Here is my first ever piece of fan fiction (also posted on Stage48), inspired by my Maji-muse. Apologies if it reads unsightly, but I hope folks can look upon it warmly. ^^------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stray
- What did you just say?
---
She lay there, the coppery taste of blood in her mouth, each ragged breath seeming to come from a distance, as though it belonged to someone else. Slowly, she raised herself until she was sitting, head hung, one arm still thrown protectively across her stomach, the world slowly coming back into focus. Her eyes shifted to a shard of plate that lay near her free hand. She considered it for a moment; her fingers uncurled slightly, hesitated, then closed into a tight fist. Something warm trickled into her eye, stinging; she reached up and wiped it away, feeling the cut above her left brow. She stared at the blood on her hand, then up at the man who still stood over her, watching her. His eyes were small and black behind his glasses. His knuckles were barked.
- Get out.
He looked at his hands and wiped them dismissively on his shirt. Then he turned away.
- Get out, he said without looking back at her. Go to school or something.
She looked on as he walked away, past the pale figure who still stood, transfixed, as though rooted in place, watching them with tired eyes. After he had disappeared from sight, she noticed she was holding the piece of broken plate tightly in her left hand; a single rivulet of red ran along its jagged edge. She stood, the pain in her side already muted and distant, and walked stiffly forward, seeing nothing but where he would be. And then stopped. She looked down at the woman who had grabbed her shoulders, fingers digging in painfully. The woman who stood there, holding her back. She was shouting something. What was it? Stop. Stop.
---
- STOP.
Who had said that? The voice had come from somewhere in the crowd that had gathered around them. She ignored it.
- Didn’t you hear me? STOP.
A hand fell upon her shoulder. She tried to shrug it off, but it would not go away; the grip was strong. She stood up, letting the other fall to the ground. Her heavyset opponent lay twitching where she fell, her shirt torn and bloodied, the whites of her eyes visible beneath her fluttering lids. The tall girl turned to face her restrainer. The newcomer had long wavy hair and stood about half a head shorter, but her eyes were hard and unflinching.
- Stop, she said again. She released her hold. - It’s over.
They stood facing each other, arms held noncommittally at their sides. The taller girl smiled. The shorter girl did not smile back. Then the punch came, hard and fast; the shorter girl pivoted, arm bent, deflecting the blow with her elbow, her free hand moving in a blur of motion to catch the other’s striking arm. The taller girl, surprised, felt herself being pulled down sharply and looked around in time to see the return blow just before it struck her, the force staggering her. She then sat down hard as her legs were kicked out from under her. Her foot lashed out but her opponent caught it, wrenched her forward and drove a heavy heel into her inner thigh. She shook free and scrambled backwards, face twisted in a pained frown. She tried to stand, but her injured leg gave way and she stumbled to her knees.
- Are you finished?
She looked up at the other girl, who was walking toward her. She looked at the crowd, stared at them, as though seeing them for the first time; they were still watching with interest, murmuring excitedly, occasionally gesturing at the combatants, each looking away with unease whenever they met her eyes. Beyond, the grey building stood, impassive; faces floated like pale balloons at the lower windows, and a small group of older girls stood on the roof, watching the scene below intently. Then the fire seemed to go out of her eyes and her head dropped, as though in defeat.
- I said, are you finished?
She said nothing, but simply nodded.
- All right then.
She took the proffered hand and rose to one knee. She looked up into the other girl’s face. Then, abruptly, she lunged, threw her arms around her opponent’s waist, twisted violently and threw her to the
---
floor. She stooped down and picked up the crumpled photograph, looked at it for a moment, then replaced it in the pocket from where it had fallen. As she straightened up, she caught her reflection in the nearest mirror; she wandered toward it, the coins in her hand forgotten. When she reached it she stopped and stood, unmoving, staring up at her own face, distorted by the convex surface of the mirror. A woman, engrossed in her phone, brushed against her and looked up at the contact; she stared briefly at the tall girl with the long scar over her left brow, the eye beneath almost closed, a thin strip of bloody tape across the lid, then mumbled an apology and hurried away. The girl did not even notice the encounter; she stood, as though in a trance, staring into the glass. She reached up and touched the scar on her brow, her finger tracing along the rough skin, then down, coming to rest on the fresh cut. She raised her other hand to her mouth and started to bite absently on a nail. She remembered him saying, just before he had struck her with the ashtray, his face impassive, how annoying the sound of her habit was.
A sudden chorus of voices distracted her from her thoughts. She watched the little schoolchildren as they trooped into the store, chattering excitedly. She looked at the nail she had been chewing; it had been bitten almost down to the quick. She spat, drawing a disapproving glance from a nearby clerk, and looked around for what she had come for; there was one left. She took it. As she was walking towards the cash desk, she saw something at the end of the aisle and stopped. Corn soup. Cans of corn soup, on sale. She picked up a can and stared at it. Her mother liked to make it for dinner sometimes. After a moment’s consideration, the girl took the can with her.
Outside, she sat down on the curb and tore open the red plastic wrapper. She took a bite; it was slightly stale. After she had finished, she licked the spicy residue from her fingers and tossed the crumpled wrapper aside. She looked up at the iron-grey sky and took a deep breath; the air smelled like rain. She drew her knees closer, put her head on her arms. No-one looked at her as they walked past. A smoldering cigarette flew from the window of a car as it drove by and landed at her feet; she didn’t notice it. She sat there, unmoving, for some time, staring at nothing, oblivious to the passing minutes, to the flurry of faded blossoms that rode past on a sudden gust of wind, fluttering like tiny butterfly wings. After a while, she put a hand to her mouth and started to bite
---
on a nail. A snort of amusement from someone nearby.
- That was fun.
She turned, wincing slightly at the pain in her neck, to look at the person sitting beside her. The shorter girl smiled impishly down at her, blood on her teeth, her lower lip split. She looked away again, closed her eyes. She lay there, feeling the sweat that soaked her uniform, the cool breeze against her skin, the pain in her leg that had become a dull throb. She felt great.
- You know, you’re pretty good.
She smiled, her eyes still closed.
- I think you broke one of my nails.
The tall girl giggled. She opened her eyes again. The crowd was dispersing; some looked back at her as they went. A short distance away, her previous opponent was rising groggily to her feet, each arm resting heavily on a shoulder. The heavyset girl slowly turned to look in her direction; her eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth, as though to say something. The tall girl met her stare and sat up. After a moment had passed, the other seemed to think better of the situation and looked down. The tall girl watched as the other walked away, unsteadily, as though she were on stilts, her companions holding her up.
- ko.
She looked blankly at the girl beside her.
- I said, my name’s Yūko, she laughed. What’s yours?
---
The girl stood outside the door to the apartment where she lived, her long hair plastered to her scalp in wet clumps, blood trickling sluggishly from a gash on her right temple, the knuckles of both hands raw. She listened; coming from somewhere inside, barely audible over the pounding rain, was the sound of a television. She looked down at her schoolbag, scuffed and caked in mud. She looked to her left. To her right. Nobody, nothing. Somewhere in the distance, a siren sounded. She tried the handle; it was unlocked. She paused, opened the door and went inside.
---
They noticed her sitting alone outside the convenience store. They waited. When she left, they followed her. They tried to cut her off at the underpass. They rushed into the tunnel, then stopped in confusion; she was not there. They looked uncertainly at each other, then around, staring suspiciously at the walls and the low ceiling, as though she might have vanished into the stone itself. They spun around at the sudden sound of leather scraping against stone. She was standing near where they had entered, casually swinging her bag and looking at them with an amused expression. She touched a single finger to her lips –
shhh – then beckoned to them, giggling softly. They advanced, glowering. She turned and walked away, an occasional glance over her shoulder to make sure they were still following.
She led them to a nearby park. As she passed the gate, her pace quickened. They ran after her just as she disappeared behind an old bicycle parking station, empty but for the rusted skeletal remains of abandoned bicycles, some still locked to rotted bars. She was not waiting for them behind there. They cursed and looked around for her. A short distance away was a copse of cherry trees, their foliage already mostly green, the earth around them carpeted with browning petals. They rounded the copse and found a little playground, long since fallen into decrepitude. She was sitting there on a swing, her back to them, gently rocking back and forth on her feet. They looked around, but there was no-one. No sound but the squealing of rusted chains, and the drumming of rain against metal. They slowly advanced.
The girl stood up and turned to face her pursuers. There were five of them. She stared at them. The heavyset leader stepped forward.
- Hey. Remember me?
The girl said nothing. There was a click and a flash of steel.
- You will.
They started to fan out. The girl looked from one face to another. They started to circle. The girl let her bag fall to the sodden ground. She smiled as they came at her.
---
He was in the living room, reading a newspaper. He looked up at her approach, noting her scraped knuckles, the blood on her face, the trail of mud left by the heavy boots she had worn inside. For some reason, she was missing a sock. She stopped in the middle of the room and stood there, staring at him. He put down his newspaper and removed his glasses. Without a word, he rose from his chair and walked up to her. They stood facing each other for what seemed an eternity. He sighed. She tensed. Then he raised his hand and she
---
ducked under the bar that came whistling towards her head, lunged, hooked an arm around the other’s neck and swung her like a rag doll against the swing frame with a sickening thud; her opponent went limp and the bar fell from her nerveless fingers. She let the body fall and whirled round to face the others, who were watching her from a wary distance. She spat the blood from her mouth and surveyed the scene: three lay motionless, two still stood, struggling with indecision, one cursing and bleeding freely from the bite on her forearm. Neither made a move. She started toward them, absently kicking the fallen switchblade away as she advanced. The bleeder hesitated for a split second; then, seeming to muster her courage, stepped within striking distance and swung. The tall girl, barely registering the impact, caught the leg, trapping it, before raising a foot and stamping down hard on the other’s free ankle. There was a sound like a piece of thin ice cracking and
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no moreHe grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her head up.
no more
nomore- tell you about fighting? Last time
nomorenomorenomore- then the school called and I had to leave the office for
take it
???- you worthless
She turned to look at him.
take itSomething inside broke loose. She couldn’t hear anything he was saying anymore; his mouth was opening and closing, but the voice she heard was another.
- listening?
He grabbed her collar with both hands and pulled her to her feet. He slapped her again, hard; it didn’t even hurt. He looked so funny, with his balding head and his mouth opening and closing like a fish. She giggled.
Take it.---
- Look up there.
She looked to where Yūko was pointing: the roof of the school.
- I’m going to take it. One day, I’m going to take it from them.
They were lying in the shade of a tree, the remnants of lunch beside them. She peered up at the roof; she knew some of the senior girls hung around up there, but that was all. Of course, no-one was up there today. She wondered why anyone would want to hang around up there at all. Was the view any different? She yawned and flopped onto her back.
- Hey!
A finger poked her cheek. She turned her head in annoyance. Yūko flopped down beside her. For a while, the shorter girl said nothing; she simply lay there, looking up at the sky.
- It’s going to be fun. Want to take it with me?
---
- Is something funny?
She laughed. His hands were still at her collar. Her fingers curled.
- I said, is so-
She cocked her head back, raised her arms and brought her fists down, hard, on his forearms; as he jerked toward her, she slammed her head forward. He released his hold and staggered backward, clutching his nose, blood flowing profusely between his fingers. She advanced on him, giggling. He swung a wild cross at her; she lazily raised an arm and blocked it, then drove a knee into his gut. As he doubled over, she grabbed his head with both hands and wrenched it downwards, her knee rising to meet him. He fell to the floor, gagging. She picked up the nearby remote and turned up the volume on the television until it was at maximum. Then she walked to her fallen schoolbag.
He watched, through his tears, as she rooted through her bag, took something out and appeared to study it. He couldn’t see clearly. What was it? What was she looking at? He didn’t care. His mind, clouded by the intense pain, could only hold a single thought. This brat, for whom he had wasted so much of his life to provide for, had decided to repay him like this. The brat and her worthless mother, when they had had no-one else to turn to. He got shakily to his feet and looked around. There. He picked it up off the table and turned to the girl, who still had her back to him. As he tottered toward her, she slowly stood up. When he was nearly within reach, he raised the paperweight in one hand. Abruptly, she spun round.
- Wh-?
She whipped her arm around in a hard overhead arc and brought the sock down on the crown of his head, silencing the question on his lips. He stood, staring at her in surprise, for the briefest moment, then collapsed like a sack of wet cement. He looked groggily up at her as she stood over him. She giggled. He tried to raise a protective hand to his face, but his movements where sluggish. She raised the sock and brought it down again. And again. And again. And
---
She grabbed a handful of bleached hair, forced the girl’s head into the mud and held it there, watching as the other spluttered and thrashed. After a moment, she pulled the girl’s head up again, bent forward until they were cheek to cheek, and whispered.
- hey
---
A crash caused her to turn. A woman stood there, her eyes wide, her mouth open, groceries lying forgotten at her feet. The girl looked from her to the man’s recumbent form and back again.
- Mother.
She reached inside the sock she was still holding and pulled out the misshapen can. She stared at it, laughed and tossed it aside. She looked back at her mother.
- hey
---
are you mad?
---
- mad- nearly killed her stepfather
- did you hear- those girls from Yabakune who came around here
- beat them up good- crazy
- Ōshima’s friend?- committed her
- released from- her own mother sent her away
- who is she living with now?- f**king psycho
- I could take her---
The murmuring died down as the classroom door slid open. They watched her in silence as she stood there in the doorway, a tall girl with twin scars around her left brow, whose eyes none of them could meet.
---
She climbed the stairs. No-one tried to stop her. She climbed to the top and opened the door. She walked out onto the roof. They were waiting for her, but they were not the girls she remembered. A girl even taller than her eyed her with mild disinterest as she passed, before returning her attention to an old kendama. Three others gathered close around her, blocking her path, staring at her intently. Until a fifth gently pushed them aside, and they parted respectfully for her: a shorter girl with long wavy hair.
They stood facing each other. The shorter girl smiled. The taller girl caught her arm just behind the wrist before the punch could land and smiled back. Yūko looked her up and down, and nodded.
“Welcome back, Rena.”THE END
Topic: Short Stories (Read 2558 times)