind her.

And just like that, the deed has been done.

--

I remain on the couch a few moments longer after her departure, wary of the fact that she may have lingered around the premise. When she does not return, I readjust myself on the couch, casting my legs over the edge, and rise tentatively to my feet.

I fight back the urge to cry out in agony as my ankles and knees explode in pain upon once more attempting to support my weight. Clenching my eyes tightly shut, and supporting myself against the arm of the couch for a moment, I wait until I can manage the pain. Within a moment I compose myself and drag myself painfully across the house and with much difficulty, up the second floor landing into my room.

Stepping into the room — my room — for the first time in months it feels like, I am surprised to find that nothing really has changed. Still, it feels awkward walking, or at least trying to walk, into the room. After all this time, it no longer possesses that certain familiarity. After all this time, it is really no longer my room.

I do not suppose after all this time that this is really my life any longer either…

I edge over to my desk in the corner slowly. Even it has not changed. In fact, the self-same homework I had all but abandoned months ago still lies nearly untouched in the same place I had last left it.

I look past the deserted pile of homework and beyond the mass clutter that has accumulated upon the desk's usually tidy surface. Everything seems in order, and yet, I cannot find that which I am looking for. Bending carefully over the desk, and supporting myself cumbersomely on the computer chair sitting before it, I shift aside the papers and my Fujiyama paper weight, searching. After a moment, I spot it.

A single, ornate, slightly crumpled paper crane.

I take up the worn bird in one hand, a wry smile flitting across my features. Then, I proceed to drag myself down the stairs again.

By the time that I manage the stairs and pull myself into the kitchen I am in excruciating pain and exhausted. Not that it matters, because I do not have the time to rest. I have work to do, and roughly three-quarters of an hour to do it in. So my body can wait just a while longer for the rest it seeks. Inari knows that soon it will get all of the rest it has ever desired.

I turn numbly towards the kitchen entrance and pull slightly on the small catch that reveals the hidden kitchen door. All right, perhaps it is not technically hidden, but it is one of those French sliding panel doors that just slides into the wall. So, unless you know that there is a door there, you would never know otherwise. I never did understand why kitchens needed doors; indeed I never thought they served much purpose. But, I suppose there is always a convenience to them at certain times.

This being one of them.

I pull on the panel slowly, easing it gently out of its frame so as to not set the sliding panel off of its rollers. Once it is aligned with the opposite wall, and is securely closed, I sigh a breath of relief.

That's one less thing I have left to do.

Now, I turn my attention towards the sink. There is a solid crystal vase sitting perched upon the window ledge above it, and currently it plays host to three roses. Three, now out of season, and horribly wilted, roses.

I wander over slowly, measuring each step with careful deliberation so not to cause myself more pain than is absolutely necessary.

Carefully, I remove one of the roses from the vase and examine it. Its state is so wretched that there is not much to be done for it. However, I can no longer bring forth my own roses. I simply do not have the amount of energy necessary to manifesting that much ki. This will be painful enough, without the added burden of manifesting my own plants; but it is still better than nothing.

I set the rose down on the counter next to the washbasin briefly and turn on the cold water. Also, knowing full well what awaits me, I roll up the sleeves of my sweater.

At the sight of my exposed flesh beneath the fabric I cringed. Once clear, youthful flesh — albeit dotted with crimson treads — has been ravaged by hideous purple spots. Subcutaneous bleeding. Rather like bruising, only not exactly the same thing. And, the severity of them dictates well the expansion of the disease. Like some strange, foreboding internal clock. First it had been my chest and back; now they have spread to everywhere.

I turn my attention back towards the rose and pick up the frail thing slowly. Resting the bloom near the bottom of the sink basin, yet keeping it clear of the water rushing ferociously from the faucet, I take a breath of resolve and concentrate.

Slowly, power surges through my fingertips, I can feel it rushing through my veins, white hot and steady. Bit by bit the rose seems to be recovering stamina. As I concentrate harder, my hands begin to shake and my veins sear in pain. I ignore it, willing more of my energy into the forlorn blossom.

Searing, burning, tearing…

Old wounds tear open. In a rush of crimson my lower arms are completely drenched in blood, and while I ignore it, more streams steadily from my arms, collecting in a spectacular fountain of liquid red residue in the washbasin. My vision blurs, and suddenly my aura flow stops without warning. Overwhelmed and drained of energy, I almost collapse to the floor, but manage catching myself on the counter that I had been leaning over.

Breathing heavily, brow damp, and pain searing my skull like no other, I gaze with glazed-over eyes into the basin. The rose I have tended to lays perfect once more amidst a sea of crimson, and sheltering idle droplets from being lost down the drain.

At least one part of our little aura exchange has faired well.

My arms most certainly have not. Once again, seemingly for the millionth time, my old wounds have reopened, bursting open from the exertion it had cost me to revitalize the rose. By now, however, the bleeding has slowed to a crawl, and the reopened wounds no longer look as menacing.

I run my arms under the still-flowing water for a moment, rather enjoying the freezing sensation against raw, painful flesh. Once I have successfully numbed my arms under the icy water jet, and managed to stop the bleeding — never mind regain some of my composure all the while — I sink gratefully into a kitchen chair for a moment of peace.

A very brief moment. For looking at the clock I realize I only have twenty more minutes.

I sigh tiredly and pull a pen and paper towards me. They are conveniently placed before me since mother always has these things out for note taking purposes.

I glance towards the small ornate crane I had prior set on the table, and after a moment, I place the rejuvenated rose alongside it.

Something is amiss, however.

There are only two objects here and I owe at least three people an explanation.

Slowly, I reach to my throat and draw from about it the necklace I have been wearing for the past few months. Then I place that, too, next to the other items.

After a moment's consideration, I begin to write.

Do not think I do not love you. Please know that is the farthest from the truth—

No. I shake my head and crumple up the paper. No, that will not suffice. What I am about to do does not exactly say 'I love you,' after all. Let me try again.

Understand, this is for the best—

No. That will not do, either. 'Understand,' yes. That is really what she is going to do after this. Then, she will blame herself. Mind you, she will probably do that either way.

"Forget it…" I sigh dejectedly as I stand and toss both miserably failed pieces of writing into the wastebasket.

I cast another fleeting glance towards the clock. Fifteen minutes remain.

Damn. I am running out of time.

I had hoped to leave a note, something to ease her after this, but I have not left myself the time. All I can do now is pray to Inari that she understands — though I know full-well that she assuredly will not.

I turn to the door, checking once more that it is secure against the wall, and then I turn towards the window above the sink and lock it. A quick look around the room assures me I have left nothing open. Left nothing to chance.

I turn to the stove, the ancient gas-burning stove mother adamantly refused to replace. And, for once, I can truly appreciate the resourcefulness of a the miserable thing. It makes things easy. Clean. Painless.

Turning each of the four burner controls, I set them each to about midpoint, assuring even distribution, and timeliness. The technical part now accounted for, all that remains is to sit down and wait.

Three minutes, if carried out properly, is all it takes to succumb. After five, chances of resuscitation are nearly void. As I have said: perfect, painless, clean.

I return to my chair at the table and sit down quietly, waiting patiently for the effects of the gas to take hold. Within a minute the pungent smell of the gas has permeated the area. Being that our stove is so old, it is unfortunate that it does not burn cleanly and give off an odorless gas; however, I suppose that is also a blessing. Because the odor, or pungent aroma, rather, will serve to warn mother and the others, not putting them in danger. But, really, the aroma is not horrible. It is rather bittersweet, actually.

Relaxing, almost like an anesthetic.

It must be the effects slowly taking hold of me. I lay my head down gently on the table, my eyes looking out towards the three objects sitting before me.

A hirui. A rose. A crane.

Hiei. Mother. Botan.

I hope you will understand.

My eyelids feel heavy, almost as if from sleep. And really, I suppose that is what it is — sleep. My breaths are coming out in short draws now, as with each intake of breath I take in a lungful of that sweet pungent aroma and with each exhalation nothing escapes me.

Like my lungs are slowly being filled, until they can take in no more.

My vision swims, and the shadows splaying across the kitchen walls wink at me dolefully. The small orange oven light dances in my vision. I turn my head slowly to the side and blink several times to focus my sight. After a moment I am able to focus on the time.

Five minutes left.

I smile tiredly, turn my head to the side facing the three objects, and close my eyes.

And suddenly, I am falling through the darkness.

Passing into a slumber from which there is no waking.