Dark Adaptation
Disclaimer: It is not mine. Descendants of Darkness, that is. Dark Adaptation is mine. Even the psychological term is mine. I also own one dog, a Queen sized bed, one noisy rumbling laptop, a rather twitchy eyebrow and one glass of caffeine.
A/N: Well, I bet you'd all given up hope, eh? Can't say I blame ya! Been a while. What's everyone been up to?
Watari: I've been sucking my thumb and thinking about girls. (Sucks thumb)
Muraki: As if you'd know what to do with a girl. Me? I've been doing the same thing I'm always doing.
Watari: Ordering dolls off of the shopping channel? Painting your nails? Y'know… all those 'lovergirl' pursuits? (Innocent smile)
Muraki: (Scowls) What kind of uncouth weirdo do you think I am? I was sitting in my living room, staring off into nowhere and thinking about the sex I'm never going to have with Mr. Tsuzuki because of NaPap's cruel desire to withold the lemon scene for as long as possible!
Tsuzuki: (Cringes) I was enjoying a well-earned break from being molested by Muraki. And eating cakes!
Watari: No wonder you're so rolly polly.
Tsuzuki: You're just jealous because no one wants to have sex with you!
Oriya: Sweatdrops Now, now children… let's not fight. As for me, I spent hiatus in peaceful meditation, enjoying a little normality. Looks like my break's going to last for a while longer than the three of you.
Tsuzuki: (Stuffing his mouth with cake) Why's that?
Oriya: I'm only mentioned in this chapter, I don't actually appear. (Looks at chapter content and winces) And considering what goes on in there, I'm kind of glad I don't get to participate.
NaPap: Ah, and from now on, my previously unmentioned muses will be appearing in these little character chat sessions!
Watari: Unmentioned muses?
Tsuzuki: (Shudders) You don't mean-?!
Count: (Waltzes in dramatically, bringing a wave of sakura with him) Well, greetings everyone!
Tsuzuki: Noooooooooo! NaPap! It wasn't enough that Muraki was here to make my afterlife miserable? Now you have to invite Hakushaku along too?!
NaPap: He's the best Smut Muse in the business, Tsuzuki! It's because of him that you guys have had such awesome makeout scenes so far!
Watari: You mean to say that it was the Count responsible for my sexy moments with Oriya? (Shudders) I feel as though my privacy has been violated!
Oriya: This is fanfiction, dear. It's not as though dozens of people haven't been privy to our intimate moments already.
Watari: But the Count inspiring NaPap to write them?! OMG!! (Walks away shaking his head) If you need me, I'll be off taking an acid bath in an attempt to burn off my top layer of skin.
Count: (Siddling up to Tsuzuki) Ahh, my sweet and perfectly symmetrical little snowflake! How I've longed for you, as I am sure you've longed for me! Behold this beautiful maiden, that it should blossom henceforth in the fleeting waltz of that fey mistress spring, her weeping tears of pink sweeping aside all false misconception, so that the one I love might fall graciously into the waiting canopy of my arms!
All: … What?!
Muraki: And I thought I talked a lot of nonsensical jargon. Still the Count shares my finer tastes in wine and scenery… we might even enjoy some inspired conversations about Mr. Tsuzuki. It appears, against all reason to the contrary, that we have something in common! Plus, I'll have additional input into the forth coming lemon scenes! (Presses his hands against Hakushaku's gloves) Count my dear fellow, I look forward to working with you.
Count: The pleasure is all my, kind sir! Let us work hard and enjoy Tsuzuki to the fullest!
Tsuzuki: (Whimpers) I'm scared for my virginity.
Oriya: Look on the bright side; I can't imagine the other 'Unmentioned muses' could be any worse than Hakushaku.
Saki: (Slinks in like a greasy shadow) Why… hello. (Evil grin)
Muraki: (Squeals like a girl) Eeeek!
Tsuzuki: … (Points) Hey… you squeal like a girl!
Muraki: (Clears throat) I mean… Saki! Why are you here! Last I knew of it, you were nothing but a torso-less head, floating in a cold, dark vat of Passion Pop!
Saki: Well, that certainly explains the never ending hiccups. (Hiccups) See, I got bored just sitting in that tank, listening to you wank on about your really weird and totally illogical plan to stick my head on your boyfriends body, so I just decided to come back to life and work as a muse!
Oriya: As you do.
Saki: (Nods like a bimbo) Uh-huh!
Muraki: Where'd you get the body from?
Saki: I borrowed it.
Muraki: From who? Wait- (Holds up hand) I don't want to know.
Oriya: More importantly, how'd you reattach your head?
Saki: Duh, how do you think? I used Super-Glue!
Tsuzuki: And that worked?
Saki: Sure! Just as long as I don't sneeze or cough or laugh too hard that is! I keep some handy in my pocket, you know, in case of emergencies.
Muraki: Really? … That's probably wise. (Hiding scalpel behind his back and sporting a rather fetching evil grin) Well, this has all worked out nicely for me… very nicely indeed.
NaPap: Oi! No exacting the ultimate, petty evil plan on my muse, Muraki! Oh and I have one more, newly hired muse to join the crew! Since I'm taking a gap year and using the time to work, finances have become a major issue for me! The constant money handling is really wearing me down and yet it's a continuous concern! So, I hired a Money Muse to help me out!
Tsuzuki: A money muse? Gee, I wonder who that could be…
Tatsumi: I barely appear in this fic and yet I'm stuck with the degrading task of handling NaPap's finances!
NaPap: Aww… but I do appreciate it baby! (Hand feeds Tatsumi Chinese as he battles his way through her pay slips and receipts) You are the sexiest accountant ever… (Bats eyelashes)
Oriya: Wow… I never thought I'd see the day when NaPap would talk to Tatsumi like that.
NaPap: Hey, I know what side my bread is buttered.
I apologize for my long hiatus everyone! A lot has been going on in my life since the last time you heard from me and writing has been the last thing on my mind, believe it or not! Fortunately, the Dark Adaptation bug has bitten me again and I'm really psyched to continue with it! You lucky dogs! I wanna thank everyone for their kind reviews and emails that continued to come, even in my absence. And as always, thanks to Jollyolly for betta reading! This zombie is back from the dead! Now, a few notes on the following chapter: Sins Remember'd.
This is a HUGE chapter! Emphasis on the HUGE. As such, it has been divided into three parts. The following 2 additions will be added a week from when I post Part 1, so you won't have to wait too long this time! It continues to follow original story structure I created for Dark Adaptation. Sorry to report that this is more centered on storyline rather than smut. Don't worry; you'll get your fix soon. This chapter is about important revelations. I'll admit, it's not the best chapter to announce my return with and it was really hard to write but still, maybe you guys will enjoy it. Like I said, it's more filler than anything. Maybe a couple of warnings are in order?
Ahem: Contains horror. I think you guys know me well enough by now to know what I'm like and you should only expect this sort of thing from me. Quite gory and macabre. Contains Shakespeare references. That's sent about half of you screaming for the Hills, I'm sure.
Oh and also worth mentioning, reviewer reviews are coming back. Why? Because I want to do them. They're fun. I might get kicked off for it but thems the breaks, ne?
Hmm… oh and the poem puzzle found later on is my homage to Silent Hill 3, where the keypad is supposed to represent the face. The keen reader might be able to figure out a few things from this chapter… if anyone can remember any of the other none too subtle references in the previous editions.
Anyway, it's good to be back! Hope that if you don't enjoy this chapter, you'll at least enjoy the fact that this update means there is one close behind it. And that means the smut is on its' way! Yipee!
Tsuzuki
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep, no more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep,
To sleep! Perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the laws delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
The patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns,--puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lost the name of action.—Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!—Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
The theme is suicide. The theme is dreams. And the theme is undeniably the eternal human obsession with death. These were Hamlet's words, his thoughts on suicide and the question that has intrigued man for so long: Does death bring any peace? I sat beneath that cold stream for god only knows how long, reflecting on my inconclusive epiphany. And suddenly those words came to me. It wasn't as though I was a great Shakespeare fan. I don't think I'd even read or seen any of his plays. But I remember hearing those words once; though I can't recall how exactly they came to find me. But it is relative to my particular circumstances. Not the story itself but the nature of the play and Hamlet's thoughts; his emotions. His despair and tribulation. Hamlet's uncle had killed his father and married the Queen, who is Hamlet's mother. The discovery of this truth drives Hamlet close to insanity and rather than dealing with the situation directly, he loses himself to remiss thoughts of suicide, believing it to be a valid method of escaping the pain that tortures him in life. The oration beginning with the famous words 'To be or not to be' confronts Hamlet's almost insatiable desire to end his life, only to be tormented by the idea that there would perhaps be no solace from pain, even in death. I too had endured a great deal of pain whilst my heart had beat in this world. And only after I submitted to death by my own forceful hand, had I found peace and indeed a contentment that was simply unattainable whilst I had breathed the air of the living. Truly, dying had allowed me that. 'What dreams may come.' My afterlife was certainly no dream but it wasn't always a nightmare either. I'd come to spare my heart and soul by carving open the throbbing lifelines along the inside of my wrists.I wonder if the ending to Shakespeare's play would have been any different, should Hamlet have chosen to surrender to his anguish, such as I had. Was death the more positive alternative, if our only other option was to simply exist in the life we were given, our hearts beating but never truly loving? Our eyes staring but never really looking? To speak and never be heard? To laugh and never be happy? To touch your lips to another's but to never truly kiss them?
In all honesty, I have never regretted my death. The irony of my suicide is that I saved my life by taking it. From the moment I succeeded in severing the flow of blood through my body for the final time, I spared my soul from the mental and moral anguish that kept me confined in that impenetrable darkness tapered across my mind. My tears and thoughts and concerns were very much like those deep, considerate words of Hamlet but he and I were nothing alike at all. He was a fictional character and only in fiction are people strong enough to actually overcome their darkest foibles.
Reality is a whole lot darker and the human mind far less merciful on the soul that it shares the body with. I had suffered in my life. I had passed through the realm of insanity and emerged from the other side, though part of it still stained me and never washed away. I could enter into madness and rise from it, as some men bathe in the crystal clear waters. I could shake the very drops of darkness from my soul, just as a dog sheds the saturation from its fur. But you never truly escape from insanity so easily.
"Be all my sins remember'd"These are the words that stay with me. Hamlet was torn between his two most resilient desires. The first, to punish his uncle for the murder of his father, one whom he loved with heart and soul. A strong, resolute option. Revenge.
His second urge was more simple and appealing, as only those who have been left with their backs to the wall can possibly understand. The desire to escape. To shed the shell that encases us within this mortal life and fling away the constricting emotions that come with it. I realize the irony of this, of course. I'm not as stupid as everyone takes me to be. Of course, I ain't no Einstein and I'm certainly no good when it comes to putting my mind to any complex compunctions, as you shall soon see. But I noticed artistry in expression when my mind was mellow enough to take such similarities into account. And that night, sitting splayed out at the bottom of the shower stall, all previous thoughts of my passionate, violent affair with Muraki banished from my mind, I struggled through the same confounding variables as Hamlet himself did. Though with less verbal expression, of course.
'Be all my sins remember'd.'The boy Pandora had been humming Ruka's song, of that I no longer had any doubt. He had even acted as she had, displayed elements of her whimsical yet gentle nature and traces of genuine concern when someone appeared hurt or sad.
It would certainly have explained why he had been carrying her handkerchief. If Pandora was the reincarnation of my sweet and beautiful sister, than perhaps it would have passed to her hand in this new life, in that mystical way that is never understandable but oh so magical.
But if this was true, then my burden was all the more terrible, for I had allowed death to sweep my precious sister away from me, not the once but twice. My sins to never be forgotten… the first time Ruka had died; I had destroyed everything human around me, including myself. I couldn't stand the sight of another human face. Why should they have had the right to live in this world, if my sisters' face was not amongst them? That was my justification for the punishment I bestowed upon those that were guilty, innocent and neither here nor there. And so I was deserving of my darkness, that insanity I created to hide myself from the world I had nearly decimated, a way to shield what was left of my soul before this hateful part of me devoured that too.
To think that I had stood by worthlessly as Ruka had died again… I couldn't bear it! I would rather have seen myself die for that second time, rather than have my innocent sister meet Death's scythe once more.
I knew Muraki was waiting for me in the other room but I didn't care to be with him right then. Don't get me wrong. I wanted to be held. To be comforted. Even if it was Muraki doing all the comforting, that didn't matter just so long as I was coveted from these thoughts and emotions welling up in me, like tears begging to fall with the freezing water that battered across my flushing back and shoulders, the blood dried on the curve of my neck turning the floor red around my knees.
'Ruka… tell me… please…' I clenched my fingers against nothing, feeling my heart contract powerfully in my chest. My emotions were so strong; they had an actual impact on my physical body. 'Tell me why I deserved another chance… when so many people do not… Why was I allowed to survive…? That night in Kyoto…'I'm not sure that I had actually expected a response. God only knows the number of times we inquire the dead for answers and receive none. But whether this presence appeared to me at that moment because I had called for some manner of absolution to my torturous thoughts, or whether it was just universal coincidence, I guess we'll never know. But as those words left my heart, with no specific direction to fly toward, I sensed that presence approach me and I jerked my head up, eyes glaring out from beneath the long, lank strands of hair hanging down across my face. Though the shower door was clear, with no heat to provide the usual cover of condensation, I was unable to make a discernable judgment regarding whatever had approached the door and was unmistakably staring in at me. My first thought was that it was Muraki. A fairly reasonably assumption, I feel.
"Muraki?" I called, wondering why I didn't sound as angry at the prospect of that psychotic pervert staring at me in the shower as I might have otherwise been. I guess I was still a little woozy from the after effects of our – ahem – mana transmission.
The figure didn't respond and after a second glance, I was able to confirm myself that it was not in fact my new best friend, Doctor Mad-Eye Muraki. It was definitely humanoid in shape, though shorter in frame than Muraki and certainly not nearly as generous width-wise either. And don't bother glaring at me Muraki, it's not my fault you put on all that weight sitting around the hospital.
I tried again to establish contact. "Who's there?" I had to wonder who else this could have been, if not Muraki? I was more than certain that no one had entered the bathroom after me. Not unless they had been hiding in there first, which seemed unlikely considering how small and utterly unsuitable it was for concealment.
The shape of a hand distinctly emerged from this shadowed 'shape' and tapped on the glass. It was feminine, beyond doubt, this hand. Delicate and slender with very pale skin, suggesting a woman you were more likely to find pottering about inside, watering plants and tending to the household chores. It appeared to be the hand of a housewife. Which certainly couldn't have accounted for what happened next.
The shower door simply exploded outwards, the glass fracturing into the smallest possibly shards, which collapsed onto the tiled floor in a sparkling carpet of slivers. I cried out in alarm, scooting back from the gaping maw where seconds before there had been a perfectly fine door. Whimpering, I pulled my legs in tight against my chest, wrapping my arms around my knees and tucking my feet down along the line of my thighs to keep myself modest. You see, I was certain Muraki would have heard that smash. And knowing Muraki, he would definitely use this chance to play hero to his advantage.
Sure enough, a moment later, a banging sounded from the bathroom door.
"Mr. Tsuzuki? What's going on in there? Did you fall?"
I shook my head, though he wasn't about to see it and squeezed my body as tightly into the corner as I could. The water was still running but I didn't dare move to turn it off. Because something was still there. Watching me.
A face in the mirror on the back of the door. I could see it now. Staring out at me. Just a face, in the very center of the mirror, with no body beneath it. It was just there, sticking out of the glass as though it had been glued to it, eyes on mine, long brown hair hanging down on either side, resting against the wooden framework. The head actually shook, with each thump Muraki bestowed upon the door from the outside.
The face… the face of the woman continued to watch me. And then, as though emerging from a pool of water, she simply stepped out of the mirror. Out came both arms, stretching out through the glass and bracing themselves on either side of the framework, pushing herself further out by using the door itself as leverage. The neck emerged and then the upper torso, her medium sized breasts heaving slightly as though the glass were providing some minor kind of friction against her. She pulled herself out to the waist, leaving her legs and pelvis submerged in whatever lay beyond the silver reflection. One hand risked its hold on reality to reach out to me, almost imploring me as such. The long, brown bangs that shielded the woman's face fell free as she threw her head sidelong, so that for the first time I could see who she was. Could meet her desperate, despairing expression as her hand searched for me.
I saw her lips form a word. Just one word. Well… a name really. I was no good at lip reading but I didn't need to be an expert to know who it was that she was calling for.
And I called for her. Lord, how I called for her as I had in all the years since her death.
"RUKA!" I screamed, feeling my face explode with emotion. Tears bloomed from my eyes and choking sobs racked my lungs as I scrambled to my feet, lunging blindly across the broken glass, ignoring the number of tiny insubstantial cuts divested upon my feet. None of that mattered. I was mere feet from my beloved sister, the only one who had ever truly understood me. My best friend in the world, whom I thought I had lost. The complexities of how she had returned to me didn't matter. All I knew was that I had to touch her. I had to be with her, no matter what.
Her delicate hand waited for mine and I slipped my fingers across her little palm and then continued forward, pushing my arms and face into the wall of her chest, just as I had always done as a child. I felt her take a hold of me, cupping the back of my soaking head with both hands and stroking my hair in that soothing manner that only she had ever managed to do just right.
I shut my eyes. I held her. She held me. I felt her lips against the line of my hair and her breath was so wonderfully warm and alive.
"Ruka!" I breathed, scarcely daring to believe my heart.
I felt her head incline softly, her fingers tenderly knotting my hair.
"I found… my brother…" Oh God, I had forgotten how beautiful her voice was.
I wanted to ask her everything, a hundred- no, a million questions! Her mirror entrance was definitely top of the agenda, make no mistakes about that. But when I opened my eyes and looked up towards where I had felt her face to be, I was met with an open emptiness that eventually spread to wrench from me, the feeling of her arms about my naked body. There was no longer a mirror in front of me, no longer my sisters' warm and serene face protruding from it. I wasn't even in the bathroom. And the door that swung shut behind me with an unobtrusive click wasn't the same one upon which the mirror had been hanging. It was a closet, with wooden slates serrating the darkness beyond it.
"What the-?" I gripped the doorknob and rattled it, my pulse accelerating dramatically when I realized it was locked. I jerked my hand back as though I had been burned. This made no sense. Less than a minute ago, I had been standing beneath the spray of my shower and something had passed by the door and looked in at me. Something that was not Muraki, the only other person who should have been in my apartment that night. The shower door had exploded and then- I had seen my sister. I had held her, touched her and heard her speak, only to have her cruelly ripped from me.
"Ruka!" I called hopefully, my voice raw with emotion. To have seen my sister who had been dead since I was a little boy… can you begin to even imagine the pain that I was going through? "RUKA!! Ruka, where are you?!"
This brought up another somewhat important question: Where the Hell was I? I figured I should have been freezing but my body was completely dry. I was even wearing my usual work attire, though I certainly hadn't showered with them on. That would have been silly.
Still emotional tender from having my sister ripped from my arms, I forced myself towards a state of semi-composure, just long enough to take a minor assessment of wherever the Hell it was my ass had landed.
The room appeared empty for the most part. But it was a nightmare room. A scene cut directly from the pages of a discount store horror novel. I could barely fathom the enormity of what I was witnessing. My mind, already wounded from the malicious extraction of my sister, was left vulnerable to these images that had replaced her sweet smile. I was confused and upset. The footnotes of terror.
The walls pulsated as though they were living flesh. Unidentifiable clear liquid seeped from the heating vents, trailing toward the floor in languid patterns. I didn't want to think about what the fluid reminded me of but the word 'bile' managed to worm its way into my mind regardless. That's what it appeared to be. It was as though the walls of the room itself were purging unwanted vomitus matter. I inched away from the heating vent and distinctly heard something crack beneath my foot. I lifted my shoe away, revealing the shattered remnants of what had once been a hypodermic syringe. I instantly felt my heart shift at the sight of it. I hated needles. It wasn't a general phobia that most people possess either but a prolonged fear, stemming from my time spent in hospital. At the time, I'd been so out of it that I hadn't even registered the periodic application of the injections. However, the sight of a needle now, only served to remind me of my mental and emotional turmoil during that time. It had become something of a Pavlovian response. I unconsciously associated the sight, or feeling of a needle with those terrible years of torment and suffering. I pulled my eyes away from the shattered shaft of the syringe, forcing down the uncomfortable lump that had formed in my throat. Something about the state of this room seemed entirely devoted to devastating my emotional state. I certainly wasn't going to make it any easier for whatever was behind this.
Once I had drawn my attention upward, I realized instantly that I needn't have bothered diverting my eyes. The floor was littered with needles. Not enough so that the term 'carpeting' may have been appropriate but obstructive enough that I doubted I would be able to take a step without landing on at least one. Fortunately, the sharp points were all flattened against the floor, so there was little chance that I would inadvertently prick myself. Not that I had planned on going any further into the room than necessary.
That was, until I noticed the journal.
There it was. A handheld, calico colored writing journal, spread wide open atop the desk in the center of the room. That was all there was in this hellish place. Just that table and the book.
I risked another glance at the walls. It still looked to me as though they were pulsating. Strangely enough, I was reminded of the arteries of the human body. The ventricle of the heart and the tiny synchronic nexus of veins branching outward. I imagined this was sort of how the interior of the human body might appear, if one were to go venturing inside of it. Sans the apartment room of course.
I glanced back at the calico journal. I admit it; my curiosity was piqued. Curiosity may have killed the cat but at least the cat didn't die ignorant. I knew I had been brought to this place for a reason and the only item of interest I could see was the journal. I had to see if anything was written there. Anything that might have explained this madness.
I crossed the room to the table, being extra careful to treat lightly when I had no choice but to put my foot down on one of the needles. As far as I could see, the tubes were all empty and the plungers had been compressed, indicating that whatever these needles had been used for, it was most certainly not withdrawal. And the amount of syringes suggested an addiction, in which case recreational drugs were the most obvious culprits, perhaps heroine. I shook my head a little as I weaved my way through the minefield of needles, wondering who in their right mind could participate in such a disturbing indulgence? The idea of injecting oneself to feel pleasure was beyond my capacity to understand.
It took some effort but at last, I reached the table in the center of the room. The calico journal awaited, it's pages spread apart as though in eager anticipation of my reading them. I reached out and picked it up, my eyes already dictating the hastily scrawled text. The hand was sloppy and rushed but it somehow looked familiar. Somehow… don't ask me how… but I had a strange feeling that I knew the identity of this diaries owner. However, regardless of how hard I concentrated, how tirelessly I racked the nooks and crannies of my memory, the name and face of this person would not reveal itself to me. Concerned though I was by this, I managed to convince myself that pinning down the journals author was not that important. At least, not for the time being. The pages had been left open in a manner that invited my attention, so the moral arguments for leaving well enough alone, never came into play. My eyes widened considerably as I read what those pages kept. Though messy, the writing was completely legible and none of the terrifying message, ambiguous as it was, was lost on me:
"My stomach's churning I can't get off the floor
Just curled up in the corner hours now hours have passed.
I feel sick
There are patches on the wall. I think they're getting bigger leaking like blood across the paintwork There are voices screaming from the walls people are trapped in the walls! I can't reach them! I can't get up!
My fingernails are oozing pus, there's blood all over my hands but it won't go away I can't scrub it off
I need to prick myself don't think there's any left not anywhere
Not in that cupboardnor that one
Found some.
Stings. Feels good.
The bathtubs full but the waters murky. It's full of blood and hair the drugs not working yet I have to get away have to find more
None in there or there
Oh God
In the bottom drawer the carpets wet People are crying, so the whole world must be dead in my apartment
Another prick. But it's not enough
I need more More to make it go away
Something claws the back of my neck make it go away!
Bathroom cabinet One more prick It's more than enough
Nothing's coming up
I need it
Make it go away
Make it go away
Make it go away make it go awaymakeitgoawaymakeitgoawaymakeitgoawaymakeitgoawaymakeit goaway "
I flicked through the beginning of the journal but nothing else had been written. Only that one page contained any writing. I checked for a name but there was none.
It appeared neither in my mind, nor on the cover. Yet I could sense who this person was. And I was filled with a great, unwavering pity for them, whoever they were. From what I gathered, this person had attempted to wean themselves from a drug they were addicted to. And the withdrawal symptoms became so unbearable that the individual retreated into his or her own mind and had eventually gone insane.
Just like Hamlet.
Just like me.
The closet door that had been locked behind me suddenly strained against the hinges. I glanced over at it, the journal clenched tight against the wall of my chest.
'Who's there?' I wanted to say. But nothing came out.
Another sound came from the door. A click. It was unlocked. I could hear footsteps and high-pitched voices giggling from the outside. This was almost enough to change my mind about finding a way out. Almost. But even the potential of what could have been lurking out there, whatever unknown element was waiting for me, it couldn't possibly have compared to what nightmare existed before my eyes. I could feel the heat from the walls pressing down through my clothing, searing my skin. I was more afraid of remaining where I was, in this room that throbbed from corner to corner like the inside of a malignant tumor. I was less frightened by the malicious giggles from outside than I was this bizarre, unknowable organ attempting to pass for an apartment room. I wasted no time in getting my ass out of there. I'm not afraid to admit that the tiny cramped area gave me the sublime creeps. However, if I'd been hoping that the place beyond it was any improvement, I was in for a grave disappointment.
I swung the door outward and burst from the tiny, nightmarish room into the dimly lit hallway beyond. I glanced about, focusing my attention on the walls, gratified to find that the throbbing, pulsating affliction hadn't spread beyond the boundaries of the room I had just left. Just in case, I closed the door behind me, hoping that this might be enough to contain the wall cancer. I had an unfounded suspicion that the veins proliferating across the room would follow me, if I gave them half a chance to do so.
Holding the calico journal tight against my chest, I turned back toward the looming stretch of hallway, swallowing back a condensed lump that had been forming in my throat. The hall was dark. So dark, in fact, that every aspect of it appeared to be rendered in grayscale. I could discern no color though the dominating blackness.
I waited for my eyes to adjust. I heard this process was called dark adaptation; where our eyes seek out light in dark places, allowing us to see through it and beyond it. It took less than a minute for my retina to contract and I was gradually able to make out some shapes along the hallway. There wasn't a lot to see. Cardboard boxes had been piled up against the right hand wall but other than that, the corridor was scarce and devoid of detail. I approached the boxes, pushing aside the flaps of the one at the top of the pile and tentatively reaching my free hand inside. Nothing leapt out and chewed my fingers off at the knuckle. The boxes were full of newspapers. I pulled out the first one my hand landed on and gave it a perfunctory shake to dislodge the dust that had accumulated on the surface. When this proved ineffective, I blew a puff of air against it, making the pages flap, scattering the remaining dust into the air. Not that it mattered much. The hallway was too dark to read anything.
I lowered the paper, wondering whether I even needed to be examining it in the first place. This felt way too much like some sort of horror game. Being a detective, I had an ingrained desire to poke my nose into just about everything that could explain mysterious circumstances. Now was no exception. I wasn't about to go sifting through all the boxes at my feet in order to flesh out the situation but try as I might, I couldn't convince myself that it wasn't necessary to read the newspaper currently clutched in my right hand.
A thought then occurred to me. Despite this vision assailing me in the shower, I had entered into this bizarre location donned in my default work attire, sans my trenchcoat. When I went to work, I always carried my keys in my suit pocket. My keys were attached to a small key ring, the key ring itself being a small light that I used to shine on the keyhole of my apartment door when it was too dark to see what I was doing. Excited by my revelation, I jammed my hand into my right hand pocket to find… that it was disturbingly empty. Feeling my heart drop into my chest, I hastily checked the other pocket and was thrilled when it emerged clutching the jangling jumble of keys and the small light from which they hung.
Gratifying as this was, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that it was all just a little too convenient. Minutes ago, I was standing naked, eyes focused on my sisters face staring in at me in the shower. Now, I was here, inside some unknown place of residence, fully clothed. I squeezed the keys in my hand, feeling the various metallic ridges cut into my palm. I pinched my forearm. It hurt. There was no doubt that whatever was happening here was as real as what had happened between Muraki and I before I had stepped foot in that shower. This was no hallucination, or vision.
Indeed if it was, it was the most convincing, realistic vision that had ever beset me. I wondered whether my sister had transported me to this place, because she felt that I was needed here.
'If you help those that need you,' She used to say, 'You too will be saved.'
Saved from what, she never made clear to me. But maybe Ruka understood that which was intended for me, better than I could have ever understood it myself. Even now, as I lived that possibility.
But then, if I were to accept this as the truth, how did it explain these factors that were utterly unexplainable? How could it explain the clothes that I was wearing now, that I had not been, when the specter had taken me?
To be – to exist, or not to be – to not exist. The only two certifiable choices we as human beings are faced with in life. You are either alive or dead. To be is to institute your presence in this world and to be is your decision and your choice alone. No one could possibly bring you 'to be' by their will. Could any power have that over me? Could my sister have brought me here, 'to be'? To exist in this impossible place, in this implausible circumstance?
I wasn't an analytically minded man by any means and my mind threw up distressingly little when I attempted to explain the situation to myself. As far as I could tell, the entire scenario just wasn't possible. But then again, who am I, a resurrected man from the realm of Hades, to discern what was feasible and what was not? Powers greater than my own were capable of things I could only question the rationality of.
Mentally weary from only these brief moments of speculation, I focused my attentions on standard step-by-step progression. I compressed the small knob on the side of the diminutive, tubular light and aimed the surprisingly powerful glare down towards the newspaper. I checked the date in the left hand corner first. The 14th of July 1961. Two huge black and white photographs took up the majority of the front page. They were face shots. I took a closer look. The one on the left hand side of the page was a pleasant faced girl, her apparently light colored hair tied back in a ponytail. She looked to be in her teens. The right hand shot was of a young boy, a child. Like the girl he had an exceptionally bright smile and light colored hair. Though his was cut short and spiked up, exposing a delicate skull structure and intelligent looking eyes. The large bold title beneath the pictures screamed up at me when I shone the light on it:
"LOCAL CHILDREN KIDNAPPED FROM OWN HOME"
Only a small amount of the front page was devoted to the actual article. The rest continued on page 3. Uncertain of how this related to anything I was seeing, I nonetheless scoured the article and was immediately glad I had taken the time to do so.
"Police are asking that anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of missing children Reiku Watari (16) and younger brother Yutaka Watari (8) contact the Police Hotline immediately. Two weeks ago, on the 1st of this month, the siblings were taken from their suburban home in the early afternoon and as of this date, no contact with them has been established. Police suspect that neighbor and Watari family friend Okiko Haruhi is responsible for the kidnapping, as he was babysitting on the day the children went missing. Okiko Haruhi is currently unavailable for comment. He has also been recorded as missing since the 1st, heightening police suspicion."
- continued on page 3.
I had certainly read more than enough. Face and hands suddenly flushed with heat, I stared at the two black and white photos positioned above the article portion. Yutaka Watari… there was no way it was a coincidence. It had to be the same Yutaka. The only problem was… the boy in the photo looked nothing like the Watari I knew. Granted he was only eight in the shot, the only similarity I could see was the hair color. Though the photo was grayscale, there was little doubt that both his and Reiku's hair was blonde. I couldn't see the eye color, so all I could assess was physical appearance. The boy in the picture didn't have glasses. His hair was short and styled fashionably, with only a slight kink near the base of the strands. It appeared straight for the most part. His face was rounder, especially near the accentuated cheekbones. I couldn't recall whether Watari's cheekbones were as well defined as the boys. His hair always covered the sides of his face. The boy in the picture was wearing a t-shirt with a sloping neck. Watari nearly always had his neck covered with a high-necked t-shirt or sweater. It was very rare to see him wearing something low slung, regardless of how open and confident the man undoubtedly was.
No… there was no way that the Yutaka in the picture and the Yutaka I knew were the same person. The boy in the picture was cute and had the definite potential to grow into an exceptionally handsome man. Watari, though not ugly, wasn't exactly what you would call striking. He was the first to admit this. If Watari had looked like this as a child, what could have compelled him to alter his looks so much? What purpose could be behind such a radical modification?
I tore the first and third pages from the newspaper and crammed them into my pocket. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to leave this place with what I had accumulated here but I'd be damned if I wouldn't try. Tossing the rest of the newspaper aside, I shuffled through the others, plucking them out of the box one by one and examining them by the light of my key chain. All the uppermost newspapers contained articles regarding the kidnappings. The details were pretty much symmetrical to what the first newspaper reported with a few noticeable exceptions. As the police had researched deeper and deeper into the particulars of this Okiko Haruhi's past, the word 'pedophile' became disturbingly frequent. I questioned the sensitivity of whoever it was who had been responsible for the writing of these articles. Clearly, they were less than concerned about upsetting the Watari family members, who were anxiously awaiting news of their children's well being. In one article the writer freely flaunted the information they had obtained, showing that Okiko Haruhi's name was an alias and under several different names, was responsible for the molestation of a number of children all under the age of 12 during the 1950's. The writer then went on to suggest that this had perhaps been Okiko's motive from the get go and why he had been content to live next door to the Watari family for 17 years without making a move until now. There were nine children in the household. In other words; a pedophiles dream.
I continued to check the newspapers but after the eighth article, there was no further mention of the kidnappings. Not even to say whether the missing children had been recovered. But it didn't matter. I was distressed enough by what I had already read, I scarcely needed the confirmation of what I feared had befallen the two Watari children.
Pedophile.
The word wouldn't leave my mind.
Though it wasn't fair to the children in the photo, I prayed with all my heart that it was an alarming coincidence and that the boy wasn't the Yutaka I knew. But something surfaced in my memory. Something that made the nightmare alternative seem horrifyingly plausible.
Watari's words to me that very night. When I had asked him what his first time making love was like. He had fallen silent and had then said, "My first time wasn't idyllic, Tsuzuki. It was so anti-idyllic actually that one might even say it wasn't exactly consensual."
To say that it wasn't exactly consensual… Knowing Watari like I did, I knew that he preferred not to dramatize his life. He would smooth out the sharp corners and G-rate any of his own problems, in order to avoid particularly thorny details. It wouldn't have surprised me if he had been hiding something like this for all of these years. There wasn't a day that went by when I didn't think about the past.
I wanted to consider these issues at more depth but it wasn't the right time to do it. All I could do was continue on, find out what was waiting for me. To go where I was needed. That's what Ruka would have wanted. And I would have done anything for her. Especially if I thought it would have given me another chance to see her again.
The hallway branched off toward the left and I followed it, keeping my body cinched in tight along the wall, until I felt emptiness against my side as the corridor split off again, this time to the right. I continued forward, stepping slowly and carefully, keeping my eyes focused straight ahead, the key chain light all but rendered useless for progressive exploration. Even with the beam stretching forward into the darkness, I was only able to see a distance of five or six feet in front of me. So focused was I on what may or may not have encroached upon me in the shadows, that I didn't pay attention to where my feet were falling and I suddenly stepped outward into emptiness. Gravity snared me in its resilient hands and plunged my body downward dramatically and I flailed for anything that might have saved me. This confusing, unexpected fall into darkness lasted bare seconds and before I had been able to prepare myself for the unpleasantness of it, the concrete floor of the room below rushed up to meet me in a lovers embrace. I hit the floor with jarring force, catapulting a driving pain up through the roots of my spine. I lay there, writhing in symphony with the throbbing aches; eyes clenched shut and my body moaning.
"Owie…" I whimpered, breathing harshly through the gaps in my teeth and rolling my body slightly from side to side in an attempt to alleviate some of the pain. It took at least a couple of minutes before I was able to push back the pounding agony and force my eyes open to look around the room I had fallen into.
The basement was even darker than the hallway. The key ring had fallen from my hand after I had tripped and it took a few moments of blind scrabbling to find it again. Once I had a hold of it, I aimed the light slowly around the room. Doing so, I was able to make out the vague details of the layout. A grandfather clock. A four-poster bed. A doorframe wreathed in wooden vines.
Crooked picture frames hanging from the walls. Cracks permeating out from the ceiling corners.
It was unlike the room above, where the walls beat like a heart. The oddity of that space had been the most terrifying aspect of it. This… this was different. The air felt strange for lack of a better description. Heavy. A smell hung suspended in the air, the slightly addictive tang of human sweat and other primitive scents of the body. I looked at the clock again. And looked. And looked.
The face had been shattered, the hands wrenched crooked as though a tempestuous child had attempted to twist them from the face completely. I aimed the light down the cracked casing and nearly leapt from my preternatural skin when I realized that there was somebody slumped against the clock, chin resting on his or her chest. As the light played up the figures torso, their face was eventually fleshed out and I suddenly realized whom it was. My undead heart liberally leapt in my chest.
"Watari!" I yelled.
The blond head jerked up almost immediately. "Huh? Wha-?" He squinted at me through the lenses of his glasses, apparently dazed. "Tsuzuki…? Is that you?"
"More or less." I confirmed, trotting quickly to his side and kneeling down next to him. "Are you okay?"
Watari groaned and gingerly ran a hand across his forehead. "Uh… feel like I've been fucked six ways to Sunday…"
I pulled a face at him. "Watari." I said, scoldingly. "That's not very classy, you know."
"Oh fine, so sue me for unclassy use of expression!" The fellow Guardian snapped, running both hands back through his long blond hair and groaning at the contact. "What the Hell happened…?"
I shrugged. "You tell me. You're the brains of this operation, y'know. I'm just the looks."
Watari snorted inelegantly though he didn't waste any effort on countering my brash statement. "I don't get this… one minute I'm in the alleyway with Oriya… then I… I must have passed out. And I wake up here…" He looked up at me, his eyes flashing suspiciously in the light from the key chain. "Are you really Tsuzuki?"
"Are you really Watari?" I shot back, confused as to why he would even ask something like that. "I'm as real as you are. I was just sitting in the shower when my s-" I stopped myself, not sure whether I wanted to be sharing this with Watari as of yet. Some things were just too personal to speak of, even to those you considered a close and dear friend. I wasn't even positive about what I had seen. The whole situation was just so strange. And getting stranger by the second, it seemed. "Well when something bursts out of my mirror and suddenly I'm here. Shooting the breeze with you."
The scientist sighed wearily. "Guess we'll have to just trust one another for now." His eyes traveled down to the notebook clutched against my chest. "Whatcha got there?"
I glanced down to follow his line of sight. "Found it upstairs. There's not much written. Only one page of pure jargon." I held it out, examining it from all angles. "Not sure why I'm holding onto it exactly…"
Watari moaned softly as he forced himself onto his feet. His legs looked unnaturally long for some reason and it took me a moment to realize why. He wasn't dressed in his normal clothes. Rather, he had been outfitted in some kind of surgical gown. The kind usually worn during a physical examination at the doctors' surgery. It possessed short sleeves and a long sloping cut directly down the center of his back, coming shot of exposing his butt. There was nothing on his feet. The paper-thin material terminated at the upper most curves of his thighs, which is why his legs appeared so much longer than they normally did. I had never seen Watari wear anything so revealing, never mind anything that exposed his legs. I could feel my face getting hot but more out of embarrassment for him, then on my own behalf.
He noticed me staring. "What is it? Is there something on my face…?"
I pointed downward, directing his attention towards his attire. "Um… you might wanna stop and take a look at what you're wearing. … or lack of, rather."
"Huh?" He responded eloquently, taking a moment to glance down along the line of his body. A silence followed as he internally assessed his current apparel. "Well… this is certainly unusual." He said at last. I couldn't tell from the tone of his voice what he thought exactly.
"To put it lightly." I said, tugging on the sleeve of my jacket. "I appeared here in my normal clothing. How come you get to wear something sexy and not me?"
Watari gave a small, ironic smile. "I wouldn't exactly call this sexy Tsuzuki. It's what surgical patients wear. Not sure why I apply…" He added, with a second puzzled glance downward.
"Well, whatever. I just hope you have underwear on underneath and if not, let's hope there ain't too many floor vents around here." I gave our surroundings another involuntary glance, snapping my attention back to Watari when I heard his breaths become abruptly labored. He was keeling over at the waist, hand pressed against the wall of his chest, eyes shut tight as his panting escalated in both fever and pitch. "Hey… are you okay…?"
"My skin…" He gasped.
"What about your skin?" I pressed, when he failed to elaborate.
I saw a tick appear in the left hand corner of Watari's face, just below his temple. It made his entire cheek lift upward, the skin tight over his strangely accentuated cheekbones…
"Feels… tight…" He whispered, the hand on his chest curling into a tight fist, scrunching the material of the gown beneath it. "It feels like it's… burning… burning from… beneath…"
"Watari-" I started but whatever I had been about to say never came. Watari suddenly cried out in pain, collapsing hard onto his knees and whimpering audibly as the fingers on his chest clenched tighter and tighter. I lifted his head, trying to see what was causing this and reeled back in disbelief as a horrifyingly familiar streak of savage red spread from beneath the neck of Watari's gown, curling up towards his jugular. Spreading… covering his skin. It looked horrible, like some sort of degenerative skin disease… like the beating veins in the room upstairs. It looked… like an advanced form of the curse markings that Muraki had placed on and then removed from Hisoka's body. But this was worse. It was ten times worse. The markings were savage and bared more of a resemblance to a burning brand mark that had been seared into the flesh rather than tattooed. They resembled Muraki's to a par, though his markings covered the entirety of his body and appeared only at certain moments.
"The curse markings…" I whimpered, my voice revealing my dread. Watari's muffled whimpers turned to soft sobbing as the jagged markings made their way down along his left arm. He braced both hands against the floor, head down and teeth clenched, as though he were attempting to push himself through labor.
"Oh… GOD!" He cried, forehead pressed to the floor and fingers clenched in his hair, tugging in mindless suffering.
My mind was as tangled as his locks had become. "Watari, these marks… how did you get them?!"
Were they Hisoka's? Was what I really wondered. Did Muraki transfer them from Hisoka to Watari somehow; instead of drawing them back into his own body like he'd promised?
"Tsuzuki…" Watari's voice was weak and miserable. There was grief underlying his words and the pain present in his speech. "Do I really deserve… to be alive?"
Those words… they were the very same thoughts I'd had just before I'd been brought here. "I don't… I don't know what you're saying, Watari…"
Watari raised his head, forcing his stricken eyes to connect with mine. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his gums were starting to bleed from the pressure he was exerting through his clenched teeth.
"Don't pretend you don't ever wonder… Tsuzuki… Wonder what makes people like you and me… special enough to deserve to keep our wicked lives… when we see so many good people die and never receive that… that second chance." He lowered his face, eyes sliding shut again and his entire body trembling. No longer from the markings, as they ceased their progression at the joint of Watari's elbow. His tremors came from some suppressed emotion, an emotion I had never before seen from my strange and funny friend. "It's not fair…"
"Not fair?" I repeated, feeling as though I'd been reduced to nothing more than a sounding board.
Watari's loose hair hung limp about his face. "I'd trade my own life… if only it meant that she could have hers returned to her. That's what would be fair."
"Her…?" The name from the newspaper article loomed suddenly violent in my mind. "Do you mean Reiku?"
Watari's eyes shot open and flickered toward me with alarming clarity.
"Reiku? You know that name…?"
Instead of wasting time telling Watari the story of my intense search through the newspapers, I reached into my pocket and withdrew the article I had found. I handed it to him and watched his face carefully for a reaction. Somehow, I felt as though I had invaded Watari's privacy, though I had essentially done nothing wrong.
"Watari… is that you?" I tempted fate and pointed toward the picture of the alert young boy. Watari continued to stare at it as though he had never seen anything so startling as a newspaper. "The papers dated 1961. If you subtract your current age from today's date… well…" I paused to do the subtraction on my fingers but Watari beat me to it.
"In 1961 I was eight. Yes." He said, holding both sides of the page with hands that weren't quite steady. His face showed no discernable emotion, though it lacked his usual cheerful façade, which I supposed was very telling in its own right. "What on earth is this doing here…?"
I took a punt. "So… this is you." I concluded, tapping the picture with my index finger. Watari gave the smallest of sighs.
"Yeah… that's me. And this…" He pointed to the picture of the girl. "Was my eldest sister, Reiku. But you already knew that, right?" He handed me back the paper, flashing me a look that suggested I'd do best not to be so clever in future. My stomach knotted and I felt terrible at the confirmation. Somehow, it was like I had betrayed Watari for even finding these articles in the first place. I knew better than anyone why it was sometimes preferable to keep your past a secret. You don't want anyone's sympathy. You don't want to be judged. And you don't want anyone to see you as weak. It all comes down to pride and maintaining what delicate self-perception you have. If you hold nothing but negative values concerning yourself, then you're most certain to despair in deep darkness. Facing your past could be terrifying. And there were still many particulars of my past that no one, save Mr. Konoe, knew. The people I had killed on that regretful night… that night that haunted me even now, almost an entire century later.
Watari was only separated from this occurrence by forty-two years… whatever had happened would still be fresh in his mind. Like Hisoka, memories of that sort appeared difficult to placate. To say the least.
"I'm sorry…" I said, reaching out to cup his bare knee in the palm of my hand. "I'm sorry, kid… I didn't mean to pry. They were upstairs and I just-"
"You don't have to explain." Watari said, lifting his head and flashing that big Watari smile we all knew so well. "My sister and I came home alive. We weren't missing very long. You do what you gotta do when you think your life's on the line."
I didn't like the way he said 'do what you gotta do'. It left far too much open for speculation.
"Anyway," Watari concluded, climbing back to his feet and swaying unsteadily in an effort to keep his balance. "Let's find a way out of here."
I could still see the marks writhing on his flesh. "Watari… you didn't answer my question. How'd you get the marks?"
Watari leant his head back against the wall, one hand clutching his opposing elbow as though he felt suddenly insecure or alternatively, very sick. His eyes were cast downward toward the floor, his hair swaying across his line of sight.
"I was just in Kyoto," He stated, not appearing to be the least bit disturbed about his sudden location transition. "I was in a bar, interviewing witnesses and then… these guys drugged me, dragged me out the back… they were… they-" His face titled down even further and he didn't finish his sentence. He didn't have to. I had a very good idea of what he was going to say and my heart was sick for him.
"Watari…" I whispered, reaching my hand out hesitantly and then, when he didn't step away, brought it down gently to rest on the crown of his head. I stroked his hair softly, occasionally brushing the backs of my fingers across his forehead as though my touch might effectively soothe the memories from his troubled mind. I wish it were that easy. "Are you okay…? They didn't… they didn't rape you… did they?"
His breathing was heavy, his face resigned. He laughed without humor. "Not from lack of trying. They roughed me up pretty good but luckily… Oriya turned up just in time." A small smile crossed his features, though there was no warmth in it. "Huh… listen to me; 'Just in time'. Like it even matters anymore."
"Of course it matters, Watari." I said, trying my hardest to be sympathetic but finding that at the same time I was becoming just the slightest bit chaffed by his 'poor me' attitude. That wasn't like Watari at all. He had a right just like everyone to be upset but I guess that's just what I didn't expect of him. It's selfish I know but you come to depend on people for playing their certain roles. Watari's role certainly wasn't as a victim. He was the funny, light, optimistic one. The one you didn't have to concern yourself over being careful with. The one you could have a joke with and not worry about offending. I wasn't even sure how to deal with him when he was in one of these moods. What could I say? What was the right thing to say? I had little to no experience with this side of my friend, so how was I expected to effectively deal with it? I admit it; I was annoyed. I was annoyed with Watari, though he wasn't really to blame. I just wanted him to get through this hiccup, move on and overcome it and answer my questions.
I petted his head gently. "I'm glad Oriya was there to help you. But the markings… how did you get them…?"
His voice was soft. A barely discernable murmur. I had to lean close in order to catch the single word expelled from his lips.
"Demon."
I cocked my head. "Demon?"
He nodded. "A demon summoned it into me. I think… or he activated something already dormant in me Tsuzuki. Hell… I don't know! I don't know! All I know is that it's there now and it's driving me nuts! Hisoka never mentioned that it burned like this!"
"Hisoka never told anyone much about how it afflicted him those years in the hospital." I reminded him, lowering my hand from Watari's head and gingerly touching the harshly branded markings that had coursed down the length of his upper arm. It almost resembled yakuza tattoos, though with suitably less artistry involved in the design. "Maybe it did burn before his death… or maybe it affects you differently because you're a Guardian, who knows?"
Watari's eyes darted up and met my own. He was clearly distressed. "But Hisoka's markings were cast by Muraki! A demon did this to me! There's got to be some connection, right? I mean… the markings are pretty much the same, aren't they?"
I looked over them with a critical eye. Though I hadn't spent much time examining Hisoka's curse scripture, as far as I could tell, they hadn't appeared to be nearly so malicious in nature as the marks Watari bore. This resembled burns more than tattoos. It looked terribly painful. I wondered if it felt as though Watari had been branded when the marks began to spread? For some reason, my mind flashed back to the wall cancer that had infected the room upstairs. I though of a virus, of a malignant tumor spreading through the body, killing all vital cells and shutting down organs. Only, this was a virus, a cancer, a sickness, and a tumor that you could see.
However, as terrified as I was for Watari, an equally large part of me was relieved that it was not Muraki who had been responsible for bestowing the scripture upon him. Muraki had been with me when Watari had been attacked, I assumed that much. A demon had done it.
Which begged the question; why was a demon using Muraki's signature curse?
Having failed to answer his previous question, Watari pulled himself away from me gently and took a step outwards into the room. His eyes strayed from right to left and then he reversed that previous step he had just taken. His hands were poised out in front of him, as though he had been in the midst of grasping something between them. I wondered what the problem was now and immediately berated myself for being so impatient with him. God knows, he had shown me nothing but patience following Kyoto; the least I could do was expend some small token gesture of it on his behalf.
"Something wrong?" I asked, fearing it was a rhetorical question at best. Watari's body posture clearly indicated that there was indeed something amiss.
"This place…" He started, his voice trailing away to nothing. It seemed there was no end to that sentence. I stepped up beside him, taking in the less than interesting surroundings with an unresponsive air.
"Yeah, I know… it's seriously uber creepy but we've seen worse, right? Heck, depending on the day my bedroom could almost top this! Let's just get moving… gotta be a way outta here somehow, right?"
If I'd been hoping that this would be an effective remedy to shifting our asses from the corner, I was one seriously naïve, not to mention completely unobservant, Guardian of Death. Watari continued to remain in his chosen pose, completely rooted to the spot. I ducked my head around to get a good look at his face. His eyes were wide, his mouth hanging slack, his breaths short and sharp.
"Do you know where this place is?" He asked, though I don't think he expected an answer. I provided none, knowing instinctively that by his tone, Watari knew very well the place in which we had been steeped and that he would tell me in all due time.
We stood in silence, respectful to whatever horror had transformed Watari into a frozen thing. I watched as he licked dry lips, his hands tilting downward ever so slowly until they rested at his sides, fisted into tight little knots. His eyes slowly creased until they were slanted windows of hatred and contempt. I could feel the spiteful radiance burn from his body like a lit aura.
"This place…" He hissed and I prayed to whatever God I may or may not have believed in, that I would never hear Watari speak in such a contemptible tone again. "This… place… has no doors or windows."
This seemed a rather odd thing to say but I felt there was more to it than just the words, so I remained silent, waiting for Watari to elaborate. He did not disappoint.
"This room," He began again, "Was made specifically so that one man could practice his wicked and sinful indulgences until exhaustion claimed him. He said it was meant to represent Hell, buried deep in the bowels of the earth, where the usual forbidden atrocities and aberrant sensations of the land above, were freely practiced without the hindering of laws, rules, perception or judgment. In Hell, there are no doors and no windows. In Hell there is no light. Only darkness. You cannot even see what is coming for you until it touches you in the dark." He slid his arms slowly around his middle and clutched the sides of the gown tightly between his fists. "I can't believe I'm here again… I don't wanna see this place anymore!"
I no longer doubted what had happened to Watari all those years ago. In 1961 he and his sister had been brought here, to this makeshift 'Hell' beneath the earth. And here, they had been subjected to the unrestrained desires of the sick bastard who must have resided over them as the Devil unto sinners. In Hell, there was no atrocity too great. Sin had only one place to return. And once there, you cannot be sent any lower.
Enter Hell and you are free.
The suffering of the Watari siblings must have been abominable to say the very least.
I stepped up behind Watari and gently squeezed each arm between my hands.
"Let's find a way out of here, Watari. Whatever happened here is over now. It's over. You don't have to stay in Hell any longer."
- End Part One-