small and undistinguishable
by Bethany Ten

They think that you're still six (sixsixsevenfive, none of us keep track anymore), because you still refer to yourself as "Rin".

Is there something wrong with that?

I think, when I'm allowed, that…that it'll be a very cold day in hell when we all find it within ourselves to whisper our own names, and to respond with that same fervor; I think it's like being split in two, a voice that calls and a voice that answers, except you've always been different somehow. And nobody answers when you call their name, but when they give you that crooked look when you call your own you feel like they've stolen a little piece of you, a little crumbling bit, except "Rin" only has three letters…

…and who knows? When he—oh, your precious he, with his gorgeous hair and his gorgeous face and his one fucking arm—asked you your name, for all any of us knew (and still know), you might've been lying.

Look at you. Look at you, now, little tongue darting out to catch the paint on your face, and you look like him, except makeup isn't the same as blood, and goodness but you are darling, and whenever Naraku would whisk you off the ground like a broom collecting stale food-bits from thatched floors, you'd smile like you could trust him, except you couldn't. Because sometimes, you'd look like there was a genius behind your eyes, which might have been why I guarded your windows when the taijiya was supposed to be your leash-holder, your day-keep, your studded collar.

I always knew you'd escape someday on your own. You knew it, too; you knew everything by the time we were through. And for you, every battle looks the same, with your beloved him swashbuckling his clumsy-graceful demon way through army upon army, and I'll always think, god, but what have we been doing all this time?

I always knew you'd escape someday on your own, when you'd be too big to hide beneath the folds of his robes, when you couldn't fold yourself to his thigh with paper cranes and stars under your eyelids. When you'd be big enough to hold him by the side, curling your too-long arms around his effeminate waist and pressing your breasts to his ribs (you'd always, always wonder how those got there while you weren't looking, and why your precious lord and master refuses to answer questions about them and the blood between your thighs every gibbous moon).

You knew. You always, always knew.

Right now…

Right now, though, I'm wondering why I'm letting you escape. I'm wondering how you just fell, danced over the windowsill and vanished beneath the fog like a limp rag doll.

I'll always wonder how you'll look at yourself in the morning. I'll always wonder if you see him in me—him or Naraku, reach deep within to see them where I cannot see myself.

But most importantly, I'll wonder how I'll look at my painted lips in my reflection and not notice how nicely your lightless child-mouth fit against them, and I'll wonder if I'll always pat the mirror with my clawed, ink-stained hands, and mutter an unending mantra of damnyouR-I-Ndamnyou.

I wonder a lot lately.