Unsurprising

By Yavie

In retrospect, they decided, perhaps the end was not particularly shocking.

To him, she had simply been another one of them. They did as they were required, then were no longer of use. There was nothing special about her, nothing remarkable in the way she lived her life. She was simply there as an applicator of gauze and antibiotic cream, an aid in tying bandages, a writer of hall-passes. In a way, he was correct. His almost daily visits to the medical office were not the highlight of her day. She treated every ailing teen with the same care as she bound his gouges and scrapes.

He had been among a handful of new students at the beginning of that year. He had been a topic of interest among the female population with his silvery corn-silk hair and cool demeanor. Within a week, however, he had successfully repelled any friendly advance with the flat, uninterested glower that had, by this point, all but frozen onto his otherwise pretty face. As with any that built up a reputation as a societal deviant in the school, he began to find himself on the receiving end of testosterone-fueled wrath. Most claimed to be seeking compensation for insults, whether real or imagined.

He did not mind.

There was something about the brief flash of fear that flitted across the faces of his opponents as they realized that their delicate-featured target had gained the upper hand in the scuffle, as he always did. If he had been anyone else, perhaps he would have called it pride. But to name it as such, he would have had to stoop to the level of his classmates. And he would not.

Regardless, due to his many after-school (and sometimes during-school) scuffles, the boy often found himself seated upon a sterilized cot in the nurse's office.

There was nothing remarkable about the nurse at all. She was, he supposed, beautiful enough, if not too heavily made up. She went about her duties diligently. Altogether, she was a normal woman. Likewise, he was nothing she had not seen before. She'd had her share of delinquent cases, always visiting the nurse's office for patching up. There had been many with cold demeanors and thankless ways that had passed through her hands.

But there was something. Something.

The strawberry-haired nurse never flinched away from his cold stare. Never seemed offended that he had not once offered up any thanks for her treatment of his many injuries. There was something in that smile that so often pulled at her ruby-coated lips.

It seemed to her eyes that he was not merely a disgruntled teen. He never appeared to be angry. Never acted outraged at his lot in life. He did not fabricate bogus excuses for the bruising to his knuckles. Sometimes, she wondered if the boy knew he was alive. Nevertheless, she asked no questions, and he gave no answers. She continued to offer up what she could: bandages and a smile. The smile stayed on her face almost perpetually. She smiled despite the unappreciative, deadpan stare that he constantly pinned her with.

Dim puzzlement continued to tug at the back of the boy's mind. There was something. He could not put a name to it. Something in that smile. Something in the way she carefully administered bandaging and ointment. Something in the way she greeted him with an amiable nod each morning and many afternoons. Something, something, something. He could not put names to somethings. There was nothing familiar in her smile that he could identify. It was not disdain, that much he knew. There was no telltale grimace behind those smiling red lips. Nor was there pity.

After three months of such puzzling encounters, she finally spoke. Neither of them had realized until that moment that they had never said a word to one another. And yet, one afternoon the nurse opened her mouth. "What is your name?" she inquired softly, still smiling, her voice rich as the red of her lipstick.

It took a moment for the question to sink into his mind. He had not expected her to speak. She had never spoken to him before. Something akin to indignation flashed in the back of his mind, and he stood from the cot and pinned her with his chill glare. He stood several inches taller than she did.

Silence fell. He stared, and she smiled up at him. They stood there as the seconds ticked by. First period began.

Something broke. "N…Nataku Kazuki," he muttered finally.

Her smile did not broaden with her victory. "Nataku-kun," she repeated softly. "Have a good day." And she meant every word.

Perhaps, they both decided in the end, it could not have been any other way.

Desperation can make a person stupid. Stupidity with a weapon is perhaps the only thing more deadly than intelligence. The man had certainly been desperate. When he picked up the razorblade from his desk drawer, stupidity found itself a weapon.

When he spied the rosy-haired woman walking down the street, he expected an easy target for his desperation-born, weapon-toting stupidity. He did not once bother to look over his shoulder. It was too late at night for any passerby to notice, anyway. He expected to rush over, snatch what he could to satisfy his desperation, and efficiently dispatch the woman before she could cry out.

Perhaps it would have gone well for him.

What he did not expect was the flash of flaxen hair slender limbs that materialized from behind him as he prepared to deliver the final stroke to the woman's throat. With a gurgling cry, he blindly flung his arm behind him, thrusting the knife into the first solid surface it came into contact with. The arms around his neck faltered briefly, and, encouraged, he stabbed behind him again, again, again…

Is there really any need for all of this? the boy's fogged mind harrumphed as he lay limply in the stretcher restraints. A white-clothed medic at his side murmured urgent reassurances. The boy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was no fool.

His vision cleared for a moment, and he recognized a familiar ruby smile hovering some few inches above his face. "Nataku-kun," the voice murmured, muffled somewhat to the boy's ears.

"Can they just let me go? I'm dying," the boy said sourly, motioning feebly with one of his restrained hands.

The smile did not falter, but a sigh escaped those lips. The lipstick was somewhat smeared. "I know." She did not offer any words of encouragement. He did not want them, anyway, she knew. "But they do what they have to. I want to thank you, Nataku-kun, before you go. So, first of all, thank you. Thank you."

"Welcome," the boy mumbled blearily. "Thank you, too."

"For?" There was no answer. "For what, Nataku-kun?"

Perhaps she should have been stunned. Hysterical. Sobbing. Guilt-stricken. Perhaps he should have been appalled. Disgusted in himself. Conversely, perhaps proud. In the end, however, they reached a mutual agreement in the middle of that street-lamp-and-police-cruiser-lit sidewalk.

It was unsurprising.

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