Fruits Basket Fan Fiction ❯ Life, Death, and a Change of Seasons ❯ Life, Death, and a Change of Seasons ( Chapter 1 )

Standard Disclaimer: They aren't mine.

 

AN: When do you figure out who is talking? It becomes more obvious as the story progresses. Also, Kudos if you can find the references to four books, well, three books and one poem. Good luck!

 

Due to reviewer comments, (kashuneko and Empressariyana) I have added some additional content. They thought I didn't address the issue of love well enough, so I tried to. Thank you all for the encouraging remarks! I write more when I think people are enjoying my stuff. As always, criticism is welcome.

 

 

Death. It is such a simple thing. It's a part of life. What is life? It's an everlasting wheel, corresponding to the cyclical motions of our experience. Everything is a damn circle. Every circle exists within a different circle on into infinity, two circles. Our planet rotates on its axis while rotating around sun. Don't forget the many satellites of Earth: the moon, man-made scrap metal that takes pictures of our enemies, space junk: they are all in circles too. The sun is one of billions of stars, all rotating in our galaxy. Our galaxy is one of many in its own constant orbit around some much larger entity. What's next? More circles, less answers?

 

Then there are the seasons. Don't get me started on the seasons. I know Hatori gets all wrapped up in spring, but don't listen to him. He's a bumbling idiot when it comes to love. Christ man, that was years ago, get over it already. I dip my fruit in honey in the summer time. Well, in spring too . . . there you go Hatori; I included your favorite season. Honey is sweet; it is all that is good in the world. It is derived in the spring. It even kills the germs! Have you ever had honey made from bees that live among cherry trees? It tastes of life. But what happens in the winter? Everything must be canned, stored in the salty brine of my tears. In the winter, my heart is no longer ripe, but preserved. A mere shadow if its former glory. Canned tomatoes are disgusting. Is my heart swollen in some jar too? Is it waiting for someone to open it, and turn up their noses as they wish for spring? Canned peas are even worse. Everything turns gray in a jar. Everything turns gray in the winter. It's a cycle. I hate cycles.

 

Funny, it is summer. Right now I am eating some of Yuki's strawberries, those he grew especially for Tohru. They are so fresh they don't even need honey. I can look at these strawberries and see the intensity of their color. The saturation of the flavor mixes with the brilliant red and overpowering aroma providing a sensational experience. It still feels gray though. I am gray to my core, my skin, my bones, down to my senses. Everything is still gray. I look at the world through foggy glasses. They are clean though. The real ones I mean. I checked.

 

Strawberries remind me of adolescence. Teenagers have it easy. Life is so much simpler when you are stupid. You are immortal. Through the green spring, you have no perception of the winter life will throw at you. You have no perception of death. All teenagers play the role of the tragic hero, though. They think their lives are so hard, that everything is a tragedy. Every adolescent thinks they, and they alone, bear the pain of the world. No one else could have possibly felt the earth quakes that rock their systems. Even through all of their constructed tragedies, they are still stupid and happy. Ignorance is bliss; it's true.

 

Everything is a circle. While death may be the end of an individual's time on Earth, it is the beginning of another's. This is particularly true to those of us born into the zodiac. When one of us dies, another is born in our place. Our god may fall, but some deity will rise to the occasion. A new star will be seated at the head of our banquet. The god, then the rat, then the ox and so on and so forth until we get to the boar. We sit in a circle. Everything is a circle. I'm tired of circles.

 

I'm alone in my bathroom right now, collecting my thoughts. No on else is home. It is nice to have peace and quiet every now and then. The lights are off and I've taken a ton of aspirin, some sleeping pills too. Hot water is pooling around my feet. Everything is ready. I'm all set to go. I can still taste the strawberries on my tongue. A good way to go; tasting strawberries I mean.

 

Strawberries are good. They usually aren't quite as good as they used to be, but right now I am obsessing over them. They way the flavor plays on my tongue, the random seeds caught in my teeth. I clean out my mouth. Seeds are bitter. There aren't many things as good as strawberries. Sex, sex is good. Sex is excellent. Usually. There isn't else anything like penetrating a woman. Try as I may, I never can quite describe the utter euphoria that accompanies sex. The way your groin tightens when you know it's coming, she's asked you to come inside, but you don't know exactly when it's going to happen. And finally, the relief you feel when you finally are inside her. That relief doesn't last long, it builds again until you explode. I love every thrust that brings me closer to my apogee. I love the feelings of dominance I feel when I have won. I have fucked her; she has given me everything there is to give. I love the feeling of sleeping with a man. Knowing for the first time what it feels like to be vulnerable, to be completely at the mercy of your partner.

 

I'm horny as shit right now. My penis is throbbing. I wish I were sleeping with a woman right now. It would be raw and carnal. Hell, I wish I were fucking a woman and being fucked by a man. Those are my favorite. Favorites… hmm… Aya. He is my favorite. I'd never participate in menagerie with him. I don't even like to fuck him. I know I am so greedy when it comes to sex. Dare I say I love him? We haven't had sex is a while, for a lot of reasons really. The kids, privacy, we're busy, whatever, but I think I don't want him to love me. Maybe I knew this was coming. Maybe all along I have been postponing the inevitable. I've been pushing him away slowly to prevent him from grieving. He will grieve, but he will understand. I'm sorry Aya.

 

I have to admit though; sex isn't nearly as fulfilling as it used to be. Maybe it's because I've taken away half the fun. I don't want any callbacks. That used to be thrilling. Sleeping with a woman and wondering if she liked what I was doing, if she was having fun. I would wonder if I'd ever see her again. The next couple of days were angst filled drama. I'd pace by the phone, willing it to ring, already planning our next sexual adventure. Now days I dread it when someone calls me back. That's why I avoid virgins; they always call back. I can't really blame them though. When sex was young and new I dreamed I'd find the one, too. Sex meant a commitment then, or at least a phone call. Warning ladies, I'm not the one, not like it matters now.

 

Christ, I'm still horny. I suppose I should do something about that. I'm not the type to deny myself pleasure. Mmm, it feels good. I'm thinking of a time in college. It was unremarkable; I don't know why I still remember it. Ah, my breath is getting choppy, and I'm grunting pretty loudly. I never get to masturbate like this, someone is always home. It was one of those episodes of multi-partnered sex I was referring so fondly to earlier. It was hot. I was fucking some girl; she was tight as hell. I remember being barely able to contain myself for the whole experience. Some guy was going at her from behind. I let him set the pace so I wouldn't transform… or cum too soon. Behind me, there was some other guy, fucking the hell out of me. The sensations were amazing. I wish sex still felt like that. I felt that man deep inside me while I was deep inside of her. You know those things with the little silver balls? You pull one and it hits the next until it transfers the kinetic energy to the last one. Click. Click. Click. That's what we were, a big pile of kinetic energy, each one slamming into the next and back again. I'm grunting really loudly, I don't know why, but I like the way my noises are echoing off of the bathroom walls. Through the darkness, it sounds like there are other men masturbating in time with me. I remember when she finally came. She got even tighter. I wanted to hold on, keep fucking her, but it was too much. I emptied myself into her, and it was over. Within seconds, both of the other guys came too. There was so much jiz between the three of us. It was a sticky mess. Maybe that was the first time I had been with more than one person at a time, maybe not. I don't remember.

 

I don't know why I think of her now. I wish I remembered her name. Maybe I'd call her. I'm sure she's married now; has children. She kind of reminds me of Tohru. She was small, with long brown hair, a delightful figure, and wide innocent eyes. She was anything but innocent though. That wasn't the first time I fucked her, and it wouldn't be the last. She was more of a swinger than I was at that point. I wonder if Tohru is crazy like that. That's a nice thought. I'd love to fuck Tohru. I wouldn't though, well, maybe after Yuki or Kyo got at her. One of these days, one of those boys is going to take her for the ride of her life. That would be fun, too bad it won't be me. Man, in college, I would already have strung her up. I'd have seduced her and had her in my bed in less than a month. I know her type; those were my favorite when I was young. She would always call you back. I hate morals; they don't suit me. I wonder why those boys haven't taken her yet. They have a lot more patience than me. They will though, someday.

 

I'd love to fuck Tohru. I've never allowed myself to think about it before now, but now seems like as good a time as any. It's my fantasy; I can do whatever the hell I want. I'd be alone in the house with her, she'd be cooking in one of those short skirts of hers. She'd be wearing thigh high's, I'm sure of that. I'm lurking in the doorway, hunting my prey. Oh dear, she dropped a spoon, she bends over to pick it up. Why isn't she wearing any underwear? I know, I know, of course she wears underwear, but this is my fantasy, so leave me alone! She is bent over, her skirt exposing her fine ass, and quivering cunt. I'm on it. I am to her in less than a second; I penetrate through her in one swift thrust. She's been thinking naughty thoughts; she's ready. I feel her maidenhood break away as I push through it. She screams, pleasure and pain simultaneously echoing through her body. She quivers at my touch as I try to steady her so I can continue my thrusts. She bends back over, allowing me smoother entrance to her pussy. I am greedy with her; I fuck her like I've always wanted to. I'm on my knees now, taking her on the kitchen floor. I don't know how we got down there, but it isn't important. I'm holding onto her hips, guiding her backwards into me as I slam inside of her. Our screams are loud. They climb higher in pitch and intensity as we near our apex. Finally, it's over. I empty myself into her. God that felt good. I plunge my hand into the hot water, cleansing it from the semen that just erupted from my cock. It's full now, the bathtub I mean; I should turn it off. If I were fucking Tohru… after the first time, she'd stay home from school one day. We'd have a giant sex fest all day. We'd sneak off and fuck every time we could when the boys were home, and when they weren't… well, it'd be like that day. I suppose eventually we'd grow bored of one another, but every now and then… She'd look at me a certain way and off we go. That'd be nice, I'd like to fuck Tohru.

 

Love. I'm not talking about that silly romantic love I'm told I'm supposed to feel. I'm talking about agape, the bond, not the emotion. Love is… what's the quote? Love's such a joke, like a little jack-in-the box. You go around in circles (Hah! Circles!) looking for love. One day it just pops in front of you. WOW! It feels good to be loved, loved by someone who doesn't have to love you. Love is an organism, an entity. It needs to be fed and nourished. It can never be stagnant; it pulses through our veins with the fluidity of the human soul. What happens when someone doesn't love you back? Where there is no bond; there is no love. I don't believe in unrequited love. It's so difficult to stuff your expectations back into the tiny box from whence they came. If there is no bond, was there ever one? Can alliances be broken, or were they ever really formed? I always thought I loved so deeply, but I don't believe in unrequited love. I have never loved at all.

 

Meaningless, meaningless, meaningless, everything is meaningless under the sun. What is that? Ecclesastes? I don't know; I'm not into Judaism. Everything seems… dismal. I lied; I have studied the Tanakh. I've read it like I have read every piece of literature that passes under my nose. I deconstruct every word within the context of every sentence, every sentence within the context of the verse (or paragraph), the chapter, the book etc. Every word is important. Why did the author use this word instead of that one? I analyze patterns and repetitions. If the author says it once, it is important. If the author says it more than once than it is really important. I have learned to recognize type-scenes. My life is a type-scene that I have pulled from the Tanakh. Saul was to be a great king. He arrived at a well like many before him, but he did not meet his bride. His wedding scene was truncated abruptly as was his reign. That is I. I have everything in front of me to achieve everything I have ever wanted. I have spoken with the maidens at the well, but they have since fled. My expectations have collapsed into the very well that birthed them. Tiki Tiki Tembo No Sa Rembo Chari Bari Ruchi Pip Pari Pembo has fallen into the well. The moon and the stars, and everything in the universe has drowned. Funny, I'm in a bathtub! Everything is gray.

 

Enough of my silly babblings, it's time to go. I'd like some strawberries, I wish I'd brought some in here, but it's too late. I left some hundred or so manuscripts on my desk. I've been extremely prolific in my last year. That ought to keep my darling editor busy for a while; it'll help her pay the bills until she can find my replacement. I'm so mean to her. It makes me laugh. Many of those books aren't my usual garbage. There are some nonfiction works. They are full of poetry and prose. Presenting paradox after paradox of the experience known as life. I talk myself in circles, confusing the hell out of my reader. I hate circles.

 

Where is that razor blade? I know it's in here somewhere, ah there it is. My hands are trembling. Am I scared? Do I doubt my motives? What are my motives? Why am I doing this? Actually, I don't really know. I haven't been having a bad day, nor a bad month. Teenagers kill themselves because their girlfriends cheat on them, not me though. Love seems trite. Life is trite. Yesterday, I told Akito I was going to do it. He didn't believe me. When I shrugged and didn't fight him, I think he got that I was serious. He forbid me to do it. Like he could stop me. Maybe, I'm doing it to prove him wrong. I am disobeying direct orders from my god. No, that isn't it; I'm not the type to do anything for anyone else. I've disobeyed Akito a hundred times. The thoughts have been pattering through my brain for longer than I even considered telling him. Maybe I'm doing it so I won't go through with the plan for Tohru. It would hurt her. No, that isn't it either. Hatori pretty much knows what's going on. He's a smart man; he'll figure out the rest and probably do it himself. The others would figure it out soon enough anyway. That isn't why. I live my own way; I die my own way. Sounds funny when I put it like that. It sounds tritely profound. Ah, another paradox, a circle. I hate circles.

 

Patterns are difficult for me to understand. Sometimes I'll stare at the tiles on the floor for hours. I want to make sense of the pattern. They seem so easy, so repetitive. I'll try to draw the pattern later, but it's gone. The patterns always win. My comforter has a pattern. It reminds me of a book I read in high school. I always try to follow the pattern on the comforter. I'll stay awake for hours trying to memorize it. When I think I've got it, it throws be a curve ball, so to speak. It loops around in some unexpected way; it wins. Then I see that curve ball repeated time and time again throughout the blanket. Why can't I understand it? I hate patterns. They are like cycles, and you ought to know by now what I think of cycles.

 

Slash. One motion, it was kind of painful. I suppose it didn't hurt that much. Death is easy. I've cut myself from my elbow to my wrist. Slash. There goes the other one. I submerge my arms in water. I wonder if I'm bleeding. It doesn't really matter though. I've taken enough sleeping pills so that I won't wake up in enough time to prevent myself from getting hypothermia. I'm going to die in this bathtub one way or another. I'm getting dizzy. I wonder if it's because of the blood loss or the sleeping pills. It isn't important. I hope Tohru doesn't find me. By the time she gets home I'll be all bloated and stained. I'll be pickled in my own blood, a canned tomato. I'll be the color of a strawberry. I like strawberries. I wish I had some strawberries right now, but it's too late. At least I can still taste them. What a good way to go! I'm really dizzy.

 

Is someone in my house, calling my name? I could just be imagining things. Hallucinating. It's getting closer, but further away. Another paradox. It sounds like Hatori. “SHIGURE?!” “SHIGURE?!” What the fuck do you want, leave me alone. If someone is here they had better not find me in time. I'm dizzy. My eyelids are heavy. That voice is fading. Maybe he's leaving, maybe I'm leaving. It isn't important. It's time to go now. If it wasn't so dark in here, I bet my vision would be getting foggy. It would be so gray. I'm glad it isn't. Sitting in the dark is the way to go. So dizzy, I'm falling. I can't wait until I hit the ground.

 

“SHIGURE?!” “SHIGURE WHERE ARE YOU?”

 

I couldn't answer if I wanted to.

 

 

AN part 2: So, please review. Constructive criticism is welcome. I'm writing in response to the recent suicide of a very important author. I didn't think of the parallels between he and Shigure until after I'd started my story. If you are confused, I am simulating what is called flight of thought. It is something that often accompanies mental illness. Flight of thought usually has fewer strings attaching one line of thought to the next, but I thought I'd draw some of the lines to make it less confusing. Please, tell me what you think. I am always open to changing things if it would better suit the story.