date : dec. o4 / o5
series : xxxholic
characters : kimihiro's mother, kimihiro.
theme : their days are like dried grass, from 31 days (dec. o3)
notes : get ready for sad, strange, cracky back story musings. whee. first time posting xxxholic! and yes, i am totally not a shameless review whore. i just love reviews. XD
also : for some reason , i remember hearing something about watanuki's parents dying in a car accident. if that's not the case, then i blame everything on the crack.
before the beginning / after the end
A conversation on the way to school :
"... It won't bring them back. Having your wish granted."
"... I know that, stupid."
A bland stare. "Do you now."
burnt offerings
Her son's hair is like her husband's ; jet black, mostly smooth except for the few cow licks that are too cute to comb out. His hair is even more mussed up in his sleep, and she suppresses the urge to coo.
She watches his thin, fragile chest
(like a bird, she thinks, but then her mind goes, nest, then empty, and she stops)
rise and fall, and rise and fall. There is something so rhythmic and soothing and at the same time terrifying about it. There is the hushed awe of motherhood
(How on earth did we do it? How on earth did we create a miracle?)
and at the same time the paralyzing terror that his chest will just - stop. Just stop.
His eyes are closed now. The skin of his eyelids and just under his eyes is so pale that is just touched with blue shadows, like snow. Or maybe it's just that his eyes are so electric blue
(bright and deep, her own mother used to say, like a chant, like a charm, her lined hands soothing, glowing, bright and deep, now breathe, that's my girl)
that they shine through the skin of his eyelids. She wouldn't be surprised.
… She will miss these moments the most. The moments where she can just be a mother and he can just be a little boy and she can just watch him sleep and pretend that the simple words this is all for the best will keep everything from hurting like hell.
Because she can feel it glowing, inside his fragile bird's chest, inside every pale blue vein laced beneath his skin. Inside of him, there is a spark, hiding, bright and deep, of the all-fire, the divine.
He is blessed. He is cursed. He is
(and was and, she prays, always will be)
loved.
And he will be so alone.
This world needs light, she thinks.
And a spark cannot become a fire unless it has the proper tinder.
She leans in closer, brushes her hand against the silky fringe of his hair. Her breath chokes on itself, and she can feel the tears tangling in her eyelashes, leaving soft, burning tracks on her skin.
"Kimihiro," she whispers shakily, knowing that he cannot hear her, "Kimihiro, "remember that I love you."
She rises from her chair at Kimihiro's bedside, and slips on her coat. The babysitter is leaning on the kitchen counter and her husband is waiting at the apartment door, smiling, waiting, car keys dangling in his hand.
By the time she greets him, she has dried her tears and perfected her smile.
And isn't it funny? Her husband is talking, but all she can hear are Kimihiro's almost soundless breaths. They ripple in the air around her. They are her only comfort. Her very last gift to him.
The door clicks behind her. Forever.
I love you, she'd said.
It was the closest she would ever get to I'm sorry.