Digimon Fan Fiction ❯ Lies, Crimes, and Punishments ❯ Grief ( Chapter 13 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Koushiro painted his face with his best pious look, rosary beads clasped in his hands for effect.
It killed him to wear these robes, their sanctity defiled. But he would do it gladly if it meant he could see Ken again. Apologize for the hurtful things he said.
Beg forgiveness from one, even if he could not from the Holy Father.
The guard standing before him gave him a self-confident, knowing stare. A cold chill crept over Izzy's skin. It was the same guard who had naively admitted him yesterday. His brow knit in embarrassment, in apology.
"I apologize for misleading you yesterday, Sir. I am- was a priest... I did intend to give counsel to the prisoner... I- I'm so sorry." He cast his eyes to the floor. "Is there compassion in your heart to let me pass through just once more?" He dared to look up, into the guard's eyes. Cold humor danced through them and spread to his mouth in a wicked grin.
"Who are you coming to see today, Father?" Koushiro closed his eyes against the false title, delivered with biting sarcasm. He swallowed against his own shame.
"Ichijouji Ken, Sir."
"I'm afraid he's not able to see visitors today." Koushiro's eyes fixed on the guard's, questioning, but not able to form a question. His hands shook, remembering the bruises on Ken's face, the bite on his neck. His mind rushed ahead, forming terrible conclusions.
"Why not?"
"He's dead, Father." Koushiro's eyes widened, his heart stopped. He had not dared to imagine that.
"No."
"Oh, yes. Care to know how long it took to sop his blood from the floor?"
"No! No, no, oh my God, no..." He remembered his hurt eyes from yesterday, vivid blue with pain. The terrible, vicious things they had said to one another, his from selfishness, Ken's from jealousy. No... Ken dead? This couldn't, this wasn't happening! His mind screamed, his heart clenched in his chest. Tears formed in his eyes and the guard took advantage of it, reveling in sadistic pleasure.
"Well, I'll tell you anyway. The blood was leaking from where his head used to be and it ran all over the floor. There was even blood spattered on the walls. Your poor Ichijouji got into a fight he couldn't win. They broke his arm." He paused for dramatic effect, very pleased to see the horror coursing over the false-father's face. This faggot. "They used the toilet seat to bash. his. brains. out." Koushiro's faced drained of blood, imagining the whole scene in his head. The guard clapped his hands together, mimicking the sound of a human skull cracking open.
Tears streamed down his face and he turned and ran, unable to stand the bold truth delivered in cold, heartless fashion.

He bunched his cassock in his hands and ran. Ran and ran, until his heart felt like it would beat out of his chest, like his lungs would explode. The snow and grey slush from the streets coated his shoes, chilling his toes. The wind slapped against his face. But he could not feel it.
Ken was dead.
Beaten to death by godless criminals in a concrete hell hole. Koushiro couldn't stop crying. It was all his fault, right from the beginning. He had taken him in, he had reached out to him in that dark room, taken his confession to heart. From the shower, to the floor, to the basement, all the places they had defiled each other... All the times he had opened his heart to him.
He loved him. He knew it in his fingertips, in the rapid, painful beating of his heart. And now he was dead...
He doubled over, clutching at the concrete railing for support. In his blind grief, without thought, he'd arrived at the bridge. His eyes traced the waves as the water rushed underneath him. The cold liquid beckoned, but he pushed the thoughts from his mind.
No... No, things were still unanswered. He took a deep breath, and with effort stood up from the railing. His cold hands into fists... And his feet led him to a familiar address.

The air was so bitter cold and it had frozen the trails of his recent tears to his face. Koushiro paused on the sidewalk, feet faithfully pulling him to the condemned house Ken had called home. 'This is where I followed him. This is where he said...' His mind refused to finish the thought.
The strange compulsion pulled him up the steps, through the broken door, up the stairs, carefully navigating the loose boards. A woman, hair matted with grease, eyes darting nervously, peeked out at him from one of the rooms. Izzy slowly withdrew his eyes from her accusing glare, finding the door that led to Ken's secret hideaway.
There it was - abused mattress bare on the floor, light streaming in from between the old threadbare curtains. With a great sob, Izzy sank onto the mattress, cupping his head in his hands.
It was all so broken, all so rushed and frantic... They were broken, their love frenzied and now... over. Two desperate souls had crept out of their bombshell lives to find one another and create some tiny happiness and sanity in the world. Now it was all gone.
And now he had Shinseki... Koushiro had ruined his and Ken's tenuous happiness by lusting after another man... By fornicating with him! He was going to hell, there was no doubt about it. What type of punishment would Divinity merit him? Fire and lamentations? An eternity being crushed beneath the clubs of sadistic taskmasters? Izzy's sobs grew frantic and he pulled his head up from his hands, lungs wracked, desperately trying to slow his cries.
He was used and thoroughly abused, and how he would pay for it. He begged for mercy! He was already suffering deep and lasting lacerations. Ken had loved him and he had been too blind to see it. All the others: Professor Chambers, perhaps Achikawa, perhaps Shinseki? It pained him to think, but he knew deep down, all the others were just using him.
The hurt, the shame, engulfed him and on impulse he reached under the mattress to one of Ken's hidden caches. Sure enough, there was a small pharmacy of illicit drugs: pills, bags of powder, bottles of liquid, still sterile syringes.
He had no chance of forgiveness now, and his vile member twitched with the thought of Shinseki, of Ken. Of the sinful and pleasurable things they had done...
There was no further to go, no more mortal sins to blemish his soul... Save one.
Tears running down his face, Koushiro pulled one syringe out of its plastic home. Its owner wouldn't mind, his essence had already violently evacuated his body, seeking out another plane.
To heaven, to hell? Or the vast void? Did god even exist? Did any of this even matter?!
Koushiro bit his lip in pain, his heart and mind were tearing each other apart. Ken was dead, there was no escaping it, and the cruel fact kept running through his head. He didn't want to think about it anymore, he would meet his maker for an eternity of penance or the black depthless hole of non-existence.
The pills and powder - they would merely make him hallucinate. The liquid, perhaps a more viable option.
The 150 ml bottle bore a simple paper label: GHB. It had to be better than nothing. It had to be better than throwing yourself off a bridge. Better than eating a bullet, better than bleeding out your wrists. Better than living this cursed life.
He slid the sharp needle through the thin rubber top, filling the syringe with the clear liquid.
Koushiro breathed through his nose, flaring his nostrils, blind pain coursing through his veins. He held the needle gingerly against his arm, panicked tears leaking from his eyes.
No more pain, no more pleasure. He would follow Ken into whatever lay beyond.
He would share his fate.
The cold needle pierced his flesh and the plunger fell swiftly forward, depositing death into his body.
A sigh of relief passed through his mouth and he fell back onto the soiled cushion.
Ken had wanted to see the azaleas in spring.
Perhaps, wherever he was going, there would be azaleas in full bloom for them both...

Unbeknownst to Koushiro, further under the mattress, lay a letter opener.
Pristine and unused.

Shinseki's feet plodded slowly up the stairs to his apartment. Yesterday, they had literally flown - into the redhead's waiting embrace. Now? Now he was dreading the truth that was surely saturating his eyes, one which he knew the sharp man wouldn't easily miss.
He was dreading the conversation about his ex-lover, his death. He knew his own face reflected the aftermath of gore, his clothes still reeked with the smell of decay.
Abe's hand held the doorknob lightly, careful to place his key in the lock soundlessly, turn the knob slowly, so slowly. But Koushiro was not in the apartment. The detective walked from room to room, but there was no sign of his cerise haired angel.
The nervousness that dwelt in his stomach did not leave, but instead rose up his esophagus as his eyes scanned the dining room table, the kitchen countertops.
No note.

He was out getting dinner, or out... doing whatever it is that ex-priests do in the evening instead of being warm and safe in his apartment?!
Cold fear grew in the base of his gut. Why could keep Koushiro purposefully away from his inviting embrace at 7 at night? With no note? With no call?
He ran back down the stairs, out to his police cruiser, flying down the streets to the station. The streetlights and people passed in a blur, his knuckles gripping the steering wheel unconsciously.
He pulled into his parking spot haphazardly, killed the engine, pushed his way violently out of the car and up the concrete steps. Cold dread rotted in his gut as he approached the guards' lockers. There he was, grabbing his empty lunch box out of the locker and donning his coat and hat.
"Takahata. Can I have a word with you before you leave?" The guard forced a tired smile on his face. "Certainly, Detective. Can we walk and talk?" Shinseki tried to keep his speech slow, tried to keep his words from running over each other. His heart was pounding out of his chest.
"Did a priest come to visit the prisoners today?"
"Yeah, in fact two of them did. Why?" He wasn't being helpful, didn't plan on being helpful. The guards didn't hold the detectives in high regard, and vice versa. Different class strata, different socio-economic levels, good healthy law enforcement rivalry.
"Never mind why. Did one of them come to visit the deceased prisoner, Ichijouji?" The guard's eyes narrowed into slits.
"There's something fishy going on with the three of you, isn't there? That priest, god, he's the fruitiest faggot I've seen in a long time." He sneered derisively.
"Yeah, him..." The detective managed to keep his fists balled at his side instead of wrapped around Takahata's neck. "Did he come here today?" The guard nodded.
"Yeah, and it was great fun to see the look on his fucking face when I told him Ichijouji was dead." Takahata smirked, "Thought he could pull one over on me - I got the last laugh!"
Shinseki's face was mottled with rage.
"What time exactly was that?" His jaw was rigid.
"Oh, about 10 am..." He stopped walking towards the door, catching Abe by the shoulder. "Can I ask why? ...Again?"
"None of your fucking business. Get your filthy hands off of me!" His blood ran cold. 10 am. Where had he been all this time? Why hadn't he called him after he found out the news? Where exactly was he?!
He slapped the guard's hand back, bolting towards the entrance and to his car.
"What the hell is everyone's problem today?!" Takahata yelled, oblivious, at the swinging door.

The cold air met Shinseki's face, and he dropped his hands flat to the hood of his police cruiser, sucking air into his chest by the lungful. This couldn't be happening! Where was Koushiro?
If he found out in the morning, and he hadn't come home, and hadn't left a note, and hadn't called him...
Two thoughts passed through his mind: the bridge or the church. A cold shiver went down his back at the first possibility. Instead, he clung to hope, started up the Toyota, and drove like hell over to St Barnard's.

Achikawa was there to greet him with thinly veiled derision. Or was it jealousy? A dangerous brew boiled in his eyes as he answered Shinseki's one question, quickly and curtly.
"Haven't seen him. That's a blessing." The bridge, oh god, the bridge... As soon as he was back in the Toyota, as soon as the massive doors had closed, he buried his head in his hands and wept. He knew it, he knew it without having to see, without needing to hold his cold limp body in his arms. Why? Why just when he had found happiness? Why, when Koushiro had his options wide open, when he would be there, supporting him, loving him? Why? Was there no hope in the world, no promise? Did everything, even his bright and pure light, destined to be corrupted and deserted? He cried until his face burned, until his lungs screamed for air. The image of his blue lips and the dazzling light in his eyes mixed in his mind until he couldn't bear it any longer. The car started, guiding him solemnly home.

But when he arrived, the weight of the silence crushed him. There was no one to brighten the oppressive space, no presence to sing through the air. His angel... Cold and dead. The fridge, the vodka bottle called to him. Just a little to ease his pain. One shot for his smile. One shot for his smooth skin. One shot for the burning passion. One shot for the precipice of pleasure they brought each other to... No, two for that, and for the unutterable pain of its loss.

One shot for his sharp mind.
One shot for innocence.
One for saving his life once.
One for being powerless now.
One for the color of his hair in the morning light.
One for the spring he would never see, this endless winter.
One for his kindness.
One for his love.

Shortly, the bottle was empty and disorienting waves of pain and vertigo swam through his blood.
Perhaps he'd drunk too much. Perhaps he'd drunk too fast.
A lone tear crept down his face, touching his dry lips. Perhaps he'd meet his Koushiro once more after all. Sound was gone and blackness crept into his vision. At the very last, he thought he could taste him on his lips.
"My Koushiro..."

Epilogue

Winter passed inevitably into Spring as it had for millennia before. The river's waters warmed, the frost was expelled from the ground. The snow melted from the sidewalks and the sun struggled free from the tight clench of damp, dismal clouds. Freshly seeded grass grew over a patch of bare dirt, the color so verdant green it glowed in the early morning sunlight. It was a color only newly germinated plants could hold, there was no comparison in the wide scope of nature. The tiny strands covered the ground and in time would give the fresh grave generality, blending into the many small sites that covered the hillside. The small stone that marked the burial site was so much like the surrounding markers that passing mourners would have no cause to closely inspect it. The kanji was simple, marking the deceased's name and the date of his passing. It was a pauper's grave, a criminal's grave. There were no flowers to mark it. The only significance of the site was its perfect view of the brilliant azaleas that now covered the surrounding slopes.

Fresh green grass covered another new grave 800 miles south. Flowers and candles decorated the small but cleanly polished marker, lamenting the passing of the one buried beneath. Graceful kanji marked the name of the deceased and the day of his passing, and underneath three simple lines were carved:

Hitodama de (Now as a spirit)
yuku kisan ja (I shall roam)
natsa no hara (the summer fields)

It was by no means an audacious marker, it did not call out for attention. It simply proclaimed the abject grief of those left behind by the passing of a clever, beautiful, tragic soul.

If we return to the azalea covered hills of the north, we may catch a glimpse of the rich customs surrounding the funeral for a civil servant, a parade of uniforms on a stark hillside. The men and women are gathered, silent, in their grey dress garb, shoes polished to mirror perfection, hats and coats free of any shameful wrinkle or mar. Quiet as the falling of cold spring rain, one man, whose hands are tightly grasped around a small but exquisite jar, removes the lid and begins to pour out the contents. The wind is ever renewed in spring and it spirits the falling ashes away, lofts them high and out of sight while the stoic group trembles below. Where was the petulant wind taking these ashes? Out to sea? Up to the hills? Or perhaps to a different destination, one 800 miles south, to a small patch of ground decorated with a polished marker, graced with flowers, and wet with the tears of the morning dew.

Fin

Note/Credits: Hokusai wrote the haiku jisei death poem quoted above.