"Talk of Dreams"
by Acey

Chapter Three--Misery

"Operator, just forget about this call." -Jim Croce

In the half-quiet of the night, one more sound was audible amongst the insect's calls and animal howls, as full of pain as any of them. Yet even that faded into indistinction, the sobs, the light plink of the jewels Tarukane so long had made his billions from, as the workers came to eventual, restful sleep, paychecks soon to be in hand and the children free from nightmares by the shine of the nightlight dozed comfortably, not realizing how easy the comfort could be taken away, how simply it could fade as well.

But fadings were for objects and objects alone, the gradual blur of color into color in ancient photographs, the fountain pen's ink fifty years later now on brittle yellowed paper that had once been new. Yes, they were for things, just things.

Not a person. Not Kuwabara.

Not Kuwabara, who'd had fourteen years of life, enough for absolutely nothing at all, a dim blink, flash of light across the horizon, a mayflies' lifespan. He had been born five hundred years too early, another victim of time's ironies, only to die five hundred years too soon-- too soon for her or for anyone else worth the air they breathed.

More stones fell to the ground as she thought that, dropped with soft plinks on the wooden floor. She did not look at them, didn't want to look at them.

She had never cried like this, not all at once like this, even when she had been imprisoned by the humans, even then, when it had been only birds that had made life almost bearable and the thought of a brother somewhere, a brother that she had somehow made into more than a brother, a life-symbol, a divine protector that would save her.

But there was no brother, no godly hero with sword and shield, ready, ever ready to avenge the harm done to his sister. There were only two demons and a human she owed her life to, and was grateful for. Two demons, a human--

And Kuwabara, who dared to love her and for that love was laid on a cold slab under the ground.

...

When Yusuke had left the day before, Keiko had waved him goodbye half-heartedly, turned, closed the door, gone back to her room with its childishly pinkish walls she had never asked to paint over and its stuffed animals by the bed, things of purest innocence and delicate clouds and paper dreams of a little girl that was no more.

And so it went for the next day, getting out of bed when she heard the shuffles of her parents, the soft, serious conversations they had taken to since the ordeal, the smell of food-- and the voice, the eternal voice.

Her parents had tried to speak to her of it, but their results were as fruitless as Yusuke's own, if not, more so, because they realized how in vain it was. Parents could never succeed where friends of childhood had failed, another forgotten gem of adolescence.

'Maybe they will take me to the instituition,' she thought. 'Maybe they will.'

She shook this away. She was not crazy-- the voice was only trying to make it seem so, like a culprit pointing his finger at some bystander so he could make his exit. Yes. That was it. She was the sane one, never mind anything else.

Keiko laid her head back on the pillow, looked up at the ceiling, the walls, everything in her room to keep her mind away from those black thoughts, the mindless thoughts that had begun to creep in though she had tried to banish them, the thoughts of the asylum with its nurses and orderlies to wash you, dress you, its psychologists to tell you what was wrong but not to help you fix it.

There was a bookshelf at one end of the room, filled-- old classics all, teddy bears making a rebound placed on the sides. A bureau with a mirror, a wall with certificates taped all over it, a school picture from when she was seven. And beneath the notebooks and old annuals on the bureau, a picture of Yusuke.

She thought this over and the voice that Logic had left in its place said that it was quite the tame room for a murderess such as herself.

Instantly the idyllic perception blurred, dissolved, like a trick picture hanging from an elementary school wall that seemed like only a design-- until you gazed at it for what it really was and it showed its false third dimension.

The walls...

'Oh the walls-- oh no, no, no, the walls...'

The walls were covered in blood.

Dark, dripping blood that stood out harshly against the gaudy pink paint, sliding off the surface in so many droplets. It had strung itself all over the sides of the room like it had been flung around in careless maliciousness.

'Oh... oh...'

It would be everywhere soon, drowning the stuffed animals innocent of her crimes and the bed that had not allowed sleep since he had died. It would stain the volumes of books from the cover to the pages, no matter how thick. Then they would see-- then they would all see.

"I've got to clean it up, that's all. Got to clean it up." Keiko smiled nervously, teeth almost chattering. "After all, I can't leave it like this, won't leave it like this. What would-- what would Mom and Daddy say?"

She grabbed the doorknob and jerked the door open, getting out of the room, then shut it after a moment's thought. She rushed to the bathroom, comforting in its sameness, its white walls suddenly pure, pulling out a handful of old towels and a mop from the cabinet. When she had gotten these she rushed back to her room, wildly, taking no precautions as to who saw her.

"Yes, it won't take too much cleaning up... I've seen worse than this..."

Keiko had almost made it to her bedroom when she felt a hand touch her shoulder, strong and rough with calluses, a hardened hand that had known work in an age when work was scorned. It was a cold hand. A recognized hand.

She tried to run past, but it grasped her tightly, forcing her to stop and face her antagonist.

"Y-yusuke! What are you doing here!"

He didn't answer immediately, only looked down at what she was carrying, the frayed towels, the mop. His brow furrowed for a moment before he spoke.

"Keiko, what are you doing with this stuff?"

"I-- I made a mess in my room, that's all. With-- with some oil paints, I spilled some-- don't go in, I can take care of it-- Yusuke, don't go in there-- please, Yusuke-- don't go in there!"

She pulled on his sleeve, trying to will him to stop his turn of the doorknob, trying to will him to go on and say oh, all right, and leave her there, to do her job, to clean the room of its stains.

But he would not. Desperately, Keiko gripped his arm, pinning her weight against his. Yusuke easily pulled back from it, and when he had he opened the door.

'Now he's going to... now he will see...'

He scanned the room, tanned face suddenly drained of color. She could not see his eyes but knew what they would reflect-- total, irrevocable horror.

'And well he might, Keiko! Well he might! Perhaps then he'll make better decisions about the company he keeps! Demons, psychics, empaths-- none of them in their most heinous states were ever like you, Keiko, you and your neglectful killing. They saw their enemies and killed them, but not even the worst of them betrayed their allies. But you-- you do not realize enemy from friend, do you? Poor, sweet Keiko-- for that is showing. That is showing in his face at this moment, as he sees the blood on the wall. Watch his face, Keiko, watch him leave you.'

The voice stopped its words as Yusuke begun his own, and she saw as he turned toward her that his eyes were not as she suspected, only hollow, defeated.

"There's nothing there, Keiko."

He led her back down the steps without a word, ignoring all pleas and only tugging harder at her hand as she protested. He was distant now, thoughts consuming him like wolves, denial bowed down at last to defeat.

"Come on," he said, gripping her sleeve. "That's it. After all that's happened, that's it. Keiko..."

She stared at the carpet.

"There's still blood on those walls. I know it, I saw it! Why won't you believe me, Yusuke?! Why won't you believe me?"

"Because it's not there."

Keiko looked at him in shock.

"Not there? Of course it's there! Didn't you see it-- you couldn't have missed it, it's all over the walls! All over the walls..."

"There isn't any blood on the walls."

"It's all over the walls! It's soaking them! I know what I saw! Yusuke, just stop this. It's not funny. Just-- just let me back in there so I can try to clean it up. Yusuke, please..."

He said no more, and unconsciously the hand not holding Keiko's sleeve hardened itself into a fist with the fingernails cutting into the skin. He ignored the pain, what little of it there was in comparison to the crushing force of what had just happened. His last defense against the world's madness was stubbornness and stark denial, and now even that was in shreds on the floor, as real as the fervent way that she insisted on the blood that was not there.

She submitted, finally, as he opened the door to the room where her parents were, called them to come-- and, as they came, began, slowly, awfully, to speak.

...