This chapter speaks of an illness that is very serious. If anyone has ever suffered from the illness below please understand I am not making light of it for entertainment purposes.

This is a dark and cynical chapter.

OoOoOoOoO

West Wing, Yokai Manor

December 15th, 1998

In the wall located on the other side of Sesshomaru's dark room was a hole no wider than a coin. It was hardly noticeable, a flaw one would notice if they followed the channels in between the cinder block.

To him, it was of great interest, its depth seemingly endless in the vicinity of a hallucination. Sesshomaru spent hours gazing into the hollow, uncertain when he started traveling through it, or when he climbed out into a moonlit glade, which he strode across without pause. He could smell the earthy foliage, feel the crisp fall of silk and satin against his skin, hear the pitter-patter of his ward struggling to keep pace as he cried out desperately to him.

His name came again, now from the blackness on the left end of the dale. There was movement. It broke him from his stupor, raising concerns. Hairs too. But fear was beneath him. And though his jaw clenched to steel, there were chinks in his composure. For when he glanced left something was staring back at him.

Perhaps he imagined it. It was difficult to focus. A veteran of a thousand psychic wars, Sesshomaru was deliriously fatigued. He blinked long-drawn and fitful. Whatever had rounded the corner was no longer there.

His lashes weighed down like anchors. Rest had given him the slip ever since he arrived at Yokai Manor, and at that moment, besides his freedom, Sesshomaru wanted nothing more than to sleep. Weary, his lids drooped, nearly shut, snapping wide as a disembodied pair slid into view. His gaze shot like thunder to the hole in the wall, and from behind that blind spot, it whispered his name, droning the first two syllables and gargling maru. And as the sickly chant caressed the fine hairs on his neck, it was then the demon elected to give religion some serious thought, before his mind collapsed into madness.

He had to address the obvious first. If he, a creature of the night, were to pray to the Gods would they answer? Or by reason of his creed, sin itself by birth, would they instead transfer his pleas to a dark line? He asked Buddha personally, confided in him and waited for a reply. Had he been forwarded? He came to hear nothing, not even his name. But maybe prayer was enough. Maybe that was why his room seemed empty again.

Boldened, his vision veered slightly left, and there was no describing the insidious activity he saw. What inhabited the dark recesses of his mind made it dishearteningly clear that it did not recognize the wrath of any God.

Sick with despair, for several hours Sesshomaru sat very still until his door opened. He had quit greeting Tsubaki with snarls moons ago. It was a waste of spirit and didn't stop her heinously cruel "treatment." If anything, it pleased her, and hers was the kind of smile he longed to disfigure. She walked in and looked around the cold walls and sink, looked at the glowing chain attached to his wrist, his face which remained emotionless. Her footsteps stopped at the edge of his bed.

"You," she said, as if unaware of his name. "Pretty dog." When he didn't react, she asked, "Did they tell you? About your family?" He envisioned his claws at her throat, piercing, silencing her for good. "They won't be visiting anymore." Sesshomaru wouldn't have called them "visits" anyway. Safety procedures had them standing outside his door while they spoke with the staff.

Still, he could have died a thousand times hearing his mother cry.

Without an ounce of worry, Tsubaki sat on his bed, sighing contently as she crossed her legs. "Apparently, they could only tolerate so much bad news. But they're paying your expenses—cash, and that's all that matters in the end. I thought you should know." Sesshomaru trembled with a deep breath. His family would forsake him? No. Not his mother. It had to be his father's idea. He would put the Taisho name and what it represented before everything. With the deepest mortification, with optimism gashed, Sesshomaru felt the isolation of his position in full. "Well," she said, patting his knee as she stood, "now that's out of the way. Would you rather stand or stay where you are? Actually, on second thought, stay on the bed. Last time I nearly threw my back out trying to pick you up off the floor."

He looked straight ahead, never making eye contact with the Miko, and never turning his body as a crackle of Reiki flared the room white and raised every hair on his body, including the down along his stomach.

OoOoOoOoO

West Wing, Yokai Manor

December 19th, 1998

Wellness Check-in

"You're working with dangerous youkai now. Nervous?"

"Nope."

"It doesn't worry you that others before you had quit or refuse to work in the West Wing?"

Koga, a clinical nurse, had jumped at the opportunity to work with Tsubaki. He had heard rumors about the mysterious patient in W13, but all anyone outside of a select few knew was that he was a critically possessed dog. He thought nothing of signing numerous confidentiality agreements. Money was on his mind, and the pay would be great.

Tsubaki scanned her badge and unlocked the door.

"So what's the deal with this one?" Koga asked. "I've got lunch in thirty and I want to get this over with." Slung over his shoulder was a temperature controlled medical bag filled with sedatives of various strengths and brands.

"He killed a little girl. An orphan."

"No shit?"

Together, they walked inside W13. "Her autopsy reported that her cause of death was "severe and cataclysmic trauma to her orbital sockets and frontal lobe."

"Poor kid."

"Mm-hmm."

The nurse flipped the light switch. "Sacred chains?"

"He's unpredictable and could eviscerate you before your guts hit the floor. You do not want that to have free reign in a room you're entering." Koga knew Tsubaki was a no-nonsense priestess. Her calm conviction had relaxed the twitch in his tail. The Miko handed him Sesshomaru's highly guarded medical chart and he pulled a pen from out his scrubs.

"Extremely aggressive, doesn't like staff," he read, on occasion glancing from the folder to the dead, golden eyes across the room. "Depressed, won't eat, yadda, yadda. These are all standard symp—ah. I see. Does he ever sleep?"

"Not a wink."

Koga read on. "Says here he's being treated with anticonvulsants. A dog big as him would need larger doses, but it should knock him out for six hours. Tops."

"He's been given five and eight's. Even ten's. It does nothing for him."

Sesshomaru sat as still as death when Koga stared at him. His senses keener than the Miko, he noticed something strange. "He's breathing pretty hard," the wolf said, unlooping the bag from his shoulders.

Tsubaki played dumb. "Anxiety?"

Koga shook his head as he approached Sesshomaru. "I don't think—"

"Careful. He may appear calm but take one more step and you'll be within his reach." Koga froze where he stood.

"Good looking out. Cast a blessing, or whatever it is you guys do." As Tsubaki summoned an acceptable amount of power, she gave Sesshomaru a look. Koga snapped on latex gloves to examine him, and when he was finished his suspicions were confirmed. "He's in pain."

"Interesting." The Miko did well to hide her nervousness. "How can you tell?"

"He and I aren't' so different, dogs and wolves. We're kinda related and suffer in silence. This guy's hurting bad. I don't know why though. He doesn't have any self-inflicted injuries. Must be a lack of sleep."

"Right. So what would you recommend?"

Thinking, Koga slipped into a new pair of gloves and walked to his bag. "I could give him a stiff dose of Benzodiazepines. They're extremely addictive but so long as we're careful it should be fine. I'm writing this down now, Tsubaki. He cannot take them for more than four weeks."

Disquietingly, Sesshomaru watched Koga lift a clear vial and syringe above his head. Plucking the needle, Koga let out a low and prolonged whistle of reverence. "Now, don't you worry. You're gonna like this. This here is the good stuff, and you'll feel higher than a giraffe's ass for five minutes, then you'll pass out."

Tsubaki would remember that.

After administering the shot, the nurse stood over him while glancing at his watch. A few minutes later, he checked Sesshomaru's vitals. "Breathing is good, pulse is good—oi. There he goes. Off to Neverland," he chuckled, tapping his patient's brow, testing his blink response. There was a three-second delay.

"Well, that's it. Time to let sleeping dogs lie. Turn him loose, Tsubaki. It's time for lunch and I'm starving."

OoOoOoOoO

Yokai Manor

Four Years Later

April 2002

The mess hall opened its doors for supper at 5:30 P.M.

Drumming her nails on the table, Kagome shifted in her seat. It was now ten till six, and hard to not worry about her patient who should have been there by now.

All around her a lively assortment of youkai tucked happily into their meals, some speaking in languages beyond human comprehension. Kagome had been delighted to discover that some consisted of the most extraordinarily beautiful vocalizations she had ever heard. Like the feathery tenor of birds, the percolating clicks of dragons, or the startling falsettos of cats.

Kagome stood and smoothed out her scrubs. There was a knot forming at the bottom of her stomach as she bussed her tray and left the cafeteria.

If she walked any faster, she would've broken out into a run.

Kagome had grown attached to a teenaged fox. Others could only notice his sickness and the dark cloud that hung over him, but she saw his radiant soul. The kit was too decent for the likes of Yokai Manor, and because her qualifications were limited, she worried that treating him would be as damaging as his affliction.

On healing, Kagome was short on blessings. She couldn't erect barriers like Kikyo, nor could she focus her energy like Tsubaki, and while she could activate sutras, her real power remained a mystery. However, there were hints. At times, when dealing with her wards, she exceeded empathy as if transcending to a proxied self who felt the physical and emotional pain of others. The sensation was always fleeting and heated and set in her chest. And most curiously, after a tingly warmth had passed, her clients would sigh, as if unburdened from some weight.

Alternatively, Kagome took on the role of a psychologist and counselor, which was staggeringly inappropriate, if not negligent.

Kagome was made wise to Yokai Manor's practices during her second week. An otter, her first patient, had suffered from a personality disorder favoring the schizotypal variety. Some symptoms are interchangeable with bewitchment, but actual mental illness requires delicate and thoughtful handling, often involving methods that facilitates a humanistic approach.

She had tried to tell Master Mushin this one shift, but he dismissed her concern with a hearty laugh and a copy of the DSM-IV-TR.* The staff treated the hulking textbook as if it was the be-all manual for mental health.

Perhaps it was Mushin-sama's habit of adding a little extra something to his coffee that made him indifferent.

In the South Wing, S7's shade was drawn. Kagome heard mumbling, and the knot in her gut felt more like a writhing braid. Forgoing a knock, she swiped her badge, and with an electronic beep, the deadbolts turned and granted her access into the space of a very ill kitsune.

It was a distressing scene.

Shippo was on the floor, tears streaming down his hollowed cheeks, chest trembling. He was doing sit-ups, and Kagome could now hear what had been muffled behind the door:

"Two-hundred and ten, two-hundred and eleven..." His voice shuddering, silent sobs hitched his chest as swollen green eyes met brown. "Please stop me. Help me stop."

His pleas hopeless and dispirited, the Miko's clipboard fell to the floor as she scrambled over.

Shippo is a ward of the state. Kagome didn't need a Ph.D. in psychology to understand that an unrooted youth is a troubled one. He had been yanked from group home to foster home and back again after his parents died in a car accident. Sadly, his trauma manifested in the form of an eating disorder.

He told Kagome his illness assured control that had escaped him his entire life. In his darkest hours, insidious whispers vowed to shepherd him to salvation. In reality, it led him to the edge of a precipice, at which he would peer into the abyss and sway without fear. He stressed that with emptiness came a most wretched bliss, a feathery lightness described as euphoric, unrequited love that cast his steps adrift. But soon he couldn't control it. Rather, it commanded him, held him at gunpoint within his mind promising a deathless death. Weary, gone was his resistance because to overcome it would bring a devastating loss, to succumb to it, peace.

"I've relapsed so many times I lost count. I hope you don't think sitting there and watching me drown in these cans of Ensure will help make me better because it won't."

"I'm here for you, Shippo. It's going to be okay." She touched his boney shoulder, unnerved that if she wanted to she could explore the extent of his protruding scapula. What was left—a twine of a muscle and skin, made his condition so deplorable that his gown gave his shoulder blades a suspended outline that concaved and displayed the contour of each and every vertebra.

He buried his dull claws into his dry, auburn hair. "It was so much. They made me eat so much pasta, and they didn't even measure. A serving is sixty pieces with thirty grams of carbs. Exactly one-hundred and ninety calories. I know that. You know that. I told you, remember?"

Kagome's voice cracked a little. "I remember."

"But that's just the pasta. No one considered the sauce and the meat and… there was so much cheese it was practically everywhere. I had asked why so much? Why?" He was hysterical, and the tears he tried to hold back jumped from his eyes to hers. "Because I didn't need it and it was just in the way. I couldn't eat dinner with you tonight. I had enough for a whole week!" Though he yelled, Kagome didn't flinch. "I can still taste the grease in the back of my throat."

"Shippo," his name quivered from her lips, "it's okay to take a day of rest."

"Rest? Can't you see what it did to me?" He grabbed at nothing, gathering nothing until he managed to take a fold of blotchy skin between his splintered claws. A fissure spidered, shattering in her chest, sharpness spreading and ebbing in waves. "Do you not see the fat?"

There were bruises; protruding hip bones hoisting the elastic of his briefs which gave the impression of a bridge. She counted every rib, the weak throbs under near-transparent skin, guessed the radius of his femur.

Shippo could die.

"I'm worthless."

"You are worth and are much more than your eating disorder."

To that, he scoffed. "Then how come no one wants me? I'm not worth the money used to place me in strangers homes."

"Look at me. Don't you ever let me hear you say that again. Just because the system can't see how special you are doesn't mean you aren't."

"You're just saying that. I'm not cute anymore. No one wants me because I'm all screwed up. No one wants to love someone so broken."

She couldn't stop herself from hugging him. The kit didn't separate his body from hers, but he did freeze, seemingly unsure of what to do with the gesture.

"From the moment I first saw you I was smitten. You're loved, you know."

"Kagome..." Always she gave him comfort when nothing else could. Always she was there when he needed her to do and say the right thing.

Shippo settled his face in the crook of her neck, squeezing her tight as he wept. It was real, her compassion, her warmth. Not just the heat of her body but something he couldn't place. Like her reiki allaying his kitsune tricks, touching yet untouchable. And he wasn't sure what to make of the tingling, his ache drawing out his chest, especially not the feeling of something being pushed back in as if exchanging his anguish for something else.

Delicately, comforting words cooed in the fox's ear as she swayed gently with him, as she endured a hunger so voracious she'd thought she'd puke. Damp was her white collar as she rendered hysterical cries to the occasional hiccup. She brought her hand to Shippo's brittle, neglected hair, at which she stroked until her fingers caught. Tangled in them were his strands of lusterless auburn.

One day, Kagome swore, the strength and shine would return to his hair. She damned the system, damned his neglectful upbringing all while Shippo breathed a sigh all too familiar…

A/N: Rewritten and revised 3/10/19

* Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders