THE PASSING WIND

-TheSilentReader-

The moment the television was turned on, her name would be all over the news. That was bound to happen; everyone knew of her works. Particularly the one I stole. Everyone was focused on the foreigners that I hired to break through the museum. It was also bound to happen that they would be caught, without even getting their hands on it. The moment they pretended to be the museum's ushers were the moment they exposed themselves to vulnerability. They were grilled to talk, but everything was futile; not only that they just did what I told them, they never knew what painting to touch. They just commenced what I wanted them to do; they had just prepared the carpet I'd walked on. They helped in disabling alarms, misleading civilians, but never did they were told to pilfer. They received an incredible amount of money to be strict with their mission.

I double-crossed them. All of them were captured. But no matter—I had done what I promised: they already received the half of their paycheck. Without any trace of the transaction.

Many times, I told myself that I only want her painting; it was one of the very few things that interest me. I have not forgotten the past. Yet, I too was bound to be attracted to her, since I knew her. And she once knew me, too.

CHAPTER 3:

Yumi was sitting on a futon at the porch of a summerhouse, revealing the misty forest of the backyard. They once had a tour there. It was close to evening; even though mist coming from the forest had been devouring the surroundings, Yumi never felt warm, even though she was completely naked, and only a white sheet of blanket was covering her hips, thighs, and legs. One hand, she was holding a large brush, and on the other was a plate, where her pigments were mixed. In front of her was a canvass resting upon the porch rails, depicting the exact albeit incomplete replica of the scenery before her—the mist enveloping the trees, the redness of the sky above them. She was fascinated by the vivacity and chaotic colors of the sky, the hues of reds, oranges, and yellows against the blue, white, and green of below. She was halfway finishing it, and no matter if darkness was about to devour the colors away from the scenery; she had imprinted the picture to her memory and heart. Many shared experiences happened in this place; how could she forget such vibrant panorama?

"It's halfway finished." Yumi perceived by her right ear.

"It's alright,"

Around her stomach and chest were two long, slender arms circling them. On her shoulders, upper arms, and breasts were tangles of black and chocolate brown locks of hair, while on her right shoulder, a delicate chin was resting, the slightly opened mouth above it sending steady breaths of air to her right neck and ears. Mounds of breasts pressed to Yumi's back, loosing and tightening as her captor exhaled and inhaled. These were the reasons she was not able to finish the painting. She smiled at the distraction.

She set aside her brushes and plate, along with the incomplete painting. Then she moved her head sideways to meet her lips to the other's cheek, saying, "I don't mind." Yumi felt the arms around her loosened up, and she shifted her weight to embrace the woman behind her. One arm enclosed around the back of the other's chest, while the other reached upward so that its hand could hold the mass of hair on her head. Her yearning for the other's touch was beginning to manifest to her whole body, as she gently pushed her to the futon, and kissed her hungrily on the mouth. Yumi's hands began to explore downward—to the mounds of breasts, to her stomach and navel—lower and lower . . . until she felt herself rolled to her back.

"No, let me." Yumi heard.

Her lands went limp as she released her hold from her partner as she let herself be exploited and explored. She could feel grazes of teeth and tongue upon her chests and stomach. She began to feel an abnormal heat upon her pelvis, spreading out, as she sensed hands upon it. Her sighs turned into quick gasps. Even though her eyes were opened, she could see the sky darkening.

"Sachiko . . ."

Then it turned to pitch black, along with everything around her. Then, her unfinished painting appeared before her, and before she could reach and touch it, fire began to spread upon the sides. She tried to reach for it once more, hoping to extinguish the fire, yet she was unable to move. The view of the incomplete forest began to burn, and the sky's angry colors started to merge with the fire below. She could smell wood and leaves burning. Her eyes ached because of the smoke. She felt as if she was part of those trees; her feet began to burn, her skin beginning to melt to reveal her red, bloodied flesh. She was starting to lose her mind.

An x-acto knife appeared upon her hands. Upon seeing it, she held upon it like a butcher's knife, and plunged the scalpel through the middle of the painting. When she retrieved her hand, she saw her canvass transformed into The Passing Wind. The woman drawn still had her smile, her nearly closed eyes, but in between her breasts were gushes of blood spurting out whenever the heart hammered, tainting Yumi's face. She could hear its beating as if her ear was at a base drum brutally being pounded. Even her eyes were caught a jet of the bright red substance.

". . . DIE!"

Then she woke up. She was panting heavily, as she realized that her arms were flailing until she became fully conscious. She was drenched with sweat that her old cotton shirt was sticking to every part of her body that it covered. Her futon, too. Her head felt heavy, thus she bowed down slowly and closed her eyes, letting her heartbeat calm down. Beads of sweat on her head were rolling down her nose and chin.

She clenched both her hands. She hatefully admitted defeat when she felt an unusual damp between her legs. She rolled her eyes. Fucking traitor. Anyone could be aroused in that kind of wet dream. But then, it was because of Sachiko. A faint memory of the past merged with some sort of incomprehensible denouement. She shivered in extreme disgust and terror.

Was she turned on to blood and death or to the sex beforehand?

When she looked at the alarm clock beside her, she turned off the alarm, a minute early for it burst on. It was already 5:59 a.m. She looked beside her and found Yoshino dozing off at the other futon.

She got up, determined to have her early bath.

"This is so uncool," she wore her occasional scowl, as she slid the door of the bathroom. When she did, she felt a sting upon her finger. The wound. "What are you trying to say now, x-acto-san?"

Three loud knocks. Yumi sighed upon the recognition of the person behind the door of her workshop. "Sei-sama, come in."

Sei's blonde head immediately sprang out of the door, which was banged sideward, causing a slight tremor upon the cans containing used brushes, upon the painting Yumi was restoring, and upon the overturned, unfinished canvasses leaning at the walls, except Yumi's hands. They were holding an x-acto and a small paintbrush. Yumi anticipated the sudden distraction; that was Sei. Of course, she would make a ruckus. She pushed everyone's buttons—Yumi's, her bosses', even her own. Sei was a crazy buffoon with clumsy appendages.

Good thing Yumi quickly removed away her hands from the half-finished canvas.

"What happened to your finger?" Sei asked.

"I cut myself. X-acto, as usual."

Sei raised a brow. "You don't just have cuts from x-acto. So, how's The Passing Wind?" She did not mind the clatter upon the painter's floor; she walked through the mess without breaking anything of Yumi's possession. She knew how to avoid landmines.

"Still missing."

"You're not looking for it?"

"No, that's Yoshino's and Yuuki's job." Yumi then turned to her work, settling her hands hanging just above the painting.

"You're angry that I contacted a friend from Lillian?" Sei settled herself in one wooden chair. She sat on it in a reverse manner.

"No. I actually found it surprising that I did not even avoid her. I was drinking with Yoshino last night."

"You punk. You got her drunk, didn't you?" Sei smirked.

She was still tinkering at a small portion of the painting as she talked uneventfully, "A punishment, Sei-sama. You hired her to investigate. What happened to her superiors? What on earth were they thinking that they sent a junior like Yoshino?"

"I don't know," Sei softened in front of Yumi that the latter felt that her mouth went too far. When Yumi was about to apologize (a rare occurrence), Sei continued. "Yoshino-san's your best friend. She always asks about you, but all I can say to her was to go visit you."

"She never did."

"Well, she thought that you're still recuperating. Everything about Kyoto disturbed you before. She said that hated the idea that she could only see you because of this robbery case."

"She did tell that to me. Over bottles of sake."

Sei smirked at Yumi. But, she was glad that until today Sei could still talk to her, without any pretenses. Yumi has always honest with herself, and she did not reject any changes upon her. She never hated what she had become.

Ever since she found Yumi in the lowest of her emotional state, she remained behind her back, guiding her not to get too far away. It was the moment that Yumi snapped, thus the building changes within the recesses of her soul began to conquer all of her—from the inside to the outside—transforming her into a foreign and unknown character. She must have suppressed any kind of change, given that everyone expected her not to. All her faculties had been focused upon her work, her passion to continue her dear parents' legacy, her obsession to her art, and when she was taken advantage when she was most vulnerable, offered with false hope, all her hidden monsters rose up to devour her reason and righteousness. Yet, it was inevitable.

She was true to the meaning of one kanji character of Yumi's name: the snake. She's most dangerous when all her defenses crumbled. When you picked on at a freshly molted one, it will never forget its attacker's face; it would strike back, disregarding everything, only to protect herself.

(Who would have thought that the selfless Yumi would have her limit?)

Everyone thought of her as the wellspring of genuine altruism. Well, they thought wrong.

Sei gulped for air before she said, "Another reason of why I'm here is to warn you: I saw someone at the office waiting for you. It's Touma Sachiko."

"Ogasawara Sachiko?"

Sei's face was unreadable. "She had the nerve to be walking right on your turf."

She knew that at some point of her life, she would see her again.

"Onee-sama."

She whispered breathlessly, but then her eyes became stormy the moment she uttered it. She did not know what to feel (bitterness or happiness?), yet upon seeing her after a long time, she decided that she felt nothing.

(To the point that she would openly show it. She would give Sachiko that pleasure.)

"It's been a long time, Onee-sama." She impishly grinned, unable to bring out the anger that she should have been feeling all this time.

"Yumi," Sachiko was the one who ran and embraced her petite soeur tightly. The painter could not oppose her arms, which were responding reluctantly back to Sachiko in light squeeze.

Yet, when they separated again and looked at each other's eyes, Sachiko became conscious of herself, making the air more cumbersome. She knew how she hurt Yumi before, more and extreme, yet all she wanted was to hug her tightly. For a moment that they embraced, the Ogasawara heiress felt a familiar feeling of the past—Yumi's gentle yet passionate affection for her—but when they parted, all she saw was Yumi's cold eyes.

They were the mirrors of the soul. She hated the fact that such saying was true.

Sachiko was surprised with herself—Yumi was the one who broke the moment, not her. "What brings you here? Many, many years of being elsewhere, you decided to pay a visit?"

The grande soeur frowned. "Yumi," She looked not to her petite souer's eyes, because it was true. "I came here to see if you were okay."

"You don't say," Yumi's words was burning Sachiko's calm. "You heard the news. My painting was stolen in broad daylight. You cannot possibly ask something that's so obvious." She put her hands to her pockets and looked straight at Sachiko's eyes. She was surprised at herself that she could looked straight at her, with all her faculties working, without feeling warm and frivolous (like she used to). Somehow, that empowered her.

Sachiko could not decide whether to laugh or cry. She had not changed a bit; she was honest and straightforward of her feelings, whenever she had a chance to be brave and say it. Sachiko, however, was not used to such a tone coming out of Yumi's mouth. She neglected her sarcasm a while ago, thinking that she deserved a little coldness, but she could not take it Yumi's tone. It was like she did not teach her any manners. "Yumi," her anger did not reach her eyes as she prepared to reprimand Yumi. "I did not teach you to be rude, especially to me."

"I thought you like me to always be honest, Sachiko," Yumi whispered, dismissing the provoked expression that Sachiko was wearing.

The latter, however, was surprised to hear her name—without any honorifics—once again after so many years. Intense memories flooded to her mind. But Yumi continued, after she felt that saying her onee-sama's name with acute familiarity would strike like an arrow. "You taught me everything I need to know, but you did not teach me what I want to know. I've come and gone, and I have learned my ways to the world. So let us ignore my behavior."

The air was too hot for both of them.

The door opened, with Sei barging inside the room without bothering to knock.

Sachiko hated the sudden tenderness of Yumi's voice when she offered, "Now, I suppose you still prefer black tea, Onee-sama? For old time's sake."

She longed to see Yumi, of the old times. But her smile was not genuine. That smile that used to astound Sachiko was in evident from Yumi's face.

It was hard watching her be treated like ragged doll. Yumi tried not to hold her breath the moment she saw her. She was more beautiful, different—yet Yumi felt the sameness in Sachiko's features that her absence after a few years rendered Yumi speechless. The familiarity of Sachiko's figure came to her mind in fast torrent of images—the high, regal cheekbones, her pink and succulent mouth, her dark eyes. Her black hair was the same as she could remember—long and shiny, like having an existence and autonomy of its own.

She felt the rush of the Muse coming to her again, and with the feeling, her heart almost stopped. Her hand twitched, her palm began to itch for the texture of her brushes. She felt the slice of an imaginary x-acto knife upon her forefinger. She felt a sting upon her hand. She could see bits and pieces of colors, later molding and mixing unto new ones. Plastering itself to a canvas.

Suddenly a picture was being formed. It started at the center, from a dot to a small circle, and then began to expand its circumference.

(An image!)

Yet, she could see anger, misery, pain, hopelessness in it.

Yumi took a wrong step and almost tripped while leading Sachiko out of her office. She motioned Sei to stick where she was ("Leave us alone."), and headed at the staff cafeteria to buy two cans of tea. She dispensed several coins to the vending machine. Then they immediately went out of the cafeteria to the elevator, and headed to the top floor. Then, she walked through a series of stairs leading to the rooftop of the museum.

At those times, Sachiko only followed, without even complaining.

At those times, Yumi tested her ability to control herself from snapping. (I did succeed.)

She closed the door when Sachiko was already outside.

"You said you wanted to talk. I only give you the best place without any ear around." Yumi said, trying to look at her in the eyes.

"I did."

Yumi gave her one can of black tea. She opened her own and took a sip. She decided to be straightforward as possible, without her usual sarcasm. "I never thought I'd be seeing you again. I thought that was the agreement." She said softly, as she looked at the metropolis.

Sachiko opened her can too, and took a sip. "There was never an agreement of some sort."

"Yeah, because you never agreed to anything."

Yumi looked for a place to sit. She walked away from Sachiko and sat against the wall near the door that she just closed a while ago. It had shade, so the pavement was not too hot. When she noticed that Sachiko remained standing, she patted the pavement beside her, and motioned for Sachiko to sit too. Disregarding the fact the Sachiko was wearing a corporate suit, and a fine, neatly pressed skirt.

Sachiko mentally debated. Then she inevitably sat.

"So, is he nice?" Yumi looked at the sky.

"Yes, very. He's not like father or grandfather at all. He's very loyal."

"God, he seems like a dog."

(No, he's not.) Sachiko contested whether she would voice this out or not. Her husband was never informed about Yumi and her, and she wanted it that way. He never doubted her when she said that she never had anyone. If he knew, he must have kept it to himself, and perpetually loved her with the notion that it was of the past. This made her even more attached to him—more of a conscientious decision—because he accepted her without confronting or digging further.

Yes, he was like Yumi: selfless.

"Are you still mad about my decision?" Sachiko asked for the first time, since she married.

The painter put her can down. She answered her one-time onee-sama like she was reciting a long mathematical expression—tired and bored. But bitterness was beginning to stir up to her throat.

"You lied. You did not give us a chance. Even if I told you I'd wait for you."

Sachiko said nothing more.

"She made me drunk." She refilled her second cup of coffee.

"You don't say." Yuuki absentmindedly said.

She took a sip, and grabbed tissues to wipe the stain from the side of her mouth. "I remembered it all—I was the only one talking. She did not even produce a complete sentence. She just poured and poured sake in my cup. And I was attacking her with all of my frustrations about her. Next thing I knew, I woke up in her bed. An alarm clock was beside me, saying 'it's goddamn noon', I was wearing her pajamas, my clothes were washed and folded, and she made lasagna for lunch. She took care of everything, even aspirin. But then, she was nowhere in the apartment."

"You don't say."

Yuuki seemed to be not listening, but Yoshino wanted her frustrations out. "She knew I hate to be late. She just let the alarm clock disabled. She made me cancel my plans for revenge by taking care of me."

"I know, I know. Now, will you please—"

"She left the key of the house, so that when I'd return it to her, she'd be snickering at me."

"Oh, God, why?"

Frustrated, she looked back at him, with the contents of her cup almost spilling. "Is that all you could say?"

He grabbed his own cup and filled it. He appeared as if no one was hearing him, but Yoshino was listening intently. "Yumi is like that. She's always like that. She takes care of things without you knowing it. Ever since Mom and Dad died, she took the mother role. It's just that it's not evident anymore—" He took a sip, "Ouch!"

Yoshino only looked at the ceiling; she could not agree more—yet, how could this apathetic Yumi be like that, after all this time? Everyone tried to approach her after she came back from Kyoto. Yet, she did not let anyone get near her, not even Sachiko. She always had noticed that Yumi had some sort of unrequited love for her onee-sama, but she was not sure whether Yumi had confessed anything to her. Being in different universities, Yumi and Yoshino seldom saw each other. She always assumed that it was the case, which correctly correspond to Yumi's reaction last night when Yoshino suddenly imitate Ogasawara—no, Touma Sachiko. Yumi's unvoiced feelings led her not to attend Sachiko's wedding. It might have been unbearable to witness.

On second thought, as far as Yoshino observed, only Sei and Yuuki could get near her. Their strength sure was fearsome. Still, what was in Satou Sei that made Fukuzawa Yumi yield her stubborn defenses?

"When one sees her for the first time, one thinks that she's hopeless. Well, in a way he's right, but not entirely, if you know what I mean."

Yuuki appeared to be convincing Yoshino to leave his sister alone, but Yoshino could only roll her eyes. "Still unforgivable. She's the reason my schedule today's ruined. She made me late."

"Your absence is not greatly missed." He blew onto the black liquid this time and took a long sip.

A detective came inside to report to Yuuki. "A witness came," he said.

That was alarming. Two days had passed, yet a witness entered their station just now. With all the commotion inside the museum and the publicity—why now? Why not yesterday, when his or her memory is still fresh? Yet, a witness is a witness—he must be scared to be involved in this heist business.

Yet, when they went to the interrogation room, Yuuki could not move ever since he saw the man sitting down. He was sitting very comfortably upon the chair, while his one elbow was resting upon the long table. His broad back was crouching upon the chair. He was wearing a three-piece suit, yet it did not seem to go with his personality. His necktie was slightly loose. His skin was a little tanned; his black hair slightly messy. Yet, with such inconsistency of his appearance, when Yoshino looked at his profile, he was just one of the benefactors of the museum.

(In other words, filthy rich. Why did Yoshino feel that she'd seen him before?)

"Just let him talk. I think I knew him somewhere from before." Yoshino whispered. When she looked at Yuuki, he gulped. "You know him?"

Yuuki tried to smile, "Yes, I think so. It is very small world after all." He pointed a term in the submitted profile.

TO BE CONTINUED

A/N: Thanks for reading chapter 3! Please review! :)