Day 4: Lisa's day
Lisa sits on a cold steel chair, alone with Twelve at last.
She doesn't look at him at first, her stare is downcast and her hands are fisted on her filthy skirt. They had given her clothes to change in but she had refused them. She only needed one thing, and now that she had finally been granted permission to do it, she doesn't seem to be able to move or speak. Or even look at him.
It's so silent in here, so different to the noisy world outside.
And she thought Nine had taken care of that…
How long before it gets even louder out there? Could she get used to it again?
She sighs, and for a moment she forgets where she is and what she's supposed to be doing.
Her mind has been working in fits and starts since yesterday. She can't concentrate. She can't think straight. Her mind wanders off, and she feels constantly disoriented.
All she has done for the past several hours is either shake her head or nod when spoken to, sit, stand, pace, wait. She refused food and water several times until the detective conditioned her visit to her drinking and eating something.
A part of her brain keeps telling her to just wait for the world to right itself, to just be patient and wait for things to fall into place as they should. She'll know what to do then. She'll know how to function properly again, and if she doesn't…
But as she waits, the weight on her chest only gets heavier.
She lifts her head. That part of her still in denial is fully expecting Twelve to be sitting in front of her, ready to take her face between his hands and laugh at her for being so silly.
But he's not sitting.
He's not laughing.
He's not even looking at her.
He isn't even Twelve.
What did they do to him? What did they do to him?
She stands up, knocking the chair back a step, and leans over his prone body, her hands hover over his chest as her eyes dart from his face, to his arms, to his torso.
They had changed his clothes, cleaned the blood, and combed his hair back. The bruises on his face had been treated with some powdery pale substance to disguise them, and he looked almost as white as the clothes on him and the sheet covering him from the waist down.
It's wrong. He looks wrong.
Her mouth opens and closes and her hands tremble. She needs to make him right.
He wasn't 'right' before and he isn't 'right' now, Lisa.
There's a voice in her head that she doesn't recognize as her own. It's annoying and logical and it needs to shut up, because she doesn't have the time to stop and listen to it when Twelve needs her help.
Her hand seems to steady as she reaches over to wind her fingers through his brown waves of hair, brushing bangs of hair onto his forehead with her fingertips, styling it the way he always wore it.
When she's done she focuses on his face.
His lips are so pale. So dry. She looks around the room and runs over to a sink, cupping one hand under the stream of water before hurrying back to his side. Her hand dripping, she traces his lips gently with her thumb until they're moist.
She runs her damp hand over his cheek, sketching the outlines of the bruises that they had tried to cover with whatever it is that is now sticking to her hands as well. She rubs it off his cheeks, his jaw, his chin, until the bruises and scrapes are visible again.
She gives his white clothing a frown. Long sleeves, in summer.
Why is it all so wrong?
Why does it matter?
But she shakes her head, rolling up his sleeves carefully, ignoring how heavy his limbs feel under her hands.
He also probably hates white. They had stripped him of all color. They didn't understand the importance of it in his life. He is just another corpse to them. They didn't even know him.
She grits her teeth, her mind going to a darker place. They didn't even know him. How could they do it? How could they do this?
"Twelve…" her voice is tiny in her ears, so faint she isn't sure if she's just thinking his name or actually saying it.
You haven't even realized yet.
He still doesn't look like himself. His skin is still too pale, the shadows under his eyes are too deep, his chest is too still.
She can't fix him.
Her shoulders slump and she bites her lip until it bleeds and goes numb.
She sits again, and scoots as close as she can to his side. How can I help you?
She waits for a reply.
Stop it. Don't make it any harder than it has to be.
But she stubbornly waits on for another minute. Because it's not right. It can't be. She needs his voice. Loud and happy; soft and calming; quivering with laughter (laughing with her, laughing at her), telling her it will be alright, telling her she can get through it. Because she's strong and capable, and he's the only one who has ever believed that about her and told her so.
It can't be right because he's her only friend and she has no one else. Life can't just take everything away from you like this. It has to be a joke, a nightmare. She must have stumbled into a perverse alternate universe because no higher power can possibly be this unfair.
She takes one of his hands between hers and lowers her forehead to it. There must be a way to make it right.
And so she starts bargaining with the God she thought had been ignoring her all her life because she hadn't needed him enough. Her problems had been petty, and common, and always within her power to fix. Right? God didn't bother himself with the small things.
He would listen now. Because this is different, only divine intervention can help.
She will give anything he asks of her. Make any necessary sacrifice in her life to be able to undo the last twenty-four hours.
She will even make herself personally responsible for Twelve's life from now on.
Twelve only needs to open his eyes and give her the opportunity to make it all up to him.
If he lives she will make sure his life is how it was always supposed to be: Filled with love, light, and laughter. She will personally see to it that he never feels lonely, unwanted or unloved. She'll show him the world for a change. Everything he missed out on while being in that institution and after, when his entire life had shrunk to a plan for revenge. She'll give him a normal life even if she isn't entirely sure what that means. That's fine. They will find out together what normal entails. She'll wake him every morning with a hug and send him to sleep at night with a kiss to the forehead. She'll hold his hand when he's sad, reassure him when he's doubtful, and make sure his smile never leaves his lips for long. She will treat him the way he had treated her. She will love him like he had loved her.
God won't have to concern himself with Twelve's happiness because she'll be there to make sure his new life is how it should always have been.
So please…
Please,
Please!
She waits for a sign, a sound, a hint of movement, a manifestation of life.
She waits and she waits some more, not realizing that she's crushing his fingers between her hands.
Not that he can feel it.
Not that he can complain.
Please.
When she snaps out of it (and realizes that real life doesn't work this way, that her pleas aren't going to be answered by some benevolent deity), she's leaning over his chest, her ear pressed above the area where his heart should be beating, pumping all that blood that he had lost only seconds after being shot.
Nothing.
She straightens up and loosens her grip on his hand, apologizing to him because she thinks it's somehow her fault that God isn't listening to her.
So useless.
.
.
.
She knows it's not true, and that he would hate for her to believe that.
She sniffles and wipes her nose with her forearm. She hasn't shed a single tear so far and she shouldn't start now, not in front of him.
"I'm fine." She assures him (so very softly the silence in the room isn't even disturbed), and kisses his knuckles.
She can hear voices outside and she looks over her shoulder before turning to him again. She was only supposed to say goodbye and leave.
She stands up when she hears the sound of footfalls getting closer, and she can tell the detective is arguing with some other man.
They're being so loud, everyone has been so loud since yesterday, and she wishes they would all quiet down.
She sets Twelve's hand over his stomach. It looks more natural that way.
She hopes he's in peace.
She hopes he's happy wherever he is.
.
.
.
She should say goodbye.
The voices are just outside the door now, and although they have lowered their argument to a whisper she still thinks their resonance alone will shatter her eardrums.
"Mishima-san…"
If the world could just shut up for a minute.
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Dolce S.- I'm sorry for the mess.