This has been stewing in my head for weeks. It only just really sprang to life a week or so ago. So now here I am at 5am posting. Crazy, wot?
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FrameThe room is spick and span, barely more than a oversized walk-in closet when one takes a step back to look at it, but it was a decent room nevertheless.
It was also home for the last two years, and for that she was grateful, even as she pauses in the middle of scrubbing every inch of surface she could reach. Which was, happily, most of the room. Being small wasn't so bad when the room seemed sized for you. It also cut down on the actual surface area in need of dusting. There just wasn't that much room.
The single window was just three paces away from the door, and it was thrown wide open for the first time in what felt like (and probably was) months. The cold snap had not quite fled from the fresh spring air, and she was also extraordinarily fond of warmth. The combination of those factors resulted in the current state where fresh air was being let in, and the smell of thick winter socks being let out. Not that it smelled bad, mine. She liked her socks just the way they were, and she
did do her laundry regularly.
But enough about socks. None of those were present save for those already on her feet. In fact, there was a remarkable lack of personal effects strewn about the room. As neat a person she might have been, there was no way to avoid leaving signs of habitation in a space that was exclusively yours...more or less.
The only thing in the room was a desk and a bed, and nothing else. No clothes or books or other random junk a college student generally accumulates. The bed was remarkably spartan, without any fancy sheets. It looked like something you might expect to see in a prison cell, which on hindsight tends to be of similar dimensions.
The desk was a little scuffed, but scrubbed clean to a gleaming finish. A pair of keys laid bunched up near the side, along with a couple of open (though folded) letters. A set of train tickets was being held in place by the only thing that she had yet to pack away with the boxes she had sent ahead of her. The worn photo frame faced away from her, turned towards the window.
She does not look at the frame, yet there is little else to look at in the room where nothing much is left. Her little suitcase is backed against the door, and she sits on it briefly, using it as a chair as she inspects the condition of her soon-to-be-former domicile.
There was little to be singled out, even with her discriminating eye. She hates cleaning as a rule, but she hated being irresponsible even more, so it ended up with the room looking cleaner than it had when she first received it. Duty and obligation, that was all.
Her eye is drawn once again to the lone picture frame, resolutely turned away from her. She knows what it contains, had framed the picture with her own two hands. The frame itself was a gift, something she had received when she first moved into this room in a city far from home. It had accompanied her these two years, witnessed both tears and triumphs, shared a part of her life as intrinsically as the subject framed within.
She makes as if to reach out for it, but is interrupted by a loud, though still polite, knocking on the door that sends vibrations through her back (as she is leaning against it). Half scrambling off her perch, she responds with an instant "hai~?" and is rewarded with a familiar voice.
"Takahashi? Need any help moving?" The deep masculine voice of her neighbor almost makes her smile. She opens the door slowly, careful not to hit anyone as it swings outwards.
The owner of the deep voice always amuses her, mostly because he had an appearance that completely failed to match his voice. Scrawny, pale and bespectacled, he looked very much like the classic image of a hikikomori in his faded t-shirt and sweats. Nevertheless, he was a good neighbor in that 1) he was quiet, 2) he never bothered her, and 3) he was nice enough to offer help when the need arose.
He was also the only third party who knows, if only vaguely, why exactly she is leaving. Quiet and unassuming he might have been, he still had eyes to see and ears to hear with. Their adjacent rooms were hardly soundproof, after all.
"Suzuki-kun." She smiles, a slightly stiff affair that would hardly gain her any points for drama class. She knows this, but keeps up the charade for pride's sake.
To his credit, Suzuki makes no mention of that pale imitation of a smile. They were not close enough to be friends, and barely more than nodding acquaintances who knew each other's last names by the plaque on their doors. Still, as a decent human being he is concerned for the wellbeing of his neighbor...admittedly his very pretty female neighbor, but let's not dismiss his altruism as an attempt to ingratiate himself with a pretty girl.
"Need a hand with your stuff?" He has helped her with a few boxes in the days before, and is not unwilling to do so again. His tone is friendly, and he makes no attempt to invade any personal space, either physically or even mentally. He knows where he stands.
"Actually, I think I'm just about done." Her attempted smile is a little more genuine this time, though still a pale and watery affair by usual standards. She gestures at the little suitcase behind her. "I'll be leaving this evening, and I'm glad to have been in your care."
"Same here." The conversation, such as it was, winds down with the usual polite pleasantries, and one Takahashi Ai soon finds herself closing the door behind her as she heads out to grab some lunch before her departure.
She does not pay much attention to her surroundings, except in a general sort of way. A stray cloud could pique her interest as easily as a sale, and she drifts along almost without direction, the only thought she allows herself at the moment being that of food.
It was a discipline she had rigorously practiced for several months. By dwelling on the immediate present, she can block out any unwelcome thoughts, as well as the attendant feelings that follow. It is not entirely failsafe, but it helps. Every little helps, when everything along the bloody street reminds her, inevitably, of
something.
The chilly air froze her nose, and it gave her temporary relief from the chasing memories by giving her something else to focus on. It was also why she was currently glad to be out of the room that had housed her; merely being in there, even with the sole intention of cleaning, evoked memories she would rather not dredge up, feelings she would prefer not to discuss.
Her legs, however, had a mind of their own. Without thinking, she found herself ascending the familiar stairs of a cafe she used to visit with tedious regularity, and in which she even has a regular seat by the same window towards the left side and back.
Before the realization even settles in, she is already seated in her usual place, greeted by familiar staff who give her genuine smiles (she can tell, she wasn't in the drama society for nothing). The smiles are perhaps a little perplexed, for she had come alone, and not for a while. She brushes away the thought before it leads to the next one, and picks up the menu instead.
Her decision is practically made for her, for her order is always the same. The same order almost slips out from her lips, but she reins in visibly, brow furrowing as she deliberately finds a different item instead, determined to break tradition just this once. She would not fall into the same routine as...before.
Lunch is promptly served, even as she was taking in the sights and sounds of the cafe. The atmosphere feels oddly different, but then again she never came alone before...at least, not after the first time when she first discovered the place. She stubbornly drives her wayward thoughts away from the forbidden area, and forcefully forks some salad into her mouth.
Glancing out of the window in an attempt to distract herself, she is momentarily surprised by the view. It never occurred to her to look, to really look, out of the window before. Always in the past, she had had other things to occupy her. Be it her notes and books, or the --
don't go there, Takahashi, she warns herself -- anyway, she was always otherwise occupied.
The view out of the window is mundane, all things considered. Bare sakura trees, little more than sprigs, the white petals they once bore scattered like frost on the sidewalks. The odd person navigating the narrow alleys, since this was a back street rarely travelled. The little old ladies haggling by the stall on the far end. Even in the distance she could see the fresh tomatoes, vividly red in the crisp spring air.
All of it was ordinary. Usual. Refreshing. She took in a deep breath, ignored the tickle of her nostrils by the chill, and took another bite of her salad. She feels strangely more at ease now.
So this is what I've been missing. Deep down, she knew how completely circumscribed her life had been by...the thing she has been refusing to think about. Even in trying not to think about it, she realizes, she is still ruled by it.
Outside the window, life went on for the world and everyone else living in it. The thought sobers her, brings her back to the reality she has been avoiding these past few months. Doubtlessly, everyone who walks past outside had their own burdens, but they walked on nevertheless. She could not simply stay still. Events don't wait. Life doesn't stay still. The world is not static, and she could either let herself be swept up in the tide of things, or choose to walk a path of her own making.
God knows it hurt, is still hurting, and will probably continue to hurt; but she had to move on. One way or another, she had to keep going.
The epiphany is brief, but it wasn't so life changing as to banish the emotions she still feels deep beneath the surface. The rest of the salad is finished without any further fuss, her jaws mechanically working to finish the process of feeding her body.
She does not linger long in the cafe, for it too provokes many memories. She would be glad to return to her hometown now, after finally finishing her studies in this city, the city of her young adulthood. There was a time when she relished the freedom of being away from the constant supervision of her family. But now, older and hopefully somewhat wiser, there was no other place she would rather return to but the place that had raised her.
Perhaps, when she is back in the familiar surroundings of home, she will finally be able to heal.
She steps out of the cafe, pulling her coat tighter around her as she neatly skirts a quarrelling couple in the middle of the street. The ruckus disrupts the fragile peace of the formerly quiet back alley, and she frowns subtly, the only visible sign of disapproval her reticient nature will allow in the presence of strangers.
Kids these days... And she catches herself mid-thought, almost laughing aloud at the irony. She might be edging closer to the edifice of legal adulthood, but deep down she knows she is still little more than a child in sore need of guidance.
In retrospect, this critical self awareness had perhaps given her the right to assume the mantle of a wise elder, if only in respect to certain individuals. Though she in her humility would probably never recognize it, seeing only the flaws that prevented her from achieving a state she could approve of.
She is jolted from her thoughts by the loud smack of flesh on flesh; despite herself, she takes a look back to see what happened.
The slowly reddening welt on the girl's face, her boyfriend's hand still half raised from the blow; these things tell the story well enough. Ai finds her face twisting into a sharp expression of disgust. How could any self respecting man lay a hand on a girl right out in public? This was not the Edo period, or even the Meiji era, where women were subjected to the whims of patriarchal authority. Social norms might still bind them in this time and age, but not to the extent of condoning outright violence.
Disapproving she might be, she did not intervene -- for what was her place in a lovers' quarrel? As long as the violence did not threaten to escalate to potential critical injury or fatality for the party involved, she could not reasonably call in the police to stop things, as any good citizen would.
In fact, other than the few (like her) who had paused to stare at the proceedings, the ebb and tide of humanity flowed on in the main street just paces ahead. Even those few who had taken notice were already turning away, probably also having drawn the same conclusions she herself had. She makes to move as well, and only her split second of hesitation afforded her a glimpse of something she was sure to have missed had she but turned away any sooner.
The girl was distraught, that much was obvious in the waves of anger and humiliation rolling off her petite frame almost palpably. Yet even in her distress her lips remained pressed together tightly into a thin line, pride and anger radiating in her fierce gaze and iron control. Tears shone unshed in liquid orbs, yet it is evident that rage was the dominating force that kept the flood at bay. No raging explosion it was; instead it was a coldly burning anger, almost at boiling point.
The event that Ai would have missed was the moment when the pot finally boiled over, the hiss of rage signalling it much like that of a serpent, or perhaps like the whistle of a steaming kettle. Normal girls might have reacted with ineffectual slaps, or perhaps with flight and the inevitable tears. This one, however, used what she had for maximum effect, proving that long nails weren't just an expression of vanity. No wild scratches like some feral cat though, the damage inflicted was calculated and deep, red gouges running down the length of one arm. It would leave a mark, for sure.
The young man curses, raising his injured arm to strike the girl once more -- but was finally stopped by a shout from a passing salaryman. Perhaps not all people were apathetic after all, Ai reflected. Her attention seemed destined to wander once more, yet it lingered for one small moment on the supposed victim.
Another thing she might have missed entirely otherwise. A vindictive sneer -- not triumphant, maybe a little sad, but something that had all the marks of having the last word -- as the girl tugs something off her hand, says something to her now ex-boyfriend, before tossing the object into his stunned and outraged face. The girl beats a quick retreat before he could exact more violence on her -- a wise move, all things considering. A man who has already hit you once is likely to hit you again, especially when provoked.
Something rolls to a stop at Ai's feet, its polished surface catching the light just enough to draw her eye. Without really thinking about it, she stoops to pick it up, rolling it in her hand for a few moments before figuring out its significance.
A ring. Still warm to the touch, from where it had once being snug on a finger.
Rings. They spoke of promise, of continuity, of joining and wholeness. To be one, together, linked. Ai thumbs the ring thoughtfully, her feet propelling her along the familiar paths to her soon to be former residence.
To be able to take it off...was it a breaking of a promise, or the ability to let go? Her mind replays the ring's last moments, of being flung against the person who had mostly likely been the giver. The act had been a statement. But what did it say?
She never had a ring. No promises to be shared, only lives entwined together in the unstated expectation that things would never change. But change it had, and now here she was. Somewhere, nowhere, resolute in front of the door of her room.
The ring stays snug in her palm, somehow heavy as she slides wordlessly into the confined space. Echoes of a past not so long ago whisper to her, concentrated most vividly in the single picture frame standing upright and away at the corner of her empty table.
Takahashi Ai is not a brave person. One of her worst fears is a haunted house experience, in particular the many monsters and ghouls that infest them. Yet this is one ghost she can confront, in the sanctuary that had once belonged to them both.
She picks up the picture frame. For the first time in months, she gazes directly into the source of her troubled state these past months. Smiling faces greeted her, her own grin no less bright even when frozen for eternity. The other person was pressed right next to her frozen self. A person that was no longer next to her.
A familiar pang, and the beginning of tears. She blinks, swallowing uncomfortably. Has she not shed enough tears over their parting? Must it continue to torment her so?
The ring she had scavenged earlier wedges almost painfully into her skin, forced there by the sudden clench of her fists. She opens the palm, almost reluctantly, and beholds the discarded ring.
She had not been brave enough to end it decisively as the stranger had, and the weight of the unseen ring she still bore sat heavy on her shoulders. She could not have done as the girl had, to throw it right back in the aggressor's face and break things off clearly. So she suffers even now, weighted down by regret and sorrow.
The ring. The frame. Her gaze travels from one to the other, each in one hand, as if in some obscure balance to each other. Her eyes eventually rest on the frame, and the scales tip at last.
She does not flinch now as she studies the picture, committing the image to memory. For with the sorrow of parting came the beauty of beginnings, and the tide of good memories they had shared came back to her. The sadness that they could no longer share them together returned as well, but it was no longer crushing. Regretful, yes, but do not all things come to an end?
The tears come, but she is no longer crying for times lost. Her smile is sad, but determined, as she puts the frame down, her fingers trailing its edge.
"I'm going now." It feels strange addressing an object, but in lieu of the real thing, this will have to suffice. She was not yet brave enough to address the real thing anyway.
She pauses, the next words an obvious effort.
"Goodbye."
She places the frame face down on the table. After a split second, she places the discarded ring next to it. Let the past stay where it was, and perhaps, even such things should have company...?
The door closes behind her, and she does not look back.
For all the times you have given me, the times we have shared.
Thank you, memories.================================================================================
I like how it turned out.
Topic: Estrea's Sandbox [6/4 - Treat] (Read 203853 times)