Resonance in Monotone
Desperation
III
Written by Dragenruler
Fading Away - Lisa Cimorelli
Why don't you stay the night? I can make fresh Onigiri for you?" Hisana's voice was soft and inviting as she lightly touched the rice container. In the cramped genkan of her Tokyo apartment, Rukia stood motionless, a statue amidst an atmosphere thick with unspoken emotions and a stifling silence Hisana was determined to break.
She lingered at the fridge, her gaze contemplative, her forehead creasing in thought. With a barely audible sigh, she shut the door and turned, only to be met with Rukia's unflinching stare, sharp and probing.
Rukia's voice, laced with worry she couldn't fully mask, broke the silence. "Have you been eating? You've lost so much weight." Her words, direct and concerned, struck Hisana more tersely than she expected.
Hisana paused, turning to face Rukia fully. A smile attempted to grace her lips, but it wavered, failing to reach her eyes. "What do you mean? I look the same," she murmured, shaking her head slightly, as if to brush away Rukia's concerns. Yet, as she moved closer, a subtle tremor betrayed her hands, undermining the calm she tried to project. Rukia's gaze, so discerning and perceptive, seemed to see right through her, quickening Hisana's heartbeat.
"Hisana…" The way Rukia said her name knitted Hisana's brows together.
Rukia sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken thoughts, nodding slightly as she stepped out of her shoes. Her critical survey of the apartment softened into a look of warm, familial affection when her eyes settled back on Hisana.
In the ensuing silence, Hisana held her breath, the room charged with words left unsaid. Then, Rukia's expression subtly shifted, a genuine yet strained smile appearing. "I've missed your onigiri," she confessed. "They've always been my favourite."
The smile that spread across Hisana's face was soft and grateful, an unspoken thank you for the understanding that had always underpinned their relationship. She felt the weight of responsibility to mend the rifts caused by her own actions.
"Perfect," Hisana responded with a light but resolute tone. As she moved back towards the genkan and bent to slip into her sandals, she suggested, "Let's make this quick. Tonight, let's sleep together like we used to. Remember sneaking into my bed?" Her voice, rich with nostalgia, evoked memories of a simpler, shared past.
"Ah, sis," Rukia's endearment tugged at Hisana's heart. "Do you mind if I wait here?" Her question, innocent on the surface, carried deeper layers of meaning, casting a shadow of complexity over Hisana's expression.
"Uhm—" Hisana's words trembled in the stillness of the room. She paused, each moment feeling slow. "Of course, you can stay. Rest here; I won't be long. The train ride must have tired you out." Her head tilted, a subtle gesture that belied the calm composure of her façade.
In the ensuing silence, Rukia's unspoken thoughts wove an intangible web around Hisana, enveloping her in an awkwardness that made every breath feel laborious. Turning away with a small nod, she reached for her bag, moving with mechanical precision. Each step towards the store felt heavy, like stones tied to her feet.
At the store, Hisana moved with determined efficiency, her hands automatically selecting Rukia's favourite dinner items, snacks, and drinks. Spotting a whimsical Chappy themed keychain, she added it to her basket, a small gesture of reconciliation. Inside, a deep ache pulsed, tinged with remorse yet overshadowed by a pain too profound to face head-on. Despite everything, Rukia's well-being remained her steadfast priority.
The sharp bite inside her cheek was a stinging, self-imposed reminder. Hisana understood Rukia's patience was wearing thin, especially with her recent actions, adding urgency to her task.
Returning to the apartment with hurried footsteps, she entered, the rustle of her clothing betraying her unease, arms laden with bags. "Rukia, I got you something special," she announced.
In an instant, Rukia was at her side, and together they maneuvered the bags to the kitchenette. As Rukia reached out to help, Hisana gently guided her aside, protective as always. Only when everything was unpacked and the rice cooker hummed did Hisana pour some flavoured shochu, its rich scent filling the room.
Offering a glass to Rukia, a heartfelt smile lit up Hisana's eyes.
Rukia hesitated before accepting the glass, her grip tense, leaving the shochu undisturbed. Hisana's smile, once a bright flower, dimmed slightly under the cool air between them. With a silent nod, she sipped her drink, the bittersweet liquid coursing down her throat.
Acknowledging the strain with her sister, Hisana thought, was a familiar yet painful realisation.
"Rukia…" she began softly, a delicate admission. "I am truly sorry." It was her responsibility to bridge the gap, knowing Rukia, in her quiet resolve, would neither provoke nor leave such matters unaddressed.
Her hand instinctively found Rukia's. "I was sincere when I said I missed you. Moving to Tokyo affected me more than I expected, and I haven't been myself lately," she confessed, her voice steady and deliberate. "But you should never feel burdened by it."
Rukia took a sip, her eyes averted from Hisana's earnest, sorrowful gaze. Setting the glass down, her gaze shifted, unshed tears glistening in her eyes. A heavy silence filled the space between them, charged with unvoiced emotions, until Rukia finally broke it. "I'm really confused. Why would you do something like that to me?"
"You are right," Hisana whispered, her voice a fragile thread as she battled the tightness in her throat. Her fingers, tender yet hesitant, traced over Rukia's hand. "And I am—"
But Rukia interrupted, her expression tightening as she looked away, a silent rejection of Hisana's unspoken apology. Yet, she didn't pull her hand away, accepting Hisana's touch in silent concession. "No, Hisana. It was selfish. It hurt me deeply, after all we've shared, all we've been through."
Hisana's reply was choked off by the raw truth in Rukia's words. Her eyes, wide and reflecting a turmoil of self-reproach, met Rukia's. The unveiled honesty only seemed to solidify Rukia's indignation, her jaw setting in a resolute line.
"What can I do to help you?" Rukia's desperate urgency cut through her words, her fingers anxiously clutching her shirt. Their eyes locked in a silent, pleading exchange.
Hisana's face, pale and haunted by her past actions, trembled on the verge of confession. "I... I don't know…" she managed, burdened with an unspoken confession too heavy for words. Her fingers hesitated, poised to retreat, but Rukia's hand gripped hers, squeezing. It was a lifeline that struck her heart.
Then, Rukia's voice, faint but resolute, broke through. "I thought you had killed yourself."
Hisana's eyes widened, her soul laid bare. Rukia's words were like anchors, dragging her down into their shared agony. Breath became elusive, her chest caving under the weight of her actions. "Rukia..." she breathed out.
Rukia continued; her tone steady but laced with hurt. "Three days... I was terrified. And all you left was one short message?" Her words were a sharp lance through Hisana's heart.
A wave of guilt crashed over Hisana, her posture buckling. Her eyes, once a facade of composure, now sought solace in the shadows beneath her. "I never meant to—" Her words faltered, failing to encapsulate the depth of her remorse.
In response, Rukia's gaze held a storm of sadness and concern, brows knitted in a valiant effort to mask her vulnerability. Moving beyond her own internal chaos, Hisana stepped closer. With a tenderness that trembled through their bones, she reached out and cradled Rukia's face. Their eyes met, Rukia's brimming with unshed tears, searching Hisana's for something solid.
"My baby sister," Hisana murmured, her eyes shimmering with unspoken promises. "From the moment you were born, I vowed to always be there for you. And that vow still stands."
Hisana's fingertips traced the lines of Rukia's face with a gentle reverence. Each touch held the weight of countless shared moments, an intimate language born from years of unspoken understanding. As her fingers glided through the strands of Rukia's dark hair, a quiet harmony resonated between them, a wordless duet of affection and empathy.
"Thank you for staying another night," Hisana breathed into the hushed stillness, her words floating like delicate blossoms in the serene night that cradled her apartment and their entwined forms on the futon.
"It's first semester exams, so I had a bit more free time. Ichigo understood, he was also concerned." Rukia's voice, soft as the hush of dreams, flowed from her lips. Her eyes remained closed, her face a portrait of serenity. "And I missed you too," she whispered, the words barely a sigh.
A wistful smile graced Hisana's lips, a delicate acknowledgment of the unspoken feelings that eluded her. Her eyes remained fixed on Rukia's serene visage, the tender strokes of her touch never ceasing—an enduring ritual that had offered solace and a sense of home since Rukia was young.
"Is this all because—"
A gentle, hushed sigh escaped Hisana's lips, her voice a soft breeze that caressed the stillness, interrupting the unspoken question.
Rukia, teetering on the edge of consciousness, offered the faintest of nods, her words mere wisps of sound. "And Ehime, this year?"
Hisana's fingertips lingered on Rukia's cheek, a fleeting pause before she murmured, "You have my word."
"I always do..." Rukia exhaled softly, her words carrying the unmistakable burden of trust, her eyes sealed in quiet acceptance.
As their foreheads met in tender contact, Hisana's hand remained steady against Rukia's cheek, the unspoken vow gaining a palpable sincerity. Bundled together beneath the encompassing darkness of the night and their shared futon, a serene satisfaction enveloped Hisana. It had been months since she had been able to care for Rukia in this way.
Subdued exhalations became one with the hushed surroundings, only to be disrupted by Rukia, who spoke with contemplation, shattering the stillness. "Perhaps you should consider returning to Karakura."
An uneasy knot coiled within Hisana's gut, prompting her to turn onto her back. "I wish I could," she admitted, her words echoing in the darkness, punctuated by the steady beat of her heart.
In the shrouded silence, Hisana sensed Rukia's tired yet inquisitive gaze upon her. "But it was your suggestion?"
"It was," Hisana conceded, and with reluctance, she added, "But I have an exhibition to prepare for in December."
"What!" Rukia's voice, suddenly animated, shattered the calm, her eyes wide and radiant, like guiding stars in the night. A tentative smile tugged at Hisana's lips in response to her sister's reaction and burst of energy.
As the initial surprise waned, Rukia's gaze wavered, her shoulders slumping. "Why didn't you mention it to me?"
"I apologise," Hisana's apology floated between them, a frail effort to mend the unintended rift she had caused. "I should've informed you earlier."
"Indeed, you should've," came Rukia's softly reproachful reply. But in the subtle transformation that ensued, she greeted Hisana with an eager smile, affectionately nudging her leg in playful manner. Instantly, the weight lifted, and a buoyant sense of joy overcame them. Hisana basked in the radiance of her sister's grin, the shared warmth banishing the shadows. "Tell me everything, sis."
"I can't reveal much at this moment," Hisana admitted, her smile softening. Pausing for effect, she added, "It's a brand-new gallery in Tokyo, right on Namiki Dori."
Rukia, brimming with childlike excitement, drew nearer. Hisana couldn't help but chuckle, embracing the infectious innocence that danced between them. "That's an enormous accomplishment!"
Bathed in the gentle night's glow, Hisana's gaze found Rukia's, and in that fleeting moment, life's complexities seemed to dissolve. "I promise, Rukia," Hisana swore, her voice imbued with a sincerity that belied the ache in her heart. However, beneath the surface of her honest words lay a labyrinth of secrets, unspoken truths Hisana felt compelled to shield from Rukia.
Rukia's eyes shimmered with understanding, a wordless pact passing silently between them. Hisana reached out for Rukia's hand, their fingers intertwining. "But for now," Hisana's voice softened, "let's sleep. You're leaving early tomorrow.
Hisana remained steadfast in her commitment to guard her sister, even from the shadows within herself. With this resolution, she settled deeper into the warmth of the futon. Enveloping her sister in a strong, reassuring embrace, her hands resumed their gentle touch, soothing away the worries and pain Rukia felt.
At Kinshichō Station, Hisana clung to Rukia as if the world itself conspired to tear them apart. Around them, life pulsed, the station's heartbeat echoing with the footsteps of commuters and the rhythmic hum of departing trains. In this orchestrated chaos, their embrace was desperate, Hisana's heart burdened with silent accusations and tears she fought to keep at bay.
Eyes closed; she tightened her hold on Rukia in silent defiance against the inevitable farewell. Rukia's gentle pats on her back served as comforting anchors to reality, their awkwardness accentuated by the rucksack wedged between them.
"I'm sorry," Hisana murmured, her words a breath against Rukia's ear. "You know how hard this is for me."
Rukia's response vibrated against Hisana's shoulder. "Don't be so dramatic, Hisana. Karakura Town is barely an hour away," she chided, her eyes darting through the dwindling crowd, a shy evasion mingling with a blush hidden in their embrace. "Besides, you've been distant."
Reluctantly, Hisana withdrew slightly, her eyes meeting Rukia's. In her gaze, unspoken regrets simmered. "I know, and—"
"No more apologies. Just..." Rukia hesitated, her eyes briefly flickering down before locking with Hisana's again. "Promise me, video calls, at least once a week. No excuses."
"I promise," Hisana nodded, her smile fragile, as if it might shatter under the slightest pressure. The ghosts of her mistakes tightened their grip around her heart when Rukia stepped back, leaving her arms empty and her promise solemn.
"Hisana," Rukia started, her lips pressed together. "I miss them too. You promised, but..." Her voice trailed into a sigh, her fingers clenching, then unfurling. "Please, consider coming to Ehime with me. You never—"
Acting on instinct, Hisana captured Rukia's hand, her fingers massaging the tense muscles. She struggled to find words, the air stolen from her lungs, leaving her with a sensation of suffocation, as if drowning. Yet, her smile remained; a fixed mask worn too often.
"I promised you." Hisana finally replied, signalling the end of the discussion.
In Rukia's eyes, a fleeting shadow flickered, unsettling Hisana. However, all she received in response was a subdued nod, an acquiescence to her silent plea. With a tender squeeze of their entwined hands, they wordlessly agreed to part ways. Rukia's departure was slow, her shoulders tense, each backward glance marked by a frown and creased brow.
Hisana remained, her smile now a fragile façade, a delicate veneer she dared not let fracture. A familiar, dark ache unfurled within her, its shadowy tendrils wrapping around her, tightening with each step Rukia took away. The chill of it seeped deep, securing her in place. She waved, maintaining a semblance of normalcy, until Rukia's figure merged into the crowd. Only after her sister vanished did Hisana allow her shoulders to sink, the invisible knots in her muscles holding her in their tight embrace, her ache unabated.
'What's wrong with you?' Hisana chided herself, the internal accusation sharp and unyielding. 'Why do you keep causing her pain?' Her fingers clenched around her bag. The floral dress, once a cheerful recommendation from Rukia, now felt like an ill-fitting reminder. Stray locks of hair, restrained by a Chappy clip, framed her face, enhancing her feeling of exposure beneath the makeup that now seemed too heavy.
Her thoughts swirled chaotically as the summer air brushed her skin, a stark contrast to the goosebumps along her arms. With a resigned sigh, Hisana began her journey toward the train.
The trip to the gallery passed in a haze, her thoughts adrift in a tumultuous sea of memories and emotions. Upon arrival, she found the gallery's glass doors locked, the quiet of the empty space enveloping her. Ascending the stairs to the atelier, she paused, taking a moment to collect her scattered composure.
"Kuchiki-sama?" Her voice was tentative, barely above a whisper, as she addressed the figure dominating the room. His presence was a contrast to hers: the meticulousness of his attire, dark grey trousers perfectly accentuating his slender form, starkly opposed her own femininity. Her gaze, drawn involuntarily to the subtle contour of his buttocks, quickly averted, a blush warming her cheeks. She fidgeted with her dress, her fingers twisting the fabric in nervous motion.
His piercing, detached gaze settled on her, imbued with an intensity that felt almost tangible. He surveyed her briefly, lips pressed into a thin line, before his attention shifted back to her artwork. Hisana bowed in respect, carefully moving out of his direct line of sight.
"I offer my sincerest apologies," she stammered. "I wasn't aware of any scheduled meeting today."
"Your apology is unnecessary, Marugo-san," he replied, his voice deep and resonant. "My visit was spurred by curiosity."
Drawing nearer to Kuchiki Byakuya, Hisana's movements were a blend of grace and uncertainty, her gaze deliberately averted from his penetrating stare. The quiver of her lip betrayed her effort to maintain composure. The painting that captivated him reflected her own hidden turmoil, a piece she had avoided since its completion.
Her heart pounded, a frantic rhythm echoing in her ears, as a deep, gnawing ache took root within her. She bit the inside of her cheek, a futile attempt to ground herself. Avoiding his gaze, she retreated to a corner of the atelier, hastily donning a paint-stained apron, her bag now resting nearby.
"Usureta Kyōmei," she murmured, almost involuntarily, giving voice to the artwork's title.
"It is fittingly named, 'Fading Resonance.' Art, on occasion, possesses a voice that surpasses words. Yours appears to convey a profound yearning, an embodiment of solitude," he observed, his expression hinting at an understanding that transcended the canvas, but his stoic demeanour remained.
Hisana, her back to him, felt an acute sense of exposure. The air felt heavy against her skin, an unwelcome presence. The timing of his visit, so soon after Rukia's departure, and his intense scrutiny of her work, tightened her throat with silent desires for solitude. A headache began to form.
"I have one observation," he said, his stormy grey eyes fixed on the painting.
Surprised, Hisana paused and turned to face him. Her eyes met his briefly before shifting to his shoulder, the directness of his gaze too intense to bear. "Your insights are always valued, Kuchiki-sama," she responded, her voice laced with a subtle strain as she forced a tentative smile.
After a brief pause, he continued, "Your signature is absent. Is this an oversight, or intentional?" His question caught her off guard, stirring an uneasy realisation of how much he might understand.
His presence, coupled with this acute observation, seemed to strip away the carefully constructed barriers around herself. Hisana's heart fluttered erratically. He knew. The missing signature was a silent act of defiance, a refusal to claim her own creation.
"It was an oversight," she said. The lie pricked at her conscience.
His eyes met hers with a piercing clarity, as if piercing through her facade. "The depth of emotion in your work is unmistakable, as is the care you invest in every detail," he remarked, his voice even and eyes reflecting a hint of insight. "The absence of your signature makes it all the more poignant."
"Your insights always cut to the heart of things, Kuchiki-sama," Hisana replied, her jaw tensing. Despite her racing heart, she maintained a composed grace. Around her, the atelier's soft light played gently across her features, lending her an ethereal aura, as if she were an extension of the art she so painstakingly created.
Feeling a shift in the dynamic, triggered by his observant gaze, her hand reflexively reached up, covering the whimsical hairclip. "It's my sister's," she blurted, cheeks colouring, her fingers fumbling with the plastic charm.
"Small things often carry great significance," he noted, his tone suggesting deeper layers while his eyes held a thoughtful distance. "The bond between siblings can be particularly telling. Do you and your sister have a significant age difference?"
Hisana, cautious, sensed an unspoken implication in his question. She shook her head. "We have only a six-year age difference. She's twenty-one, studying International Relations at Karakura. Surprisingly, she still harbours an affection for rabbits and all things adorable, regardless of her age."
He acknowledged this with a gentle nod. "It seems you share a close bond."
She lowered her gaze, her voice low, "She is the reason for my existence." The confession spilled out, bittersweet and laden with silent sorrow. It resonated with a truth so profound that it seemed to fracture something deep within her. Her heart ached, a mournful melody pulsating through her, echoing a pain that seeped into her bones.
Surrounded by the weight of her unvoiced emotions, Hisana felt the futility of it all. Her shoulders slumped, the whimsical hairclip transforming into a tangible symbol of a past rife with loss and resentment.
His piercing gaze swept over her, deepening the hollowness in her chest. Despite maintaining her composure, she found herself irresistibly drawn into the vortex of his grey eyes. His expression, typically severe, now tightened with an unreadable intensity.
Feeling exposed, like a deer in the headlights, the silence between them grew heavy. In that quietude, Hisana recognised the deliberate nature of his visit, her heart sinking with the realisation of her own naivety.
Then, unexpectedly, she noticed it—a fleeting crack in his otherwise impeccable face. Subtle, yet to Hisana, it resonated with a clarity mirroring her own tormented soul. As quickly as it appeared, it vanished, retreating behind his stoic exterior.
He moved closer, revealing the painting in its entirety. His voice cut through the silence, posing a question she had long evaded. "Do you miss them?" he asked, his presence firm but non-intrusive.
The question left her breathless, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm before painfully constricting. Closing her eyes tightly, she took rapid, shallow breaths. "I do," she admitted, her voice frail and hushed.
Hisana's eyes darted to the painting, only to recoil as if the canvas itself had stung her. Instinctively, her hand rose to her chest, fingers clutching the fabric over her heart.
The painting whispered its poignant tale through each brushstroke – a couple, their silhouettes intertwined in a haunting dance of presence and absence. The colours – subdued greys, delicate lavender, and fading gold – wove together an atmosphere of profound loss. Their figures, palpably present yet achingly distant, emerged as ghostly remnants of memory, symbols of an unfulfilled longing forever shrouded in the mists of her heartache.
Turning her back to the haunting canvas, Hisana sought a moment of reprieve, a brief escape from the piercing truth her art laid bare. He took a step forward, seemingly drawn by the gravity of her anguish, but then paused, respecting the silent barrier she had erected.
The tears she had long held back now surged forth, cascading down her cheeks in unchecked torrents. Desperate for an anchor, she bit down hard on her cheek. The sharp, immediate pain stood in jarring contrast to the lingering ache in her heart. The metallic taste of blood mixed with her tears, cold droplets trickling down her chin.
Words failed her at first, "They d-" her voice broke, choked by the sobs she fought to suppress. Summoning her will, she tried again, "My parents," the words emerged strained, heavy with loss. "They are gone," she managed, her voice carrying a finality that seemed to resonate in the room.
She turned slightly, her gaze drifting to the atelier's window, eyes distant, lost in a past forever altered. His steady gaze remained on her, quiet yet piercing, silently acknowledging the depth of her pain.
"Sometimes, the most profound stories are those left unspoken, hidden in the strokes and colours of a canvas," he spoke softly, a flicker of tenderness in his eyes. "They speak volumes beyond words."
Hisana, momentarily distracted, hastily wiped her face with the back of her hand, trying to erase the traces of her vulnerability. A feeble smile touched her lips as she glanced back at him, her face still marked by tears and blood. "While they reveal truths, they also exact their toll," she replied.
"True art," he responded thoughtfully, "is born from the depths of experience." His eyes softened as they studied the canvas, absorbing the nuances of emotion it conveyed, listening to a silent confession that spoke to the soul.
Suddenly, like a storm unleashed, her pain erupted into words. "And what depths of experience could you possibly understand, Kuchiki-sama?" she blurted out, her tone sharper than intended, the words slicing through the air.
His gaze immediately sharpened; the fleeting softness replaced by a penetrating intensity. "Confront your past, Marugo-san, before it leads to irreversible consequences," he advised, his voice firm, resonating with a stern caution that made her flinch.
The truth in his words stung, but it was a truth Hisana had long tried to evade. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she sought to reassemble the fragments of her composure that had scattered around her.
The truth in his words stung, a truth Hisana had long tried to avoid. Taking a deep breath, she sought to gather the scattered pieces of her composure, steadying herself.
"That was unkind of me," she admitted softly. "Art is not the only mirror to the soul. Sometimes, it's the artist themselves." Her words, carrying unexpected strength, pierced through Kuchiki Byakuya's composed exterior. His posture, initially rigid, relaxed subtly, though his gaze remained intense, a silent reprimand for her audacity.
The bitter mix of blood and tears stung her throat as she swallowed, a stark reminder of the person she had become. Lowering her gaze, Hisana squeezed her eyes shut, mustering a moment of composure. Gathering a sliver of courage, she slowly lifted her head, meeting his gaze with a small, determined nod.
Each step towards him stretched. Their eyes locked in a silent duel – hers shimmering with unshed tears, his icy and consuming. As she approached, her movements were cautious, almost reverential, seeking unspoken permission.
Standing before him, Hisana was acutely aware of her dishevelled state: makeup likely smudged, cheeks tear-streaked, a trace of blood on her chin. Despite a trembling hand, she reached up with deliberate grace, unfastening the Chappy hairclip, letting her hair fall freely. She extended the hairclip towards him, her arm bridging the gap between them.
"This... is me," she whispered. The gesture was more than an offering of a hairclip; it was an unveiling of her true self, a shedding of the layers she had built for survival. It symbolised the love for her sister that dictated her existence, and the self-blame that haunted her for their parents' death.
His gaze shifted from the hairclip back to Hisana, softening, a rare breach of his usual reserve. The air crackled with unspoken understanding as he reached out, accepting the clip, his fingers brushing lightly against hers.
In that moment, something shifted. She stood exposed, stripped of her defences. Every part of her longed-for respite, a desperate plea emanating from her being. Despite recognising the implausibility of her request, a flicker of hope endured in her heart.
She was acutely aware of the improbability that Kuchiki Byakuya, of all people, would respond to her silent call. They were practically strangers, their lives worlds apart, yet here she stood, imploring him for salvation.
Hisana's eyes brimmed with unshed tears. In them, he could witness it all, the silent screams of a soul too weary, too entangled in a web of its own design. And though her lips remained still, her eyes echoed the plea reverberating in her heart, a plea for which she could not find the words.
Free me.
In the aftermath of a night spent chasing oblivion, Hisana's head throbbed relentlessly. It was like being amidst an unruly orchestra's percussion section, with each drumbeat in her temples matched by clashing cymbals, creating a symphony of pain within her skull. She had overstepped her limits, now confronting the consequences in the stark daylight.
Gently touching her forehead, she recoiled as her fingertips exacerbated the ache. An acrid aftertaste lingered in her mouth, and the tender flesh inside her cheeks throbbed with a raw, stinging pain—a relentless reminder of the previous day's excesses. Resigned to her creative block in this state, she left the atelier, descending the stairs with a slow, measured pace. At the receptionist desk, her fingers found the cool comfort of marble, while sunlight filtered through the white walls, offering a soothing warmth.
Resolved to focus on simple, grounding tasks, Hisana recalled her years at the Kurosaki Clinic, where she honed skills in managing a reception area and learned the nuances of office routines. Surveying the gallery's front desk, however, a sense of unease crept over her. The space, defined by its sparse arrangement—a solitary telephone and scattered sticky notes—felt almost abandoned. She placed her bag on the counter and leaned against it, sweeping her gaze over the area. The locked drawers, oddly light to the touch, seemed to hint at emptiness. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, wincing as a sharp pain in her cheeks flared, mirroring the throbbing in her head.
Her gaze drifted to the door leading to the back, her expression clouding with a downturned mouth. Torn between the haunting echoes of last night's choices and the possibility of confronting Kuchiki Byakuya again.
The persistent throbbing in her head guided her to the small kitchen, where she fetched a glass of water. Returning to the reception desk, she left the door slightly ajar—an early warning system for anyone approaching from the back. Settling into her workspace, laptop open, Hisana attempted to project normalcy.
She organized her surroundings, attending to personal administrative tasks while her mind occasionally skimmed over her concept research, still finding herself adrift without clear direction. Periodically, her gaze strayed from her laptop to the gallery, distant and unfocused. A furrow of confusion creased her brow as she took a sip of water, her attention eventually shifting to her email inbox.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard before she began typing a concise yet pointed message. Her heart quickened as she selected the recipients. Including Mihane's name was expected, but an inexplicable impulse led her to add his name as well. With a mix of trepidation and resignation, she pressed send.
Exhaling a resigned sigh, Hisana acknowledged her deviation from her usual self. Immersed in the weight of her recent actions, she contemplated the gravity of her situation. The torment she endured felt deserved, yet she clung to the hope that her work would stand as a testament to her redeeming qualities. She harboured a yearning for Rukia to someday find solace in it, realising that her sister wasn't beyond redemption, even when her remains laid submerged in Tokyo Bay.
Basking in the soothing ambience of sunlight, she welcomed the gentle warmth filtered through the white walls. A voice shattered her reverie. "You've had better days, huh?"
Hisana had barely noticed the creak of the door and his footsteps but had hoped he wouldn't engage her. She shifted in her seat, her fingers migrated to her temples and her posture slumped. "Abarai-san," she acknowledged raspingly, then lifted her head, sweeping her hair back. "What brings you to the gallery today?" Her greeting was accompanied by a restrained smile, one that barely touched her lips.
He strolled in with an air of effortless nonchalance, hands in his pockets. He paused in front of the desk, fixing her with an unwavering gaze. "We've got a few things arriving today," he said, nodding towards the back of the gallery.
Understanding dawned on Hisana; she pressed her lips together, mindful of the throbbing soreness. Yet, a question slipped out unbidden. "The front entrance was locked. How did you get in?"
He leaned in, his towering form hunched, fiery red hair cascading over broad shoulders. Intricate tribal ink patterns adorned his forehead and trailed down his neck, drawing Hisana's gaze. She tilted her head, searching his eyes for answers.
"The loading bay has its own entrance," Abarai explained with a hint of hesitation. His eyes darted past her, as if cautious of prying ears. "I'd offer to show you around, but now isn't the best time."
With careful movement, Hisana brought her glass to her lips, every action aimed at minimising the resounding pain in her head. Her eyes stayed fixed on him, but a fleeting wince broke through her composed facade. "Abarai-san, may I ask about your area of expertise?" she ventured, the question having lingered in her mind since their first meeting.
Abarai paused, a brief furrow crossing his brow, before a playful grin spread across his face. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he said, "Well, let's just say I'm involved in some important stuff, especially when I'm not acting as the boss's right-hand man. Part of my job is ensuring things stay safe." His tone suggested jesting, yet there was an undercurrent of serious intent.
Hisana blinked. She raised her eyebrows slightly. "You seem rather young for such responsibilities," she commented.
"I'm older than you," he shot back, his smile fading into a scowl as he crossed his arms.
She had always thought of him as youthful, especially compared to Kuchiki Byakuya. Despite Kuchiki's evident refinement and the timeless elegance, he exuded, he held a position of significant responsibility. Hisana wondered if her perception was skewed by her own biases.
Sipping her water with caution, Hisana tasted the persistent bitterness on her palate. She observed Abarai's composed face, which suddenly broke into a cascade of contagious laughter. "Age is just a number, and I've always been young at heart!"
Her gaze drifted downward, fingers absently tracing the rim of her glass. Clearing her throat gently, she ventured, "I've generally associated such positions with... well, older individuals."
Abarai rolled his eyes, his impatience evident. "You've got to be kidding," he snapped, "Enough with the timid act." He turned away from her and casually draped himself against the marble desk, resting his elbows on its polished surface. His fingers began an impatient, rhythmic drumming on the tabletop.
The room fell into a moment of stillness before he continued, "The boss has his ways. We've been dealing with some issues among the older members." His voice dropped to a whisper. "It's family business for him, you know."
Hisana absorbed his words, her thoughts still muddled by the remnants of her hangover. His candour was a rare insight into the intricate workings of the elusive Kuchiki family, a subject shrouded in mystery. Despite her extensive online research, she had uncovered little beyond their professional personas.
"Hey," he broke the silence with a casual drawl, glancing sideways at her. His brow arched questioningly. "I heard you're from Ehime, is that right?"
At the mention of her hometown, Hisana tensed, gripping the armrest of her chair with a white-knuckled intensity. Memories of Iyo, a place she had fled, crept back into her consciousness like an unwelcome intruder. Her eyes darted around the room, seeking refuge or explanation. She nodded slowly; her voice tinged with reluctance. "Yes, that's where I grew up."
It was a chapter in her life she preferred to remain closed, shielded from prying eyes.
Meeting his gaze, she forced herself to maintain eye contact, though her eyes blazed with discomfort. As a grin began to form on his face, a tightness gripped her chest. "And may I ask why that interests you?" she asked, her tone edged with wariness.
He faced her squarely, a playful glimmer in his eyes. "Can't miss that accent from a fellow Ehimensei," he quipped, casually pointing a thumb at himself, his grin widening.
"Ah," she exhaled. Her eyes remained locked on his, but a distant look crept into their depths, the corners of her mouth drooping. Instinctively, she bit down on the tender flesh of her cheeks, a searing pain coursing through her. Blood mingled with saliva, its metallic taste stark, but she fought to maintain her composure, betrayed only by her shallow, uneven breaths.
Seemingly oblivious, or perhaps indifferent, his expression softened, the grin evolving into something more heartfelt. "I grew up in a children's home just outside of Iyo," he said, his voice tinged with nostalgia.
Her eyes widened in recognition, a sharp breath escaping her. "Iyo Kodomo no Ie?" she whispered. She knew of the institution well – it was the same place where her sister had endured weeks of agonising hardship before Hisana had gained custody.
"That's right, Iyo Children's Haven – you know it?" he asked, his tone genuine. Hisana noted a change in his previously cocky demeanour, now veering towards something more probing, as if he aimed to elicit a reaction from her.
And indeed, he succeeded.
The mention of the orphanage struck a raw nerve in Hisana. Her lips quivered at the memory of a young, bruised Rukia, those images etching themselves vividly in her mind. She envisioned her sister's pain-marked face, her fragile body fighting for strength, the old cast on her arm, the lingering scars.
"I do, it's near Yuyama Sanso Tea House," she responded, the taste of blood in her mouth almost a distraction from the painful truths she withheld. Her headache intensified, echoing the crescendo of their conversation.
He leaned in, his enthusiasm palpable. "Those firefly viewings in June were incredible! I used to catch loads of them," he reminisced, his face brightening with fond memories. "And Kurumi Manju – those were the best. I still crave them sometimes. The children's home was like a madhouse, always chaotic. It's a wonder we weren't kicked out."
Her gaze drifted away, a melancholic chuckle escaping her. "My favourite was the Sakura mochi," she murmured. "Those moments during the cherry blossom ceremonies, with the trees in full bloom, were precious."
"You used to be a regular?" he inquired, his voice trailing off.
Hisana's attention, however, had shifted. The familiar ping of a new email drew her gaze to the laptop. She clicked on the notification, her heart stuttering as the sender's name came into view: Kuchiki Byakuya. He had replied, and at such a moment. Her hands, unsteady, reached out and snapped the laptop shut.
She looked up, her eyes meeting Abarai's, which held an expectant glimmer. The question he had asked now seemed distant and lost. "I'm sorry, Abarai-san," she said, barely concealing the tremor within. "Could you please repeat your question?"
Abarai's brow arched, his gaze flicking to the closed laptop before resettling on her. "The tea house, Yuyama Sanso – you were fond of their Sakura Mochi, weren't you? Spent a lot of time there, I reckon?"
"No," Hisana replied quietly as she reached for her glass of water. Each sip was a desperate attempt to wash away the acrid taste of blood that clung to her palate. Memories clutched at her heart. "That tea house... it was my childhood home. My parents owned and managed it."
The room seemed to close in on her, the walls echoing of a past she could never fully escape. Recollections of her parents and their tea house, both the joyful and heart-wrenching moments, surged back to the surface, overwhelming her. She felt adrift, untethered from the world around her, a soul lost amidst the currents of her own despair.
She clenched her hands into fists, the knuckles whitening, before consciously relaxing her grip. Her movements were jerky. She grasped the glass with both hands, taking deep, steadying sips, each one a vain attempt to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. She was acutely aware of his gaze upon her, his eyes capturing every flicker of pain that danced across her face.
As Hisana spiralled into the depths of her memories, a sudden gruff voice from behind broke through her thoughts. "Sir! It's completed," the voice announced, startling her.
Abarai, momentarily distracted, glanced over her shoulder, his response a terse nod. There was a palpable tension in his posture, he paused before he spoke again. "Well, that's my cue," he said, his voice carrying a note of finality. "I'll leave you to it."
His departure was decisive, his stride purposeful as he moved towards the rear door. Yet, for a fleeting second, Hisana sensed a lingering hesitation in him, as if he were grappling with the decision to leave or stay. But then, with no further word, he exited, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
The moment the door closed behind him, Hisana's facade crumbled. She slumped forward, her head falling into her hands. Her fingers tangled in her hair, gripping tightly to anchor herself. The weight of her past, her pain, and the loneliness that enveloped her was suffocating.
She sat there, lost in her anguish, unaware of how much time had passed. The only thing she was certain of was the emptiness that consumed her, a hollow void that no number of tears or memories could fill. It was a void that echoed with the remnants of a life she destroyed, a chasm that seemed to grow deeper with each passing moment.
In the dimly lit atelier, the faint scent of turpentine lingered, intertwining with the sharp bite of alcohol. She sat, hunched over in her lithe frame, arms protectively wrapped around her knees. The subdued studio lights cast elongated shadows, accentuating the dishevelled strands of her hair and the delicate lines of her profile.
A worn, oversized cardigan draped over her, its sleeves falling to reveal pale thin wrists. In one hand, she clutched a half-empty bottle of amber liquid, its contents catching the soft light. Nearby, an old wooden easel held an empty bottle of umeshu.
Her eyes, wide and unblinking, stared intensely at the canvas. In their depths, a silent torment spoke volumes, a wordless expression of her heart's anguish. Her fingers, stained with countless brushstrokes, trembled with restrained emotion. Absentmindedly, she brought the bottle to her lips. The sip, though honeyed, was a bitter caress, a scorching reminder in her throat. She welcomed the burn, a tangible distraction in her increasingly intangible world.
The alcohol numbed her, dulled the pain, but couldn't quiet the relentless voices in her mind, their accusations growing louder.
This struggle had never been so intense before—she had always been a master of control, adept at concealing her inner shadows. But that was before Tokyo, before her carefully maintained composure began to slip. Her only lapses had occurred during the oppressive heat of August, a month that now served as a cruel reminder of her failures. Despite Rukia's pleas and her own promises, she had repeatedly faltered.
The acknowledgment of their parents was as much as she dared to confront. She chastised herself for her powerlessness. What more could she have given? Everything she had was sacrificed, leaving her nothing but a fragile shell. It was already mid-August, and the month's end loomed ominously.
A despairing tightness gripped her chest. With a trembling hand, Hisana hastily wiped her tear-streaked face, seeking solace against her throbbing forehead. Her eyes, once sharp, were now dulled, clouded by the haze of plum wine and sorrow. They followed the ghostly figures on the canvas, their haunting forms casting sombre shadows in the soft atelier light.
Her being screamed that it was all her fault. She felt like a cosmic mistake, a twisted aberration that unravelled everything she cherished. If only she hadn't been born this way. The thought of seeking release, escaping her self-imposed prison, echoed constantly in her mind. She believed it was for the best—for the sake of everyone. She saw herself as an agent of destruction and yearned for freedom.
Trembling, she brought the glass to her lips again, seeking temporary comfort from her tormented thoughts. Brushing aside the strands of hair stuck to her tear-soaked cheeks, she let her head fall back, surrendering to the numbing release of the wine, if only for a fleeting moment.
As the inky embrace of night lingered, Hisana stirred. The remnants of her alcohol-fogged slumber clung to her, a relentless shroud refusing to lift. The soft, distant chime of the clock in the atelier echoed mournfully, a stark reminder of the ungodly hour. Each swallow was a punishment for her indulgence, her throat dry and protesting.
Blinking away sleep's last grasp, she tried to rise, her limbs heavy and reluctant. Her head throbbed with the remnants of the wine's stupor, and the sting from biting her cheek nagged relentlessly.
Rubbing her eyes, Hisana gradually reacquainted herself with her surroundings. Each hesitant movement was an attempt to piece together the fragmented memories of the night before.
The painting still leaned against the wall. An empty bottle lay discarded at her feet. The atelier, illuminated by the ghostly light of pre-dawn, felt surreal, suspended between dream and nightmare.
With a wide yawn, she rolled her shoulders, grimacing at the ache that gripped her weary muscles. Her eyelids still heavy with sleep, she realized her body was in dire need of sustenance. The burning sensation in her throat demanded attention.
Hisana carefully made her way downstairs, passing through the reception area. Her bleary eyes barely registered the subtle signs of another presence – an expensive leather bag on the desk, a forgotten jacket on the chair.
Reaching the back door leading to the kitchen, bathroom, and loading bay, she suddenly became sharply aware of her environment. The darkness outside, punctured only by a sliver of light from a partly open loading bay door, enveloped her. Voices, low and conspiratorial, reached her from the hallway, where she stood hidden in shadows, peering through the ajar door.
Her eyes widened as she froze, her every breath feeling perilously loud in the silence. Hisana's legs stiffened, her shoulders tense, as the reckless voice within her urged her toward the precipice of danger – a voice she found hard to resist.
Compelled by this unseen voice, her body moved stealthily, the darkness of the hallway cloaking her presence. The darkness provided her cover, enabling her to observe unseen. Her heart pounded in her ears, a deafening roar driving her deeper into the shadows.
Though her view was limited, Hisana's eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light, making out the silhouettes of men. Abarai Renji was unmistakable, his red hair and deep-set scowl casting him in a formidable light. He engaged in a heated conversation with another man, their words indiscernible but their tones unmistakably tense.
Directly in her line of sight, a man bound to a chair commanded attention despite his compromised position. He was neither young nor old, his presence imposing. Bruises marred his face, and blood trickled from a wound on his head. His short, military-style hair framed a face marked by unyielding anger, incongruous with his predicament.
More shadows flitted by, momentarily blocking the light, and obscuring her view. A sudden hush fell, amplifying Hisana's cautious breaths. She covered her mouth, taking slow, measured breaths to remain undetected.
Then, a familiar scent reached her – a rich blend of spice and wood, tinged with the sharpness of fresh tobacco. It enveloped her, offering a fleeting sense of comfort. For a moment, Hisana closed her eyes, lost in the aroma. She inhaled deeply, only opening her eyes when his voice cut through the darkness, commanding, and poised.
"Your resilience, Nakamura, is admirable but misguided," he spoke with a blend of eloquence and bluntness. "Your survival thus far owes to your past loyalty to my family. It seems; however, your allegiance has wavered. A regrettable choice."
Opening her eyes, Hisana caught her breath. Her gaze was inexorably drawn to him. The ember of his cigarette glowed; each drag a calculated gesture. There stood Kuchiki Byakuya, an embodiment of authority and composure. His eyes, a piercing grey, seemed to penetrate the soul of the man before him, revealing neither empathy nor weakness. His ebony hair fell smoothly, contrasting with his crisp white shirt, each element of his appearance meticulously crafted.
A wave of conflicted emotions surged through Hisana. An uncomfortable heat pooled within her, a response to his presence she fought to suppress. Her legs shifted uneasily, her cheeks flushing.
Shaking her head, she refocused, straining to understand the tension that permeated the air. It was thick, almost suffocating, even from her hidden spot.
Nakamura, despite his bindings, exuded a defiant pride. His gaze locked with Kuchiki's, a mix of contempt and calculation evident. The dim lighting cast eerie shadows over his rugged features, hinting at a recent struggle.
Kuchiki, in contrast, stood a few steps away, the soft glow of his cigarette momentarily illuminating his calm demeanour. He regarded Nakamura with a clinical detachment, his presence exuding controlled power.
"I have observed unsettling shifts in the behaviour of your men, Nakamura. Such irregularities cannot be overlooked," Kuchiki's voice was even, his words wrapped in a veneer of accusation, sending involuntary shivers down Hisana's spine.
Nakamura's response was smooth yet underlain with a firm defiance. "In our line of work, Oyabun-sama, unpredictability is the norm. Adaptation is not just an option; it's a necessity." His composed exterior thinly veiled the tension beneath.
"Adaptation is indeed crucial, but the patterns I've noticed suggest a deviation from protocol, almost a redefinition of directives. Have you noticed anything amiss?" Kuchiki's voice was probing, each syllable measured, reminiscent of a strategist planning his moves. Hisana, her heart pounding, watched the exchange with bated breath.
"Information, like water, often changes shape along its course. Messages can warp," Nakamura replied, his voice laced with a bold challenge, as though daring anyone to dispute his claim.
Byakuya's eyes narrowed slightly, the atmosphere in the room thickening. Hisana felt the pressure acutely, her fingers clutching at her cardigan, drawing it tightly around her.
"Distortions, you say? It is troubling when vital intelligence takes such unexpected turns, arriving incomplete or, in some cases, not at all. It gives one the impression of disconnected leadership, wouldn't you agree?" The subtle derision in Byakuya's tone was unmistakable.
"Communication, Oyabun-sama, is all about perspective," Nakamura countered with a hint of sarcasm, his demeanour betraying a hint of enjoyment despite the danger of his situation.
"Indeed. And speaking of perspectives, I've noticed certain modifications in our recent agreements. Unsanctioned reinterpretations if you will. Surely, you're unaware of such discrepancies?" Kuchiki's inquiry was direct, his gaze piercing, like an archer with his bow drawn. Hisana felt a knot in her stomach as she observed Nakamura's every reaction.
Nakamura's reply was swift and unflinching. "I'm a follower, not a leader. I go where I'm directed," he said, turning his head sharply, his eyes locking with Hisana's. His direct gaze sent a chill through her, her heart racing with a mix of fear and confusion.
Discovered. The realisation struck Hisana like a bolt of lightning, panic casting a dark veil over her thoughts. Her vision blurred with fear, and she stood paralysed, Nakamura's pointed gaze searing into her. But it was Kuchiki's penetrating stare that shattered her tenuous grasp on composure. Her heart plummeted, thoughts scattering in disarray. Pressing herself against the wall, she hid behind her hair, feeling the weight of Kuchiki's displeasure, though he gave no sign of exposing her.
Her eyes squeezed shut, Hisana's fingers dug painfully into her chest as Kuchiki's voice sliced through the tension, cold and commanding. "Given your transgressions, Nakamura, a price must be paid—two fingers should suffice."
What followed was a nightmare. The sickening sizzle of flesh, Nakamura's stifled groans, and the sharp scent of burning tobacco mingled in a miasma of horror. Hisana's mind reeled. Kuchiki knew she was there.
Driven by instinct, she fled. Her bare feet whispered against the floor as she bolted up the staircase. Reaching the atelier, she spared no time. Familiar with every inch of the space, she slid into the narrow gap between the bookcase and the wall, concealing herself behind a canvas. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat.
Crouched in her hiding place, she strained to listen. The atelier was eerily silent, save for the muted sound of footsteps—calm, measured, inevitably approaching. The footsteps ceased, and for a moment, time itself seemed to pause, her heart the only sound in her ears.
The clinking of plum wine bottles shattered the stillness, the sound unnervingly close. Hisana's breath hitched, her body tensed for flight. The air grew heavy, burdened with the unspoken words and tension that Kuchiki carried with him. He was there, just beyond her makeshift barrier, the presence of his silence more intimidating than any words.
Minutes stretched into an agonising eternity. Hisana remained motionless, cramped and aching, her mind reeling from the night's events. Finally, the footsteps receded, leaving her alone with the chaos of her thoughts.
His departure was as enigmatic as his presence had been. Hisana emerged from the cramped hiding space, the atelier now bathed in the soft glow of morning light. Each movement she made was heavy with fatigue, echoing the physical and emotional toll of the night's events. Slowly navigating through the atelier, her mind wasn't preoccupied with herself, or the terror she had just witnessed, nor the violence that had permeated the air. His inaction, the choice to leave her undiscovered, wove a complex web of questions.
The morning light, instead of providing solace, appeared to cast fresh shadows, revealing only a complex path where she felt certain of nothing.
Happy 2024!
I am proud of this chapter, especially considering I was busy renewing my visa – so it was a stressful month, that with work and life in general.
I must admit, I was very eager on this chapter – and the next one, which is mostly already written, so only a few bits left and then editing. This story consumes my thoughts 24/7. So please let me know what you think! I'd love to hear your thoughts 😊
Thank you to everyone who has reviewed already – I go back and regularly read them all.
