Genre : Fiction
Rating : Pg 13-R for vague sexual alusions, and blood
Description: June flashes back for some more background into her memory loss. She eventually begins to come to terms with the fact that she's terminal. The next chapter is where the fun really begins.
2 -- Denial
Slowly and with undue caution of reprisal, especially in a hospital and especially concerning his own daughter's room no less, Irridae June cracked the door, pouring a crescent flood of light into the lenolium floor. His daughter sat upright in the bed like they said, and though the nurses had doffed and discarded her blood covered gown, a few flakes of peeling copper clouded her pale skin. She appeared as a ghost, a shadowy luminescent apparition in the half-light, green flashes, blood dripping occasionally, falling from her face, her clear and nearly colourless eyes' movements towards him as he walked gingerly to the side of the bed.
His transcendence into the midlife crisis was accelerated by the recent pain of his daughter's ... condition, smoke clouding his wrinkled shirt, sweat stains, and dark bags under his eyes.
"Where, are my clothes?" June's face never moved, only her eyes and the tiniest traversal of her lips dare gave the impression of mobility.
"What day is it?"
"What month is it?"
"There are going to be some..."
"What happened to Hite?"
"...Some difficult times ahead for you..."
"What day is it?" She turned her head to stare hauntingly up at her father.
"We are going to be with you through this. We will find a way to..."
"What the fuck is the day!?!" The bed jostled as her father settled from his start.
"It's February sixteenth. " Her eyes went wider, her pupils shrinking her nothing eyes down to pinpricks in a sea of monochrome.
"You've been in a coma for twenty-two days."
The breeze. The shivering cold.
"You havn't woken since the car accident..."
The flash of flames, burning the water from her face.
"Hite didn't make it through the night..."
The solid boundaries of tear washed soot, the streams of clean from her eyes.
The room she lived in. With the pink decor, with the mountainous reaches of plush animals piled in such a way on shelves in the corner until the shelves became buried in animals. The room she stared at, sat on her bed and stared at until the memories relayed themselves in her mind time and time again. The computer that stood languid and dark. The pile of brown-stained tissues in the waste basket besides her desk. Clippings of Hite's hospital stay, clippings of the accident, clippings of all the things she wished dearly the amnesia would be too reluctant to return to her. The memories of her sitting in this very spot as the police commissioner grilled her for a length beyond time. She cried as he interrogated her on her very bed of course. The techniques for breaking information out of closed-mouth criminals had not been toned down to an amnesiac setting, nor had been modified for the little girl that resided in that amnesiac. She cried for the entire time he was there. He left her with no sympathy no emotional reprieve from the battering onslaught of father who had lost his only son to someone who could not answer for crimes she didn't know she committed. Crimes she was paying for in ways too drastic. She cried. She cried, and cried bitter tears. She cried until the pile of tissues doubled its self, she cried until her mattress ran damp. She cried for Hite, for the time she had lost, and for her self.
June rose from her mattress at three in the morning, sleep tugging at her eyelids and her mind, yet sleep being the most fearful thing she could imagine right now. She seemed drawn to her computer, and after a time of staring at her screen, opened up the story she had begun to write for Karo Hito's class. Paragraphs upon paragraphs seemed written by another person. The plots, the character's dispositions, the description and the underlying metaphor seemed shallow and naieve. They seemed simple unoriginal and contrived. Warped by the world she perceived around her. Though her characters were seen through this tepid glass, distorted by time, discoloured by age. Those were her characters. Those were her utensils, her medium. Those were her love and life...
"Those are my life and love."
"Why don't you take this class seriously Hite?" June asked as they walked home from the school, she hanging off of the arm he wasn't using to support his neck. Despite his unreadable blank glare, he somehow put on an aura of displeasure of having a new something to carry home.
"It's just a stupid writing class my folks made me take to keep me from going outside this year and having fun."
"It is weird that its summery out. Hey, what do you think of my new skirt?"
"You've never worn skirts before. That first day you were wearing the shittiest outfit i've ever seen."
"The white shirt and vest?" She sounded hurt.
"Yeah. Even that is questionable." He gestured at the rose print skirt that flowed down to her ankles, and the thin green sweater she wore. "But it's a start."
The screen darkened, flickered and returned. Trickles of viscous clarity flowed from her eyes. They keys she just slammed her fist onto shimmered with moisture.
"June. How is your story going dear?"
"The story mom? Yeah its going fine. It'll be done in a few days." She lied under her breath. Lying was slowly getting easier, yet she still seemed to feel those pangs in her stomach each time she did, especially to her parents. Slowly she eased the door shut behind her, and started for the idling car on the corner. Hite leaned over as she got in and kissed her long and dark.
"You've been drinking."
"You'd drink to escape this." The shades beneath his eyes made him look worse off than he was. She could hardly see the bruises underneath the darkness of the night. "We're late."
"Are you sure your okay to drive?"
"Yes. I am."
"Would you mind..." She shifted in her seat, the others she didn't know and those she knew from class continued their reverie. They started dancing, flying back and forth the room in leaps and movements in time with the music. Drinks in their hand they called back to Hite on the couch, cracking open another beer.
"Would you let me see your story?"
"June, damnit. This is a fucking party." He slammed back his drink in one long draught. "Fuck the school, and the class, and the damn story tonight." The can left his hand flying backwards to parts unknown. "Tonight, and forever."
She looked up at him with pained eyes, churning what he said around in her mind.
"I guess it doesn't matter really." Noncommittally she offered. "It doesn't matter tonight I guess."
"It doesn't. It's a stupid assignment for a class we shouldn't be taking in the first place. None of the normal students are still in class. Shit." He looked around, his eyes struggling to see straight. "Lets find somewhere a bit quieter eh?"
She clutched the quilt she gleaned from atop her bed closer. The dampness felt cool even on her pale and thin white skin. The faint odor of burgeoning mildew wafting to her nostrils. She remembered the way it felt, in a way she never stopped feeling that. She still wanted to cry out the tears her eyes hadn't made yet
Karo Hito glared at the class from his usual perch, mentally noting the way the other children were giving June and Hite's desks a two desk buffer. Some wept, others glowered hatefully at the back of June's head as if their hateful stares could cause her harm. Others simply looked soberly ahead, trying not to let the gravity of the situation to affect them. June sat as though a single hair was holding her upright, swaying in the winds that never entered the oppressively humid classroom, she with her glazed over eyes looked ahead through and past the chalkboard. Sighing, Karo Hito assumed his position in front of the chalkboard, idle and cleansed for once.
"June, you were to present your first chapter today. However in light of... recent events." He swallowed slowly, designing words as he went to minimize the reference to Hite for the class. "If you still need time to finish your story..." He silently wondered, behind those depthless glasses why she still was attending class. The class shifted in silence, wondering the same thing, for different reasons.
"It's crap." Beneath her hair, a tiny voice, from within a twisted smile, a tiny voice. "It's crap. It's utter crap and I allowed it." She stood up, her white shirt wrinkled and buttoned improperly. She looked a pale yellow that matched the stains on her unwashed shirt. All that could be heard was the quiet spiteful voice of Itsuka June as she denounced her writings, walking through that door.
Shivering into her quilt further, the tears pooling up and falling through it's many folds, she began the process. Her fingers twisted from a month of neglect, bandaged from the injuries of the crash and the finger pricks, unfurled and set themselves gently on the damaged keyboard. Keys lay around the desk she sat at, her fingers disregarding their lack of availability. The clitter-clack of her noisy keyboard kept her awake the night, her story slashed and cropped as she slowly wept.
Awake sat up, gently ruing the pulsing of her blood as it washed her vision out in a sea of blackened dots and turquoise patterns. Returning, eventually, it reclaimed the vision of the squalor she sat in, night gown ragged and stained as it swept through mud and filth on the ground. Her squatter's existence precluded the ownership of a washing machine, or even a bucket and soap. No, she was lucky to be able to snatch a sliver of soap every fortnight from old man Murdale down the street. Greedy bastard, hardly clinging to life but from the stubborn excuse of a crotchety old man, he still remained. Yet his memory was going, and if she was quick enough she could scrub up her self once in a while on a regular basis in the cold unyielding waters behind her dilapidated shanty. The crumbling ruins were once a thriving inn, large smoke cured beams and woodwork, smooth brass covering the edges of the stools and the glasses, the bar its self hewn from a massive 'Karrahorn' tree with the blessings of the forest behind its removal whole from the still living tree. They said that the bar stayed as cool as frost all year long from the still living wood before the bar suffered at the hands of the fire. A few shards remained in the char, cooling what was left of the main room to frigidity in the deep winter snows. Awake kept a few of the splinters in her purse, trying to sell them to passersby. No one paid her any mind. No one wanted to converse with the squalid vagrant at the edge of the river who conversed with her splinters and shouted to the heavens. No one cared of the girl who reeked of refuse and ate of it in equal parts. Her isolation was complete as her despair. Until that quintessential 'one day' happened.
June continued typing through the dank night. Through the creaking tree boughs tapping on the window that would have sent her into a panic. Through the deepened darkness of a moonless night, tinged with the wailing of the winds outside. Through the subtle feelings of fatigue she somehow embraced. Even through the dull ache in her heart for loosing Hite so soon in their togetherness. She wrote on, despite the blood flowing through her nose and the realization that the mass growing in her head would end her writing if she gave her self pause.