v
o
i
c
e
To the average pedestrian, Kyoko Sasagawa's existence was justified as a function of Tsunayoshi Sawada's.
She appeared as an extension of him; there was no suspicion of displacement as they strode across the street. They existed because they did. It was fine.
That is not to say she was not granted her own personality. The angle at which she held her chin implied a quiet grace, an acceptance of all the mysteries in the known universe. The unknown seldom accosted her placid thoughts. When misgivings surfaced, she resolved to tuck them away. Her poise was a fixed point the Cartesian plane of their lives could branch out from—an origin. A nonexistent simplicity. God forbid the day Kyoko lost her calm. It was her mantra, her nightly prayer. Never mind how ineffectual the act of praying is. It served as an external link, from hope to faith.
Never mind the fact that the rigidity of belief made it all the more brittle. (That's what good luck charms were for.)
The other men of the family had businesslike strides. They were spoken for. Even the shameless could not ogle them for long; they lasted in one's field of vision for but five seconds. Their passing was a veritable Doppler Effect. There and gone. A commoner would be enchanted or wary—more often it was both.
The silver-haired man struck them in a slightly different manner. If the others resembled the suddenness of a bullet trailed by enigmatic smoke, he was the insistently cold press of a knife against the throat, the frigid condensation beading on a glass of ice water. In short, they steered clear of him.
It was the other woman people lingered on.
She did not appear to be inextricably linked to any of the other members. She followed at the rear, but did not appear to be spineless, disagreeable, or sluggish.
Who, then, was she?
A maid? Her thin lips were tartly severe, unfit for subjugation. A mistress, then. But her eyes were enamored with nothing but her destination, beaming a line through the masses, straight ahead. She was not demure, but perhaps the most tender in the famiglia. This duality was not proportional; she had no yin-yang center. At any given moment, she was either too much yin or too much yang. Her eyes, therefore, were often ablaze with tenacity.
So the truth was, perhaps, a tad anticlimactic.
She was a novelist.
But she would sooner die than proclaim "the pen is mightier than the sword". In her earlier years, she might have. Then again, in her earlier years, she also had to gall to clothe herself in outrageous costumes.
One would think, then, that she would be the sort to say, "Time changes people."
Instead, she would say, "People change."
It implied more self-control.
.
.
.
They had respected her decision, but walked the fine line between respect and patronization.
Kyoko had said: "Don't second-guess yourself, Haru. There's over seven billion of us. It would be impossible and impractical for everyone to walk to the same path."
She had heard: "Don't feel bad that you're not like us."
Why had she chosen word over action?
The words couldn't hide. She had mercilessly scoured the classic literature section in her schoolgirl years, and the dissections revealed common themes of redemption, self-identity, and the struggle for truth. But common sense was not so common. The literary virtues posed a stark contrast to her reality, which championed the struggle for victory, for survival.
A promise was spoken with words, but fulfilled with action. Was an unfulfilled promise a betrayal of word or action? The words were made obsolete by the inaction.
So did the egg come before the chicken?
She had not graduated from university with any particular distinction. True, she had received honors in her department. But no one knew, and so they assumed the least of her. She had declared a major in journalism and a minor in sociology to be given the premise for research. She had never hosted a single broadcast or published a single article in the school newspaper.
When questioned, she would simply reply, "I'm busy." No one asked what she was busy with.
Her college counselor had suggested seeing a psychiatrist, but the very thought offended her. Her brain was not a disease to be diagnosed; it was merely a troubled organ that could not (or preferred not to) explain itself. To appease the school board, she had been tested for clinical depression, and the results were negative. Her only sin was unconventional ambition. She had no interest in the sensationalist media. In contrast, her father was unworried. He shared her odd pastime; he had, after all, trained her in the art of "white hat" hacking. She operated under her father's name, and the hobby was kept under wraps. Their conversations were warm and honest. She missed them.
She booted up her laptop and stared at the fascinating pattern of perforated holes in the ceiling.
A knock sounded from outside. It was a rather meaningless gesture, as the man strode in immediately following without waiting for an answer.
"I need to talk to you."
She threw him a glance over the edge of her coffee mug, then swallowed. "So talk."
He stared about the room, taking in the walls completely obscured by newspaper clippings, periodical copies, and sketches. Not an inch of space was left uncovered, save for her work table, which was occupied only by a mug, a laptop, a ballpoint pen, and a moleskin notebook strapped closed. To the left of the table towered a precarious stack of books, from Camus to Dostoevsky. He idly wondered if the heap of literature at her feet was responsible for the private bitterness that had usurped her brain.
That's it, isn't it? You feel like your entire life has already been written—only not by your hand. Your predecessors have already predicted your thoughts. You resent your own lack of originality, yet thirst for more literature to purge yourself of your secrets, because reading is self-contained—speaking requires a listener, it breaks the fourth wall.
"You've managed to make your workspace thoroughly flammable."
That had not been what he meant to say.
She laughed. "Unfortunately for you, they're all coated with resin."
"And how would that be my misfortune?" he queried, a frowning tugging at his mouth. Why anyone would spend all that time coating documents was beyond him.
His thoughts involuntarily drifted to his collection of recovered Lorenzini blueprints as he was rankled by an stab of unease.
Staring into space, she murmured, "You won't be able to watch it burn."
"Contrary to popular belief, I find no enjoyment in watching things burn," he remarked dryly.
"Death and destruction. Aren't they a Mafioso's best friends?"
It was his turn to laugh. "Well, aren't you a cynic today?" He cleared his throat. "Which reminds me—what are you still doing here?"
Her eyes flickered up to his, and he detected a scintilla of insecurity. "Have I overstayed my welcome?"
Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. "Why are you doing this? You don't get anything out of it." The woman had convinced Reborn that her extensive research yielded networking and strategic significance. Already her records had been consulted multiple times for present or future assessment. When she wasn't hacking into underground networks or researching, she wrote novellas. There was something decidedly strange about it, like discovering your kindergarten teacher was also a part-time assassin. But it was what it was, and she had somehow managed it.
She chose her words carefully. "Must I get something out of it?"
Her voice shook him out of his reverie. "There's a reason for everything. What's yours?"
"What, so I'm not allowed to be irrational?"
He was beginning to grow irritated. "Irrationality is a fact of life. It is not a reason."
She wanted to ask him his reason for asking her, but knew it would only aggravate him. She fidgeted, wracking her brain for ways to deflect his question.
"Maybe I prefer investing myself in things that don't involve myself."
"As in, living vicariously."
Haru considered this for a moment. "In a sense." She was ill-prepared for the words that tumbled out of his mouth next.
"You could live a better life."
The words hung suspended in the air, and she could not swallow their truth. The honesty scared her more than the prospect of a sudden Millefiore invasion.
She could trust their combative abilities. But she couldn't trust herself to desire anything outside of functionality.
She had to stay—she had to be useful.
She had to be something.
Slowly, as if untangling the syllables, Haru demurred, "But that would not be my life. This is my life."
"Is it? As I recall, you don't live it through yourself."
The brunette crossed her arms. "I live it through my own choices."
But he couldn't understand the reasons behind her choices.
.
.
.
It's three in the morning. He's slumped over the kitchen table, jerking himself awake every few seconds.
A shadow stretches before him.
"You could have called." His tone was dull, grating, and minutely concerned.
She smiled. "You know I hate conversing over the phone."
"Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Smiling."
Miffed, she pressed, "Why?"
"There's a time and place for everything," was all he said.
.
.
.
The next night, he entered without knocking.
She was sprawled over her laptop keyboard, sound asleep.
Dispensing with hesitation, he slid out the bound copy of an untitled novella from underneath her arm.
He knew she would never send it to a publisher. He flipped to a random page and scanned the dialogue impassively.
The voice was laden with static, and off-pitch in a manner that distanced the speaker from his words.
"I've been monitoring her for the past few days. She regained consciousness about three hours ago."
"What's her condition?" She recognized the lower baritone as belonging to her father.
The two brothers continued to converse, shooting euphemisms around like a puck gliding aimlessly above an air hockey table.
All the while, the universe seemed to expand in her chest as each breath entered and left her lungs.
She wondered what it meant to be old.
"Mom's in a lot of pain."
She did not particularly want to know the intimately grueling process of shutting down. Already she felt the mortality of being human presented at every turn in the road. The stars were lovely until they scorched you down to ashes. After that, they were still lovely, hanging like Christmas lights. Children would stare and await presents. Mothers would find the smallness charming, and fathers would craft a bedtime story out of it.
She looked to the stars felt the void press into her veins: a low, dragging timbre, a cello requiem.
"Anything we can do?" her father pressed.
"Not much."
The next morning, she began eating her cereal dry before realizing she had forgotten the milk.
Gokudera snapped the book shut, and the small sound clapped through the air, startling the brunette from her slumber.
"What... What are you...?"
"Christ, Haru." He slapped the copy down, and she jumped.
"What's your problem?" She demanded, blinking in attempt to consolidate the multiple storm guardians swimming in her vision.
"You."
Her brows knit in incognizant disbelief. "What—"
"When did your grandmother die?"
She answered without flinching. "Ten years ago."
He grabbed her wrist and yanked her to her feet. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"I DON'T KNOW, OKAY?" Her chest heaved.
Silence. Wild eyes. Gulping breaths.
"When was the last time you spoke to anyone about the contents of your novellas?" he asked quietly.
Her gaze shifted. "I don't remember."
"No shit," he exhaled, raising his voice. "Because you tell your books what you can't face yourself."
"Novellas," she corrected under her breath.
He grabbed the novella and waved it in front of her face. "This," he spat, as though the object was revoltingly immoral, "is the root of your problems."
Her eyes glinted. "I don't see how it has anything to do with you."
A pause.
She blinked.
He glared.
Time trickled on.
"Is it in some twisted way therapeutic for you to strip away your voice and replace it with some text on a screen that'll never see the light of day? Is it a fucking comfort to decompose yourself into useful and useless categories so you know how to sort your thoughts?"
"Stop," she whispered harshly.
"Can you fully convince yourself that you're happy with being consoled for nothing, like existing is some damn crime to pay for? How do you even live with yourself—doling out family advice like some matron, then wondering how you got to be so pathetic for not following your own counsel? You bury yourself in words, the only controllable means that provide the illusion of safety—"
"STOP," she snapped, squeezing her eyes shut. She found solace in distance—distance between the reader and the story, distance between tangible characters and intangible emotions, distance between fact and fiction. The words were at her mercy when she read, laying prostrate before her, naked, barren. Her eyes nursed them to life, rounded corners of a syllable, coaching sounds into cognition and catharsis. She breathed interpretation into the text; it breathed understanding into her.
Thus it evolved: a symbiotic relationship through which she maintained her timeless bubble, without reality, without loneliness.
"You're digging your own grave."
Written words, anyhow, were kinder than those spoken. She could not close the cover on his meaning, toss it over her shoulder.
"I don't pity myself for it."
"Because you 'make your own choices', is that it?" he snorted derisively.
She turned away, oddly betrayed by fortress of words and text around her. "Point taken. Now get out."
"No, point not taken. You're fine with being skinned alive if it means being useful."
The woman leaned dangerously close. "So you've pointed out my flaws. But don't expect to know what I think, what I value." She drew in a breath, then hissed, "You've no right to assume." He made to speak, but she cut him off. "What are you criticizing? If it's self-immolation, you'd better just shut the hell up. Sacrifice isn't a new concept to any of us."
Gokudera growled, "But we live through ourselves, in our actions. You don't."
The brunette chuckled then, a disappointed sound. "So that's it. You want to... normalize my behavior."
"What?—no." He took a deep breath. "There's clearly no way you could ever be normal. If you could just," he fumbled for the right word, "quit objectifying yourself."
She pinned him down with a direct glare. "Why do you care?"
Neither of them could move.
"I've been there before."
Time picked back up.
Haru stared at her novella on the edge of the desk. "It isn't a pretty place."
"No, it isn't."
.
.
.
His eyes ran down the page, then back up again.
"Alright. This is a good start. Keep me posted if anything happens."
She nodded. "The Varia have some good intelligence on the history of conflict between the Leone and Valentini famiglias. I'm heading over right now; Xanxus is willing to make an exchange."
His eyes narrowed. "What exchange?"
"I'm reinforcing their firewall and installing some antiviruses. They had a recent breach several days ago." Noting his relief, she smirked, "Why, were you worried?"
"Hardly," he grunted.
She pulled him to her, winding her arms around him tightly.
"What the hell—" he sputtered, unsure of what to do with his arms.
"I'm 'living through my actions', can't you tell?" Upon feeling his pulse go berserk in his chest, Haru laughed.
He scowled, and she laughed harder.
If I speak, will you listen?
x