I assembled her outfit carefully. It would have been more
appropriate, I suppose, to have dressed her in a suit. I even looked
at them, hanging in her closet, ran my hands over the wool/cashmere
blends—those were her favorite, suitable for all season a
relatively wrinkle resistant, hanging nicely on her narrow frame—but
I couldnt select one. Laughably, I worried that she might be
uncomfortable. Our minds are erratic things at the best of times, and
I coudn’t begin to explain how my mind wandered in this dark hour.
And so I selected something more casual. The blue shirt with the
pearl buttons I liked so well, the one that brought out the eyes she
would never open again. The navy sweater with the deep neck to
contain the warmth her body no longer held. One of her whisper-soft
undershirts, she was always so picky about that layer closest to her
skin, and I refused to let anything harsh touch her now, of all
times.
I misted a little bit of her cologne on the sweater. She would smell
wrong, scrubbed medically and devoid of the spice of her own scent.
No tiny smear of oil and grass to round out the smell I knew as
Haruka. But this would help, at least.
Most people left me alone to my ministrations.
You are not most people.
“I think she will look lovely in that, Michiru.” You appeared,
like always. It’s not as if you go places, you are simply in them
when one looks up. It’s very off-putting.
I didn’t respond to you. What would you have me say? She looked
lovely in everything, even that awful mustard suit she liked so well.
Even that terrible purple shirt that matched my pink one. She wore it
whenever I suggested. I don’t know that she actually even liked it,
but she liked the idea of belonging to me. Belonging was so important
to her. She wore it with cuffed chinos and loafers without socks, as
if the shirt by itself wasnt—what did Mina call it? Lesbian Dad.
Yes, as if the shirt wasn’t Lesbian Dad enough on its own.
I laughed in spite of everything.
You smiled and drifted to my side. “She was very funny, wasn’t she?
Sometimes without trying to be.”
I looked up at you. Why were you talking about her? Why try to bring
her to my mind? If I can just focus on what needs to be done, I can
survive one more day. I push the way her shoulders came up when she
laughed from my mind.
“I hope the catering is all in order, Pluto.” I folded the
clothes into a bag. “And the flowers.”
“Everyone is taking care of everything, Michiru. It’ll be the kind
of ceremony she deserved.” You reached out to me, but I stepped
away.
“If Mina has her way, I’m certain there will be an open bar.” I
clutched the bag close to my body. “If you’ll forgive me, I need to
deliver this to the funeral home. God knows what they would dress her
in without my intervention. I am her only real family, you know, I
must be involved in every aspect, so, if you please, I’m sure you
know the way out.”
You stood for a moment, frowning. “May I come? I could drive, even.
I know you don’t usually drive…” You trailed off sadly.
“No, that’s fine. It’s not as if the only one with a license in
this house was Haruk–” Her name stuck in my throat like a hard
candy, and my body cried out for air. I looked up to the ceiling, as
if some agent of mercy who never existed would swoop down and restore
her to me, or at least bring me along.
Your arms were around my shoulders, gripping me tightly. “It must
hurt so badly, Michiru.”
I remembered to breathe again. “Life is meant to be pain, and
everything we love is meant to be taken away from us eventually. I’m
no different from the rest of the world.” I can’t move, can’t let
go of the bag, shaking now. I hope she doesn’t notice that I am
losing my careful control, that my heart cannot bear the flood of
memories. I can survive, if I cut it off, if I allow it to become the
shriveled brown nothing it was before Haruka scaled the walls of my
secret garden and brought it to life.
“Haruka’s love wasn’t a punishment for you.” You said it so
simply, and I hated you for seeing through me.
“Stop.” It was both command and plea.
“You were so wonderful for her.” Every word she said was like a
lash unto my back. “You brought so many lovely things out in her.”
I looked at the bed, and all I can see is Haruka snuggled happily
under the covers, her hand reaching out to me as always, always
looking for some small affections. I can feel my cheek against her
shoulder as we sat in the park together, Haruka pointing out
particularly charming birds she doesn’t remember the names of but
likes the look of, tiny feathered tennis balls of things, hardly
graceful at all but very much loved by her. She loved to feed the
pigeons. I teased her about it.
The memories grew dark, they always did, they never stayed in the
light of the past. I didn’t protect her. The only banner I swore
myself to, and I failed. She was covered in blood and in bruises, she
was shaking and she couldn’t breathe. And what did I do? Nothing. I
rocked her in my arms and told her I loved her. That she was brave.
That she had done well. And then it was over.
“I’m so sorry, my love.” I didn’t even know I had said it, and as
soon as I heard my voice echo off the walls, I sank to my knees. The
weight of her loss too heavy now to bear. You came to the floor with
me, and I shook my head. “Leave me alone.” I took a deep breath
and tried to yell, but it came out a weak whine. “Let me die.”
You held me tight and whispered in my ear. “You did everything you
could for her. And we’ll do everything we can for you.”
“I’m nothing now, I don’t care about the world, I don’t care about
the Princess, I don’t care about Crystal Tokyo. I will fail all of
you. All of you. And I’ll laugh while I do it.” I tried to pull
away, but you were too much. “Damn the world anyhow!”
“No, no, you don’t think that.” You paused. “You might think
that. But Haruka, you can do it for her. She died trying, Michiru, we
have to take up the sword for her. And you’ll see how we love you,
and you still have a family. Michiru, don’t give up.”
You were so sweet, to love me, Pluto. To assure me that I was loved.
You did drive me to the funeral home that day, and you sat with me
for many hours in the aftermath of her loss. I never healed. I carry
her with me like a ragged cross, rubbing the skin from my back and
digging splinters into my blood.
That was a year ago.
I do not believe in an afterlife, a heaven or a hell. Heaven and hell
is too terrifying a concept for me—I cannot be separated from
Haruka for eternity. But my only peace will come with oblivion, and
so I look forward to it. I have seen this day a thousand times, this
battle we will fight. I am pleased to report I never survive. That I
will follow Haruka into the darkness. I am not afraid, Pluto.
I’ve laid out the pink dress Haruka liked so well on the bed. If you
ever loved me at all, please lay me beside her. The paperwork is in
the top drawer of the desk.
What Haruka knew and what was the truth were categories that, in Michiru’s opinion, overlapped with little frequency. She nearly laughed. There were moments for contemplating such things, and this was not one of them.
Michiru’s leg swung through the air and back again. It was a conductor’s baton, sharp and certain and effortlessly leading time. Her rhythm always had been impeccable. Again, a laugh bubbled within her. It never tasted freedom.
For example, Haruka knew herself to be good at that racing game she and Minako insisted on playing. This despite empirical evidence to the contrary, which Minako kept updated with a religious fervor typically reserved for her social media accounts. Michiru had thought to question the extreme disparity, but she’d heard enough of Haruka’s pained groaning (the accompanying obnoxious celebration was best ignored), to, for once, give Minako the benefit of the doubt. Still, without fail, Haruka would spend the hour following these playdates strategizing for the next.
“I think if I can keep just behind her instead of rushing out in front, she’ll get overconfident. The game punishes you the more you win, you know.”
“How appropriate,” Michiru didn’t say. Instead, she watched. Haruka sat sideways on their couch, her long legs folded under her and knees jutting out at angles. She leaned forward as she preached the relative merits of the banana peel over the red shell. Michiru didn’t follow any of it. Instead, she followed the line of Haruka’s collarbone disappearing under the slightly frayed collar of her favourite t-shirt. She watched as Haruka’s hands clenched around the non-existent controller. She listened as Haruka’s voice took on the coarse tone that signified the depth of her emotions.
Haruka knew she would win. Michiru knew it would, at best, be fleeting.
A stray lock of hair tickled Michiru’s ear. She let it, of course; her attentions were better spent elsewhere. Instead, she imagined Haruka’s breath on the back of her neck. She could almost feel each slow exhale as it caressed her cheek. The tightness in her chest wasn’t so unlike Haruka’s arms. It was a pity her neck was so cold.
Another thing Haruka knew was that she was a person of restraint. Had she been asked, Haruka would have been unable to name a single instance where she had acted with anything but the appropriate level of intensity. Not when standing in the foyer, raindrops rolling down her nose before joining the puddle spreading across the hardwood floor, because she had spotted Seiya Kou down the street and was still glaring five minutes later. Not when approached at the park by a curious little girl with a question about their clasped hands, who had no idea the proclamation awaiting her.
Certainly not when she had spent the afternoon standing before the antique mirror over their dresser, perfecting her expressions to achieve the right amount of sternness for dealing with Usagi and the others over this latest enemy. Michiru had watched her from the high-backed chair that sat in the sunniest corner of their bedroom, pencil flowing across the sketchbook in her lap. Every fleeting nuance Haruka tried, Michiru’s eye captured.
Haruka knew she was responding as anyone would. Michiru knew it would only be Haruka.
The light was beginning to fade. Michiru blinked and tried again to focus. Haruka was difficult to make out now, as the shadows melted and bled into Michiru’s vision. She was still talking, though, and while her voice was rough and cracking, it was the sweetest music.
Haruka also knew she was a poet. It was a gift she treasured, a way of committing her emotions to the world. She would pour over her journals with their beautiful hand-stitched leather covers in rich colours and delicate etching, wrapped around the smooth unlined pages thirsty for every drop of ink.
Her favourites, she would share with Michiru. Sometimes it would be an event, preceded by a candlelit dinner. Sometimes it would an impulse, Haruka near breathless with excitement to share. Sometimes, Michiru would have to coax them from her, assuring and soothing by inches.
Haruka’s poetry was melodramatic, filled with unwieldy imagery, and uncomfortably earnest. They were also unerringly Haruka, and Michiru adored them. They were the discordant notes that made a symphony unique and cherished. They were the squeaky gate that let you know you were home.
They were a final comfort Michiru was only now beginning to realize. Whatever their situation, however their end, Haruka would meet it with the love and beauty of her words.
As she dangled in the air, impaled by the claws of the beast that had ambushed them, a final, violent shudder raced through Michiru. Her eyes refused to obey her commands. She could no longer hear her heartbeat in her ears. That was something to be concerned about, surely, but as it meant she could finally listen to Haruka, that was all that mattered. To receive those beautiful words that would embrace her to her end, even if Haruka herself could not.
What she heard was Haruka crying. Haruka begging for Michiru’s life. Her last words weren’t poetic at all. Just desperate.
Haruka knew there was poetry in death. Michiru knew better.
OKAY BUT WHY THIS. God, this is so well-paced, it rolls from light and airy to deeper and richer and THEN POPS YOU IN THE NOSE, and I love things like that, that have an effortless flow. I love in the whole racing thing, how it’s not really about Mina and Haruka playing together (though I love that as well) but Michiru watching every tiny detail of Haruka, laid out neatly. I LOVE that Haruka thinks of herself as a person of restraint, and all of the situations which might lead you to believe Haruka is mistaken. I love her soppy little self, and practicing in the mirror, and Michiru sketching her as she does so. And Haruka’s poetry, oh of course it is earnest and terrible and perfect in all of that, and the idea of her little journals and Michiru coaxing them out of Haruka is almost too much for me to bear. As I was reading this, i kept trying to figure out what was going on, focusing on those tiny points of hint like light through a treetop, I mean I didn’t even know what prompt this was and couldn’t figure it out, and then BOOM. I LOVE THE BOOM.And of course Haruka has nothing to give, only tears and a plea that will go unanswered. And this was one of the less popular prompts, so I’m happy to see it get some play. I LOVED IT THANK YOU.
I wrote this and I still don’t really like it, but clearly what I dislike more is AN INCOMPLETE CENTRALIZED ARCHIVE, so watch me reblog it anyway.
Rhio's Tunglr Stuff 