- Kafkaesque -

"Kafkaesque
is when you enter a surreal world in which all your control patterns,
all your plans, the whole way in which you have configured your own behaviour,
begins to fall to pieces, when you find yourself
against a force that does not lend itself to the way you perceive the world.
You don't give up, you don't lie down and die.
What you do is struggle against this with all of your equipment, with whatever you have.

But of course you don't stand a chance."

-Frederick R. Karl

'Your life will change today,' an old lady he'd never seen before had descended upon him with what could only be a crazed look in her eyes earlier that day. She had had his wrist in a gnarly grip far stronger than he thought possible, and remained insistent even as he tried fruitlessly to shake her off. Eventually, he twisted his arm viciously out of her grasp and fled down the street, away from the terror that was persistent old women.

Now, he sat on the edge of one of the many bridges on the edge of the town, shoes dangling above the dark surface of the water. He laughed drily. What about today was so special? Nothing had changed for as long as he remembered. The town was always a monotonous grey - the streets, the buildings, even the water. Every day was the same routine over and over again. Every day, for as long as he remembered, he'd had to deal with everyone believing he was perfect, and time and again he would regret his very existence.

He opened his bag, and let its contents spill over his lap. If he could destroy anything and everything that pointed to his academic excellence, he might as well burn the whole bag. His phone slid out above a stack of nearly-perfect assignments, its screen glowing with eight messages of some variation of how he was late for study group. He wrenched its battery out and stashed the sputtering piece of technology back into his bag, taking immense pleasure in watching the screen go dark. He then dumped out the stack of incriminating evidence of his intelligence onto the smooth grey stone that was the bridge, and looked back into his bag, where five textbooks lay. He ran a hand over a glossy cover and smoothed out rumpled pages.

He used to love books.

He used to read everything he could get his hands on.

"Hitsugaya the bookworm", he'd been called in playgroup, back before the aptitude tests. He used to be proud of it. He used to like how all his books were soggy and tired from being read over and over again.

He used to see in colour, because words always painted in striking vividness - far more than reality. But now he knew better, that reality was monotonously dull, that his interest in words was a trap that would hold him captive to reality, that the world resplendent in rich tones he'd only experienced in books was not a real world.

It was his interest in books that had gotten him trapped in the Academy when he was five, and he was pretty sure that it was the Academy that had trampled his passion into disgust. That it only took a few years of committing every day to intensive reading and studying to kindle a burning hatred for the very thing he used to love.

Reality was cruel, and now he hated books, and hated the way they had drawn him in and painted him a lie, and left him to find colour in a world where he knew there would be none. He turned his gaze upstream, towards the setting sun - which had always been described as a flaming ball - hovering close to the horizon amidst a backdrop of sky that was only vivid in words. He squinted against the glare, wondering why even the liveliest colours of day looked dead to him. The streaks of pink on orange and the golden shimmers of the black water appeared faded, as if they had been washed one too many times.

He lowered the hand he'd used to shield his eyes, and almost instantly fell off the bridge in surprise as a voice behind him spoke.

'What's an Acads kid doing out here? Don't you have like, study group or something?'

He whirled around, careful not to let his bag pitch over the side, to see another teenager, dressed in the black jersey of the sports school - the stitching on his left sleeve wrote "Kurosaki" - and a most outrageous crop of orange hair. He was suddenly very conscious of the golden pin on his own white collar that identified him as a student, and even more so of his own outrageous crop of white hair that he tried to ignore. He also regretted leaving his assignments (with his name written all over them) stacked out of his bag.

'And whats a sports kid doing out here? Don't you have like, training or something?' he mimicked humourlessly.

The other boy fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment, then said, 'I have other things to do today.'

'Like pushing people off bridges?'

'No!' The other boy now had his elbows planted firmly on the cold stone parapet next to where he was sitting. 'I was looking for-' he cut off mid-sentence, staring slack-jawed at the variety of textbooks lying on the stone. He furrowed his eyebrows together comically, mouthing words to himself. '"Modern Quantum Physics"? "Spatial Relativity"? How do you get yourself into this?' he exclaimed.

'Obviously I screwed up all the tests. Are you done yet? Maybe you should find other people to push off bridges?' he began hurriedly shovelling things into his bag.

Kurosaki spluttered something, but again stopped mid-sentence as Hitsugaya reached to zip his bag closed. 'I, uh, are you left-handed?' he asked, conspicuously eyeing Hitsugaya's right arm.

'No,' he replied flatly, pulling one woollen jumper sleeve over his entire hand and swinging himself off the parapet.

'No wait, what I mean is, well, is that a tattoo?'

Ichigo found himself on the receiving end of a perplexed yet condescending squint, even as Hitsugaya made fast tracks away from him. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

'No, that's not what I meant-' and in exasperation, he grabbed the rapidly retreating boy's arm to stop him.

The next thing he knew, he'd been clocked over the head with an immense volume that claimed to be Astrophysics Edition Nineteen. 'Let me go! What are you, a rapist? With a tattoo fetish? I'm not a girl and I don't have any tattoos - let me go! Unless - oh my god, I think you're poaching on the wrong side of the fence.'

The athlete-in-training held on tight - this was worse than the old lady from that afternoon. Astrophysics Edition Nineteen closed in for a return swing, and the taller teen ducked too late. 'Seeing stars yet? Or was your head already in the clouds?'

'Okay no, actually, the question is, have you ever accidentally broken books? Like bursting the spine open and all the pages fly out and all the words disappear?'

Hitsugaya stopped dead, and mutely dropped the book back into his bag, which sagged ominously. Turning to the stranger, he pulled back his sleeve and stared, almost with disbelief, at the deep black pentagram on his inner wrist. It was small, no larger than a fingernail, but had been there for as long as he could remember, and everyone around him had denied that it existed. For as long as he could remember. 'You mean you see this too? You have one of these too?' he intoned hollowly.

'Yeah,' Ichigo supplied after a pause.

Hitsugaya did not look up. 'What is it? What does it make me?'

'You're a Gifted.'

'A what?' The confusion on Hitsugaya's face looked genuine.

'Gifted,' Ichigo huffed impatiently. 'You have power over books and words, you have the power to destroy books in exchange for raw power. But now, it means you're in danger. Haven't you heard of the mass murderer? The one attacking Gifteds all over the city?'

'I'm on my final year project. I haven't read the news or done anything normal people do in three months.'

'Okay? But the bottom line is, go home. You're not safe outside after dark.'

'You're not my mother. Besides, if I'm not safe, neither are you.'

'I don't want to be your mother. And, I can defend myself, unlike you. Have you seriously not heard of Gifts before?'

Hitsugaya smirked. 'I distinctly recall trumping you with a book and without any of this magic rubbish. Now either leave me alone, or help me calculate the relative speed of Jupiter before the moon rises.'

Ichigo was flabbergasted. 'What's wrong with you? Is your project really more important than your life?'

Unfazed, Hitsugaya proceeded to unfold a star map and twirl the knobs on a pair of binoculars, having repositioned himself back on the parapet. 'I've been stuck in this school for nearly eleven years. If passing this project means I get to graduate, then yes. If graduating near the top means I get posted out of this terribly dreary town, then yes.'

'You're in eleventh grade?' Ichigo paused. 'Wait, you're sixteen?'

'Go away. Go run a marathon or something. Eat bananas and drink protein shakes and whatever else it is you do.'

.

It was an evening of confusion and befuddlement for Kurosaki Ichigo.

There were several things he couldn't quite believe. First was that a kid in the academic stream hadn't been reading the news. If it had been someone from the athletics or arts stream, he might have believed it, but Acads? Admittedly, he knew nothing about the other schools, or about graduation projects, but surely if someone was in Acads they would be on top of current affairs...

Then there was how the same kid was clueless about being Gifted.

And also how that same kid was not actually a kid, but a year older than he was.

He cast a sideways glance at Hitsugaya, who appeared to be simultaneously reading a compass, a clock, a star map, and the sky.

He squinted downstream, trying futilely to figure out what exactly was happening in the sky that he wasn't seeing, and eventually surrendered his thoughts to a different topic. He found himself thinking about school, and how it streamed five-year-olds into the three types of education. About how further tests selected nine-year-old children's majors and areas of specialty, and how on earth they knew what was best for each child. He didn't remember why he'd been chosen for sports, and again for long distance running - he didn't even remember taking the first test. He didn't know what the other two schools were like, or what the students were like. He had never studied the sciences in depth, had never been exposed to music or theatre. There were so many things he was ignorant about, and yet this was supposed to be the best for him.

He was content, and always thought it was a sign that the system was right, but having met such a dissatisfied and jaded student, he had begun second-guessing his conclusions. His Giftedness had also been discovered at an early age - he'd been in second grade when it first happened. He had picked up a book that promptly exploded flashily, with the rush of power inducing what had been likened to a sugar high. It was then that the pentagram on his wrist developed and darkened, and he'd been sent to classes to control the power.

Deep in thought, he vaguely wondered why no one had bothered to inform Hitsugaya on Gifts and the exploding books, and what he did with the surge of power when it happened.

How many textbooks has he had to replace? How could he be so stoic in discovering that there were others like him? How could he be so nonchalantly arrogant in the face of imminent danger? (Perhaps, though, that had something to do with Ichigo's own lack of persuasive skills.)

When Ichigo eventually resurfaced from his thoughts, he found himself being scrutinised over a lowered pair of binoculars.

'Do you need the toilet?' Hitsugaya asked him. 'If you go in the river I'll push you in,' he offered immaturely.

'Uh, no. I mean, no, I was just thinking.'

Hitsugaya's frown deepened. 'Maybe you should lighten up on the thinking. People may get the wrong idea.'

.

The next day, Ichigo had ditched evening training and swooped in on Hitsugaya outside the Academy gates after lessons like a hungry vulture. 'Look,' he began. 'I know you kind of hate me, but no matter how annoying you think I am, you really need to take me seriously and stay in after dark because someone out there is murdering countless Gifteds every night!' Words fell unchecked from his mouth, and before his brain could catch up, he had left his spiel hanging and was honestly feeling quite stupid.

To make matters worse, Hitsugaya was staring at him like he'd grown a second head, and perhaps a few extra arms as well. (The word was incredulously, a niggling thought at the back of his mind prompted.)

'Are you some kind of stalker?'

'If that means one less corpse when the murderer is finally caught, then fine. I am a stalker.'

'I'll report you,' Hitsugaya responded coolly to his snappish tone.

Hitsugaya's day was as it always had been - hopelessly dull. A thick layer of low-hanging clouds clung to the town's skyline, washing the sky out with a depthless grey and casting a depressing curtain of oppressive humidity through the air. The wind that funnelled between buildings and down avenues was frigid and unforgiving, and the rain that pelted the cement and glass panes was of an uncomfortably regular rhythm - there would be no rainbow after, either.

He hunched his shoulders against the weather and the persistent redhead, who had fallen into step next to him with ease.

His umbrella was flapping uselessly in his numb grip, his clothes were splattered with rain, while ice-cold puddles gradually seeped into his soles. A suffocating silence blanketed them as he pointedly walked as quickly as he could without breaking into a run, and he was mildly affronted by the fact that Kurosaki kept up with absolutely no effort.

'Where are you going?' Ichigo finally asked.

'None of your business,' he retorted, pulling his jacket closer.

'Every month,' Ichigo said without paying Hitsugaya any heed. 'Every month, all the Gifteds in town have a meeting. We're at the regional library's meeting room tonight. I think you should attend, and get an idea of what you're dealing with.'

Hitsugaya had abruptly stopped walking, and was staring into the horizon, where lengths of clouds stretched endlessly. In the dank gloom, the corridors than ran between buildings felt taller and narrower and more claustrophobic. He felt as if every passing day was closing in on him, until it would eventually drive him to madness. He wondered if anything could slow his inevitable dizzying spiral downwards, his descent into oblivion.

'Okay,' he agreed, scuffing one shoe over the edge of a crumbling pothole. 'I'll show up after study group tonight.'

.

The sky had cleared almost magically, taking the downpour with it, leaving a crisp night and a canvas of stars that was vignetted by the overwhelming glow of city lights. A chill had settled deep within him as he waited on the front steps of the imposing building, and Ichigo had just begun contemplating the possibility of coldly being stood up when he spotted Hitsugaya sauntering self-righteously down the pavement, his bright white hair practically glowing under the illumination of the street lights.

'Look,' Hitsugaya announced vitriolically. 'The sun is down, I'm not dead.'

'Very nice,' Ichigo drawled. 'The meeting started a while ago, but I'm sure everyone will be glad to meet you.'

The shorter boy scoffed. 'I don't think so. I've never had a predisposition to congeniality.'

The pair fell into silence as Ichigo lead the way in through a dilapidated side door and up a flight of creaking steps, to the only door along the entire corridor with light seeping out under the wood. He knocked sharply before turning the icy metal door handle and pushing the heavy door forward, only to stop short in his tracks with the door partially ajar. He felt, with acute awareness, his blood run cold as he stood rooted to the spot, unable to turn from the nightmarish scene splayed gruesomely before him.

Hitsugaya stepped forward and around him, but he flung an arm out across the doorway. 'No. D-don't- Don't come in.' the tremors in his own voice frightened him, the way his fingers shook despite all the self-control he could muster terrified him more than he had ever been before. 'Don't look. Don't- oh god-'

The air was still - too still, as if someone was controlling every last particle in it, yet the stench of countless deaths permeated the staleness effortlessly, churning Ichigo's insides while he willed himself not to revisit dinner. People - bodies - were strewn across the floor like discarded dolls, hair flared around their heads like halos. They lay fallen and motionless, their eyes half-lidded and hyaline, distant and horrifying. People with lives, with families, with futures, with dreams, lay with everything ripped brutally and cruelly from their grasps, lay so angelically still it seemed as if the world would carry on regardless of their existence. Decorating every surface in the room, like freshly-fallen snow, was a layer of scattered, empty yellowed pages. He had unconsciously stepped forward, leaving Hitsugaya to prop the door open and allowing him full view of the bloodcurdling atrocity laid out before them. Realisation crept upon Ichigo like a shadow, unnoticeably slowly, preceded only by stone cold dread and denial.

'No,' he whispered, mostly to himself. Turning almost blindly, he said to Hitsugaya, 'We need to run.' He mentally cursed himself for not noticing the door clicking shut, for the wide-eyed apprehension that dominated Hitsugaya's expression.

'The murderer was here. The murderer...he's one of us. The murderer is Gifted. I...I don't understand,' he felt panic swell within his chest, and he struggled to keep it down, willing adrenaline to overpower his emotions. 'We need to run,' he urged Hitsugaya again, and reached one trembling hand for the door.

.

The instant his hand brushed the tarnished metal of the door handle, the lights blinked out, fizzling neatly and plunging them into a grey shadow illuminated only by the moon through the windows. A heavy thunk bolted the door shut, echoing around the darkness with his frantic breaths. His control over his hysteria was slipping, and he let out a shuddering breath. As his eyes met Hitsugaya's he realised that the other boy had levelled him with a steady gaze, glowing in the night like a cat's.

'You can't run,' he informed him monotonously.

'You don't- I don't understand. We have to run - the murderer is-'

'Here.' the smaller boy spoke quietly, yet his voice echoed eerily with a demanding presence. 'You're talking to him now,' a smirk tugged the left corner of his mouth up ominously, his slim fingers caressing a dusty book.

Ichigo choked out a constricted laugh. 'No, you're not,' he said unconvincingly. 'You just found out about Gifts yesterday.'

'Lying isn't beyond me, you know,' Hitsugaya held the book expertly in his left hand, running the fingertips of his right hand over the spine from top to bottom. The movement was slow and deliberate, and Ichigo could feel the fear bubbling inside himself as Hitsugaya continued to speak. 'You think you need to protect me, because you're bigger than I am, because you have power that you thought I didn't. Because I look like I can't fend for myself. You were wrong,' he laughed drily. 'You led me to all the Gifteds left in the city. Your selflessness is your downfall, Kurosaki.'

The book balanced between his hands twisted, pages flying forth like feathers from a torn pillow, filling the room and filling his ears with the rushing and crashing of a river rushing along its course.

'So, how does it feel to be trapped in the same room with a mass murderer? How does it feel? Aren't you lucky?'

'But why? Why would you do this?' Ichigo's throat was dry as paper, his voice scratchy as if he'd been speaking for days, though he knew he had only been trapped in this nightmare for less than an hour.

Hitsugaya laughed again - it was the same laugh as when he rambled on about the futility of his studies. 'What use is the power of words when people get so caught up with the power that they forget the value of the power? Why have tangible power when the real power is in real words?'

The voice faded to a distant whisper as he felt the air around him swell with magic.

'The world shouldn't be a place where a tangible power prevails over true power.' Hitsugaya's voice was soft and muffled, as if he were underwater, yet clear as if he were an arm's length away, though Ichigo knew he was neither, as he could see him seated atop the heavy mahogany table in the centre of the room.

Ichigo fought for breath amidst swirling paper and howling wind - when had the windows shattered? 'W-why do you use your Gift to kill? Why do you use your Gift to take lives?'

Hitsugaya's haunted voice chilled him to the bone. 'You call yourself Gifted. Me? I am cursed.'

Ichigo swallowed, gulping air that wouldn't reach his lungs. 'Then when will you free this town? How many more must you drag down?' The howling intensified, and he could barely hear his own hoarse voice any longer, though Hitsugaya seemed to hear him perfectly well.

He smiled serenely, with the air of an innocent child. 'Two,' he said plainly.

'Two?' Ichigo managed to choke out as patches of his vision faded away in a nauseating blur. He had disjointedly come to understand that he was next to fall victim to the mass murderer that had been terrorising the city. The room was swirling around him alarmingly, rippling and pulsing as if someone had breathed life into it. 'Who's the last?'

There was a pause, and the last thing Ichigo remembered seeing amidst a hurricane of fluttering pages, newly ripped from their spine, dark ink peeling and falling away with the iridescence and weightlessness of scales. was a set of bright white teeth behind pale curled lips.

'I am.'

.

.

end

AN: oh I am terrible. I have done terrible things. Like almost making the sun set and Jupiter rise in the same part of the sky. (Thankfully I spotted that while editing.) No other story has gone as spectacularly amok as this one. How? Well, let's just say it was originally called 'Revival', and was supposed to be about empowerment. I guess this anarchist and self-destruction stuff is more my thing. I didn't even know I was this scary I scared myself writing this

Also, I really like this concept of books and words being sources of power, which I originally came up with for 'Wild', so it reappears here.

Please review! (And if someone could kindly tell me exactly what genre I've been writing? I think I've confused myself)