The world stands twisting in front of me

I was blind, but still I cannot see

All this destruction with the slice of one thin blade

All the silence in the eyes of this sweet babe

Blooded Butterfly Wings

Part 4

Sifting Salt Through Sand

It had to have been a dream.

There had been too much hope in Hell. Hope melts like snow after so long. It can no longer endure the questions pressed upon it by the tiny voice of reason buried in a heart's shallow grave. It gives in to the plagues of reality.

Asuka squeezed her eyes and didn't open them. Gradually, all the senses in her skin were roused and aware. She could feel the stiff bandages covering her face and forehead. They wrapped around her ribs, and a heavy cast was on her old broken arm. She felt the itch of the IV in her opposite arm.

She pulled it out and sat up in the bed. The sheets were cool against her skin.

The room didn't smell of mold.

Or mildew.

Or dirt.

Or blood.

It smelled of all things clean, and enough to choke her on its sterility. Her ribs cried out as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and plopped her bare feet onto the floor.

She still didn't open her eyes.

Her hands found the wall and she supported herself against it as she sat down. Slowly, she let her lids open to the room.

Asuka curled in the corner of the room. The linoleum was cool against her thighs. None of the lights were lit up or glowing. Her chin rested on her knees as they were pulled to her chest, and she held them there with her hands.

She stared at the window.

Through the blinds, slivers of sun shone through. She could hear the birds through the window, a thing she had wanted with all her soul since her capture, so why did it scare her until her torso hurt with the abuse of a beating heart?

He was standing to her side. He wasn't doing much, just watching her. His mouth stuttered and words came in fractions and scattered pieces across the air. He tried to catch her attention with his mouth as well as his hands. His fingers moved out to touch her, then retracted back to the palm with his expression.

But Asuka refused.

What was the point in talking to ghosts?

She knew he had died that day. She'd seen him die.

She wondered where her dress was, and if they'd washed away the stains of grease and red to try to bring out the old color.

Why was she trying to forget his name now?

It had been her only thing to cling to from the original world when in the hands of the "radical God-ridden bastards," as Misato called them, and now that she had returned to this place, she wished to cleanse herself of it.

The bed next to hers was occupied.

She saw the blue hair outlined and laced with bandages, not unlike her own head. A steady breath came and went inside the girl's chest. Asuka saw the bruises on the ivory skin, the ones that fell in a distinct pattern of five along her neck. She felt shame. Her ribs tightened their grip on the pulse and blood in her chest.

She was far worse than Rei now.

She was now a doll herself, but one possessed. The china hands would turn on mere children and break your bones with cold hands that let go of nothing when you cut them. Your soul could seep away into those painted eyes as she killed you behind satin, frills and fake curls.

He sat down finally, and kept his azure eyes on her form.

She could ignore the stares of spirits though.

Why was he here?

Was he going to haunt her in every moment? Appear in the reflection of steamed mirrors like ghosts always do? Watch her wither and wilt as she grew into the ripe peel of an old woman, while he stood behind her, stuttering in transparent youth? Was this how it was to be?

"He won't leave me."

Her words were mumbles against the white walls, but a fracture to the silence of this morning.

The ghost's face became confused.

"I kept him here."

Asuka let her forehead rest on her knees.

The door opened. A new person to greet her. She looked up at them from her corner.

A man. Brown hair. Stubble crisscrossing his chin.

The real Kaji.

His face was not like the memories that were bubbling up. It was strange, how she remembered things vaguely before and was now reminded and ceased to forget. His face was solemn as he looked at her. He cast a glance at the other. He looked at the ghost.

So he sees him too?

He lay something across the sheets she had rested on, something he had carried in with him.

The dress.

She didn't move from the corner. She resumed to stare at the blinds that filtered in slats of sun.

Kaji left without saying a word.

She heard the footsteps fade against the inside walls.

She attacked the dress. She pulled it close to her face. She could smell the fresh detergent on the surface. Her heart skipped and fingers traced their way to familiar seams. She looked franticly for them. She laughed when the red had faded to orange with the simple washing.

"He's still here," she said, pressing the fabric to her cheek. She could smell it still embedded in the dress. Somehow, relief came with that.

The ghost was still in the chair, staring at her with a puzzled face. It was one he had worn often and well when the heart still danced. He was a transparent doll. They were all dolls now. They had been stripped and painted, to be placed along shelves with numbers instead of names. The First, the Second, the Third. She would be in the middle of them both, staring ahead, ready to be played in this diabolical dollhouse NERV had created. This house wouldn't be pink, like all the other dollhouses.

What was an appropriate color?

He was a shadow, sitting there. He was not the original boy she had known. He was a shadow of that boy, a cast image to reflect and mimic.

Without light there is no shadow.

Asuka walked over to the window. She adjusted the blinds. They fell flat against the glass.

Darkness flooded in the room.

What was an appropriate color?

Black.

A rational choice, especially since it was the only color now.

Oh, fun stuff here.

Song Listened to While Writing This: Deftones – Change (In The House of Flies)

More soon!