I climb the stairs slowly, puzzling out what happened and how to respond. Larissa has never been this angry, not even when Wufei died. I count on my ability to anticipate her moods, but this has thrown me into unknown territory. I am very uncomfortable.
I come to the top of the stairs and stare in disbelief at our room. Larissa is packing her bag, the black leather one she uses for our rare vacations. I can feel the slightly furry fabric under my hands, smooth and sleek. I touched every single bag in the store trying to find the right one for her. I bought it when we went to Ephesia two years ago; when we left after two weeks she had an opal ring on her finger.
"Think about this," I say to her. She spins around like a top. I put a hand on the doorframe to stop myself from backing away. I must not act any different than I normally would, or I might make the situation worse. Emotions always make a situation escalate.
I stay calm as she yells at me, and a feeling of distance increases with each word. It's like I'm in a boat drifting away from shore, and with each gentle push of a wave the fog rolls in thicker and thicker around me. I watch her mouth move but the words pummel me silently. I look at her violently gesturing hands, and as I watch they start slowly down like the slow-motion scenes in movies. They move slower and slower, bits of hair dragging through the air like its molasses, her mouth parts slightly as she finishes the last syllable, and for a fleeting, brilliant moment she's perfectly motionless. She looks like a flame-haired fury who decided to leap from the pages of ancient history, but all I see is the index finger of her right hand. It's pointed at my chest like the barrel of a gun.
Snapping like a band, time resumes. Her hand falls and she's breathing heavily. Tears pool in her amber eyes like dew.
"It's not you," I say. I have no idea what she just said to me, but I want her to know that it will never, ever be her fault. But her face is changing; the tears vanish and her eyes become hard. Her body stiffens, and I know she's leaving.
I follow the rest of the conversation vaguely, lost in the drifting boat. I am so perturbed by not knowing what to do that I can barely function. I thought that getting her purse for her would be a gesture of goodwill, show her that I want her to think things through if that's what she wants to do, that I will support her no matter what. But it seemed to make her irate.
Now I sit alone in the kitchen. I cleared the rest of the dishes, wiped off the counters, cleaned the skillet, dried it all, and put it away. I look at her empty chair, and a sudden pang of longing hits me like a punch in the gut. It lasts no more than a millisecond, but within that one moment was so much feeling I'm reeling from it. A tiny, keening whine fills the kitchen, and then is quickly silenced. I look over at the window, searching for a cat outside. The window's closed; it must have come from me.
Loneliness is a construction of the human mind. We are always alone as we are separate bodies, and because of that we should have no issue with it. We can technically never be "with" someone in the full sense of the word. I remind myself of that, and the longing vanishes.
I'll visit Hiiro. I'm still concerned about Larissa being with Maldren. He and Maldren haven't spoken in eight months, but I know he's still keeping tabs on her. Not even prison can keep him from watching us.
Hiiro is in Quadrant Five Prison, since that was where he and Maldren were living at the time. I drive my black Hyundai over. The tree-lined suburbs of Quadrant Nine give way to the muddied, bleak housing units of 8 and 7, then the silver and steel of 6, and finally the pure black of the cheap carbon-brick of Quadrant Five. Very few people are on the streets during the middle of the day, and those who are shuffle aimlessly around. Every time I come here it reminds me of the war, of the devastated cities after we swept through with no compassion and immense hubris. It shames me to think about what we did in the name of a government that none of us bothered to question.
The prison stands out from the rest of the buildings; it is surrounded by a massive dome of the latest steel-diamond hybrid, looking like a fat dollop of sparkling vanilla ice cream in the middle of the squat black buildings. I drive up to the entrance, which is indistinguishable from the rest of the building except for a small blinking blue light about three feet above the ground. The motion sensor detects my car and a silver robotic arm grows out of the dome, extending all the way to my car window. I roll it down and tell the officer in the video screen my name and who I am visiting. After consulting his computer and seeing that I am on the approved list, he nods and pushes a button. The arm retracts and a door slides open soundlessly in front of me. A kaleidoscope of thin green LED lights weaves patterns in the room I pull into. The door slides shut and another opens in front of me. Had another person attempted to sneak in when the first door opened, those LED lights would have found him and instantly rendered him unconscious.
This last door opens into the actual facility. It's composed much like a cell that way, with the cell membrane keeping out any unwanted visitors. I drive straight ahead into the parking lot. The ceiling of the dome simulates the exact conditions of the outside weather, complete with a VS sky, and I feel a breeze when I step out. This is the third time I've been here since Hiiro was arrested eight months ago.
A guard escorts me through security, where I show my old army clearance ID, am scanned, and show them that I have brought nothing with me. I don't tell the guards, but I forgot to take my driver's ID with me when I left. It's the first time I've done that.
I pass through the scanner and come into a long, brightly lit hallway. Dozens of doors line the white walls, and I pick number 13. A guard is currently retrieving Hiiro and will bring him into the room.
The room is small, with a small ventilation fan that whirs quietly and a door at each end. My footsteps echo against the cold metal floor. I sit at the black table, large enough to seat six but with only two chairs, one at either end. Hiiro will be in a straitjacket, his ankles strapped to the chair and the chair bolted to the floor. They've had a few issues with attempted escapes.
A few minutes later a wary guard escorts Hiiro inside. The guard is a good foot taller than Hiiro's five foot nine, and bulky like a wrestler. His uniform shirt strains against his biceps. In his hand, Hiiro's shoulder looks like it could snap. The white jacket makes Hiiro look like a cocooned moth.
I'm facing the door, and watch silently as the big man straps Hiiro into the chair. I notice that Hiiro's hair is shaggier, something I didn't think possible, reaching nearly to his shoulders. I heard they forbade him from getting his hair cut after he incapacitated the hair dresser and used the laser scissors to cut through his straight jacket. He held the scissors in his mouth and ended up cutting more of his skin than the actual fabric. "It's the only reason he didn't make it out." Quatre told me the last time I saw him. "They followed the blood trail. He was crawling, Trowa. Crawling."
The guard stands up, nods to me, and leaves. The door shuts with a clang. Hiiro looks up at me.
"What do you want."
At least his voice is still the same. That deadpan, monotone voice controlled my life for years. If someone asked me what sound reminds you of when you were young, I would say Hiiro's voice.
"I want to know Maldren's condition," I say. He and I never bother with small talk. That's one of the things that attracted me to Larissa; she finds it pointless too. Or did.
"Why?" He asks.
I'm a little unsettled by the glint in his cold blue eyes. They glare at me from under thick, black eyebrows, his eye sockets sunken and ringed like a raccoon's. The grim reaper pops into my head.
"Larissa wants to visit her," I say.
"She left the facility three days ago."
"I know."
Hiiro leans back, not dropping my gaze. There's definitely something about him that's different, edgier.
"She's better," he says, and his voice isn't as hard. He's settling into his debriefing mode. "She spent 43 days in the facility, during which she spent 14 of those days in critical care, 10 under intense observation, and 19 under moderate observation. She was required to attend two psychotherapy sessions a day and 1 meditation counseling every other day. The rest of the time she spent in her room painting or writing, exercising, and eating in the food hall. Most nights she slept straight through. When she didn't she exercised."
"I know all this, it's the same as last time," I say in an even voice. "What about her mental condition? The final analysis?"
"Competent. She knows what she did was wrong, is self-reflective and has expressed a desire to resume a normal life. She has to find a job within the next month and will continue to see a counselor three times a week. A failure on any of these counts results in her being sent back to—"
"Again, I know. It's the same thing she said last time, Hiiro."
He stares at me for a moment.
"What's wrong, Trowa?" he asks finally.
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
Hiiro leans forward and his glare becomes impossibly intense. Were I the type to react to this, I would have run from the room screaming. But I gaze back easily. I don't want to explain to him the situation; he has no need to hear it.
"Just tell me if Larissa will be safe around her," I say. I look hard at him. "The truth, Hiiro."
"Minimal chance of physical harm," he says instantly. His mouth moves but no other part of him does. "About 30% to Maldren, 15 % to Larissa. Considering the amount of time spent in the facility, I'd say it drops to 8 % for Larissa. Verbal abuse is higher, about 50 %. It depends on what they talk about. If Larissa brings up last year, both physical and verbal abuse rises by 40%."
Hearing him speak of the possible physical harm that might come to my fiancé at the hands of one of our best friends should be terrifying, and I know this, but I don't feel it. I nod.
"Maldren's ability to be self-sufficient?" I ask.
"Low. Under 20%."
"Chance of relapse?"
"High. 85%."
"What do you recommend?"
"You should go with Larissa. Two people greatly reduce the chances of physical harm."
"And if I can't?"
Again he pauses, watching me.
"What's going on?" he demands. I've inadvertently hit a nerve; he abhors not knowing every little detail of our lives, even our personal lives. It's a compulsion with him, one that only got worse over time. As he lost control over our actions, he became obsessive about our movements. I sometimes wonder if it's because he cares about us or because he's paranoid.
"Larissa and I are fighting."
It's strange to say it out loud, but I feel a little lighter after I say the words. Like I took off a heavy sweater.
"About what?"
"If I can't be there with her?" I prompt, ignoring the question.
"She shouldn't spend the night, but the days will be fine, for the first few. Then Maldren will begin the drift back into the old patterns as the euphoria of the facility's treatments wears off. Her psychotherapist will be able to hold off the inevitable mental break for a few weeks, maybe months, but Maldren will be back in that facility. Permanently. I assume you don't want Larissa to be the reason for that permanent placement," he adds.
"No nights?"
"She has terrible nightmares. In the middle of the night she sometimes forgets what's reality and what's the nightmare."
The chair makes a painful squeal when I push it back and stand up.
"Thank you, Hiiro," I say sincerely. I turn to go, and then pause. I look back at him over my shoulder. "Take care of yourself."
He stays motionless. I go to the door and open it. A guard stands on each side.
"It's not over," Hiiro says right before I step outside. The words are so quiet I look back to make sure it was he who said them.
"What?"
"The war." He looks directly into my eyes. "The war isn't over."
A deep sadness, separate from the emotions I've felt for Larissa, settles into my chest. Watching my friend slowly go insane is not easy.
"Yes it is," I say gently. "No one is fighting anymore."
"6F01MH5. March 6, 2345." He drops his gaze to the table. He's done talking.
I walk out into the hallway. The letter and number sequence is for a code or password of some kind, and the date must be an important event. It's November 30, 2347 today, and I can't think of anything that happened on that date. Nothing significant, at least.
By the time I reach the car I decide to check my files and see if anything comes up. My mind sifts calmly through all the reasons Hiiro might have said the war wasn't over, ranging from insanity to hard physical evidence. I then go over why our government would continue the war secretly rather than outwardly. It could be because our citizens wouldn't support another war, or because the galactic council had already frowned upon our continued engagement in the war. I have no further information on which to base my conclusions; I'll have to wait until I find this information that Hiiro is hinting at, if it even exists.
I then turn my thoughts to Larissa. I want her to have the space to think about our relationship, and so decide to send her message urging her not to spend the night with Maldren. She can ignore the message if she wants; I will give her the freedom to make her own choice. I have no right to force her to do anything just because I think it is a good idea. There are as many perspectives on life as there are people.
I will, however, rent a car and park outside Maldren's apartment for the next few nights. I'll call Quatre to help me set up surveillance; his company must have some new devices that aren't on the market yet.
I look over at the passenger seat when I feel the seat cushion under my hand. I've unconsciously moved my hand to the place where her leg usually rests. I look back to the road, but lightly rub the cushion with my thumb, just like I would have rubbed her leg. She would be sitting silently, looking out the window with a soft smile. She always watches the scenery like she's trying to memorize It, but what people don't know is that she hardly sees it. Her mind is turned inward, and she told me that's when she thinks the best. When she's on the move, going somewhere; she loves movement, the displaced time when you're neither here nor there.
When I touch her leg she looks over at me, letting me interrupt her thoughts, and puts her hand over mine. She has beautiful, elegant hands. Her thick hair falls loose around her shoulders like a scarlet scarf. She's wearing her favorite black coat, the one with the high collar and big silver buttons.
I often wonder what motivates people to do the things they do. Every action I take has a reason behind it, or I wouldn't do it. I think a great deal, but I rarely think deeply; I came to the conclusion a long time ago that this life has little meaning in the present, and as I don't know what comes next, little matters. I act in accordance with this belief. It's served me well, both before the war and during.
After, however, is a different situation. One for which I am ill prepared.