Gensomaden Saiyuki Fan Fiction ❯ Halcyon/Hell ❯ Redux ( Chapter 4 )

Halcyon/Hell

By Eline (Kanz' on ff.net)

Warnings: AU fic--this is when the angst comes in . . .

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Into the infirmary, out of the infirmary and to Mara's office. Out of Mara's office and into the East Tower, NH's personal little purgatory.

It was where they attempted to bore you into seeing the error of your ways. Dark little cell with nothing in it--absolutely nothing. They checked you pretty thoroughly when you went in. As if I could hide a lighter and a whole box of cigarettes up my ass . . .

So the result is boredom. Bored. Very boring. I underestimated the depths of boredom one could sink to.

Dying for a smoke. Spent a while thinking about possible places to conceal coffin nails. Not much help.

I see why it is so effective. After one day in there, I was ready to go nuts.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Day three. Or was it two? It felt like an eternity and more. Have exhausted recounting all of all my not-so-legal moves with anything involving cards. Am now rolling a cup across the floor. It hits the wall, then it rolls back. I find it somewhere in the darkness with my foot and roll it at the wall again.

My mind was liquefying, I'm sure of it.

I considered wanking off and remembering all the girls who just wanted to have fun. But I probably I couldn't remember all their names . . . Only a smile, a flash of cleavage with a lot cigarettes and alcohol. They were always beautiful--I always said so.

They liked to hang over your shoulder, because everyone loves a winner. Everyone wants to sleep with a winner. They liked playing with the hair, but if they said anything about the scars, I was out of there. The same when they got a little too clingy--when they started to find excuses to come over and tell me that my place was a mess

Leaving . . . it's like a habit.

After that day Mom died, I just left before someone could remember that red-haired kid and ship me off to an orphanage. Now that I think about it, I was probably trying to disappear.

I think I wandered for a day or so before passing out. Some old lady found me--I forgot her name, or maybe I never knew her name--and brought me to a doctor. I remembered that I didn't speak for a week after I woke up. The old lady kept me fed and gave me shoes. Probably one of the most comfortable periods in my life, if only I was actually *there* to appreciate it.

Blank patches, scattered here and there. And black and white replays of that day, with a silent soundtrack of screams that were lodged up my throat.

When I finally spoke, it was to thank the old lady before I left.

Running . . . is habit-forming. Because it's pretty easy to just flee and not look back.

And you run and you run until there's nowhere else to run. When you're alone with your own thoughts and you're kicking the damned door for them to let you out because you don't want to think anymore--because all thoughts eventually led to *that* day and everything else associated with it--

I cut my knuckles while bashing at the door. In a move that was mostly instinct and habit, I sucked at them, tasting blood. Just like a kid who scraped his arm, or skinned his knees, only you learned not to go running to Mom about them because the sight of blood does funny things to her mind.

Practically everything about me did that to her.

And the whole neighbourhood knew that Mom was not right in the head. Imagine that . . . Couldn't pretend that bruises were from bumping into the door. Couldn't pretend that you weren't a half-breed bastard who didn't have a dad.

But your brother--who was the one you learned to run to when you got picked on--always told you to ignore them because they were all assholes.

So life carried on. It wasn't too bad, when Mom was actually stable and Jien had a job. You could forget the bad patches. But the stable times got fewer and shorter . . .

And she's always there in front of you. And you're always twelve years old. Scrawny-assed little brat. Haven't had a haircut in ages and for a very good reason too. Can't let Mom near your hair and a pair of scissors. Very, *very* bad idea. Jien had to stop her the last time she got it into her head to cut your hair. You were scared out of your wits then.

But in the end . . . in the end, you weren't afraid anymore because all you wanted was for it to end. You were so ready to die for her. Because she used to hold you, didn't she? She had brought you up even though you couldn't tell from the way she was towards the end. You'd like to think that she used to carry you and maybe smile at you when you were very small . . .

So maybe you wanted out of your life. Wanted to go back to a time when Mom loved you. Believed so hard that she must have--otherwise how could she have put up with you for twelve years? Believed that she went mad slowly. It's okay--just another one of her fits. It's okay--she'll get over this. It's okay--maybe she'll smile at you tomorrow . . .

And in one of those many tomorrows, she's standing in front of you, about to put you out of your misery. There's blood on you now. Blood from the scars on your face, trickling down in place of the tears that should, by right, be flowing.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I woke up from that nightmare, wondering if I had been screaming out loud because it sure felt like I had. My knuckles hurt like a bitch and I figured that I must have dozed off a while ago.

And I can't fall asleep again. Because she'd be there again. In this place. That guy I knocked out--he touched more than just a nerve. I had been doing just fine, merrily forgetting about the past--until someone who knew about the shit in my life showed up to remind me about it.

You can't run away from everything. Stuff like that. Like the blood in your veins. Like Mom's blood.

It used to be common to find her sitting on the floor, crying her eyes out. Once, I found her sitting in the middle of the leftovers of one of her destructive rampages. There had been blood on her dress and I was at my wits' end, not to mention scared to death that she had really injured herself this time.

Then Jien had to explain a few more facts of life to me. Like about the blood and why Mom was slightly more unstable than usual at certain times. That had been more than just a little embarrassing to say the least . . .

And in the end, I wasn't disgusted or anything. Just sad . . . because she was already at the point where she couldn't take care of herself anymore. So I couldn't blame Jien for doing . . . for doing what he had to do to get her somewhere near lucid--

I'm not thinking of that. Not thinking of *that*--

So I'm kicking lethargically at the door again. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thumpity thumpity thump-- To my surprise, it actually opened this time--

"Keep it down!"

What the--

And then I was stumbling backwards, drenched by the cold spray from a hose. The door slammed shut, leaving me sitting in a puddle, spluttering and soaked to the skin.

Fuck . . .

At least I was wide-awake now.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Not moving anywhere. I think I was just lying there, one cheek pressed against the floor.

I've lost track of time. Lose track of how many times I had woken up and how many times I had dozed off. Forgot if this was reality or the dream.

I had picked at the scabs on my knuckles for the umpteenth time--they only ached a little now and then.

Noise. It's easy to keep track of in here. But instead of the slot in the door opening, the entire door slid open. Imagine that . . .

A shadow fell over me. "Oi--it's time to go."

It took several tries to get up. In the end, I was half-dragged out and chucked under a cold shower by the screws.

"Hurry up and make yourself presentable--you've got to see the counsellor next!"

Ah--the humanitarian touch. I heard that that was one of the clauses that they put in before they allowed the Corrections Unit to put people in the East Tower. There was even a brief check-up so no one could accuse them of human rights violations.

"I said to watch the stitches," the same med officer from before said, radiating professional irritation.

"They've healed up. And I couldn't help it."

"I suppose you couldn't . . ." he sighed. "Okay--you're cleared."

And then I was shunted to the counsellor on duty, who ran through the standard questions and a few more. The HCO popped in somewhere in the middle of the session and I could have sworn that the temperature dropped by a few degrees when the counsellor noticed her.

"What is it? Your presence isn't needed in here," the counsellor said. In many ways, she was like HCO Mara--blunt and to the point when the situation warranted it.

"In case you didn't notice, inmates under correction are under my jurisdiction."

They sounded like they had had this conversation before.

Ignoring the HCO, the counsellor looked at me appraisingly. "Still hanging in there?"

"I think so . . ."

"Happy?" Mara asked the counsellor. "There's nothing amiss with this case."

Somehow, I got the impression that the HCO and the counsellor did not get along. It was something about the way they circled around each other . . . Bitchiness factor ten. A wise man stayed out of that sort of shit.

I didn't feel very wise right there and then.

"Can I go now?"

And the look they gave me brought me right back to the time in school--one of the few years in which I actually *went* to school--when I had been subjected to a similar kind of glare by the teacher. But their expressions softened in an instant and I got dismissed before I could witness anymore interesting fireworks.

My first glimpse of the sun that week . . . it was setting by the time I got out. It was already evening. Funny how the air out here seemed so much fresher now. Guess you don't appreciate most things until you've had to go without them . . .

I stayed out until it was dark before heading back in. Somewhere, a bunk was calling me back for a good--

"Yo," I said to the lone figure standing in the hallway.

"Sanzo said you would be out today."

The very fact that he asked blond-and-grumpy about me was worthy of note.

"Yep. I'm out. I look like shit, right?"

Hakkai looked as though he would have denied it at first, but the smile faded away into seriousness. "Yes. I heard it was bad in there."

"It wasn't the week where they shoved bamboo splinters under your nails--they just used the thumbscrews this time." It had been cruddy, but it had only been a week. What's a week compared to life in here?

"Ah," he said, the barest hint of a smile creasing the corners of his mouth. "I thought you might want these . . ."

"I'm eternally in your debt!" I babbled and grabbed the box of cigarettes and the lighter from his hand hastily. Lighting up felt good. Really, really good after one week of deprivation.

I guess I looked like an absolute dope, just standing there inhaling the smoke with my eyes closed. But I couldn't care less at that moment. I was out. I had coffin nails. Hakkai's such a nice guy--someone nominate him for sainthood . . .

In an infinitely better mood, I started walking back with Hakkai to our block. A shower, a shave and I'll be okay soon enough. After a week in the East Tower, even the cell was beginning to look like home, sweet home--

"Oi, half-breed! You've got the nerve to come back here!" A pair of Shiro's pals. Great. Just great. "Fucking bastard! You're gonna--"

There's nothing like a fresh reminder of bad shit to bring a guy crashing back to earth. Trouble. It never lets up. I could have take them easily a week ago--

"--an accident, I'm sure. We would appreciate it very much if you would leave." That was Hakkai all right, all nice and polite . . . Twisting the guy's arm up behind him in a way that looked like it hurt a lot--

Ummm--rewind that? Had I missed the guy's fist coming for me? Very probably. I must have been getting sluggish . . .

"Hey--let go! Oy--"

Hakkai had neatly manoeuvred the guy out of the door and let him go abruptly, causing him to sprawl out flat on the floor in front of his friend. "I hope we won't see you again. Good-bye."

And they backed off. Just like that.

Eh? There had been something distinctively un-Hakkai-like in his expression just now, but it was gone now, replaced by his usual mild smile.

"Now who's being a hero?" I wondered after a pause.

"I'm sorry. When you are fit enough to handle them, I will sit back and watch."

Was he making a joke? You could never tell with him.

"You'll get a ringside seat." Those guys wouldn't be the only ones. Not the only ones to heckle me at any rate. With this hair and eyes . . . I was a walking target for anyone.

And Hakkai knew it too. "Back when I was teaching, there was a boy in my class like that. They used to pick on him when they thought I wasn't looking. Interracial marriages aren't usually looked upon with favour."

Only Hakkai could couch something like that so nicely. "They weren't married. My real mother was the other woman. She left my Dad holding the baby." And Dad left Mom holding me, thus cementing her descent into madness.

"I see."

"What does your religion say about adultery?" I asked, digging out the old mug that served as an ashtray of sorts from under my bunk.

"They used to stone them, a long time ago. And there's the social stigma in this day and age," he said quietly. "But then someone said something that effectively translates into 'those who judge would be judged in turn'. And it's not my religion, Gojyo. Not any more. I prefer to think of it as a philosophy for living."

"Philosophy for living, eh?" I sucked at my cigarette, not really thinking of much right there and then except how nice it was to be lying down in my own bunk, inhaling, exhaling . . .

Mmmm . . . smokies . . . nice.

I blew out a long stream of smoke. "Know something?"

Hakkai looked up. "Um, yes?"

"That wasn't the second time . . . Not the second time I killed someone."

* * * * * * * * * * *

You could say that this is the story of two guys:

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Hakkai and a kid named Gojyo. They were about the same age. Never knew each other until much later. Orphans, the both of them.

Hakkai fell in love with his own sister and killed 56 people for her--only to find out that she had committed suicide. And for incest and murder, they generally don't let you off with ten Hail Marys and three Our Fathers.

Gojyo's stepmother couldn't stand the sight of him. But it didn't stop him from loving her, or feeling guilty for everything when his brother had to put her down like a rabid dog. So he ended up alone, because he was jinxed. And because he was jinxed, he tended to get chased out of towns for looking at someone's daughter the wrong way and had more than two accidental deaths to his name.

They were so fucked-up inside that the other's fucked-up-ness didn't faze them at all.

You could say that they were friends.

But to generalise it all like that . . . that was just bullshit.

"Are you expecting me to say something about that?" I had asked after Hakkai had spilled about his sister--it had been an interesting sharing session, to be sure. He had looked at me expectantly--like I was about to cringe away and scream or something.

"Ano . . ."

"Well, you can wait for it as long as you like." I stubbed out the pitiful remnant of my third cigarette inside the makeshift ashtray. "'Cos I'm going to sleep."

He hadn't said anything when I had told him about my past either. There was nothing judgmental in his expression--nothing to indicate the general distrust of half-breeds and all that other rubbish that usually came with the revelation of my origins.

Hakkai was just so good at hiding everything. *Nothingness* was his forte--but it was a patient kind of vacuum, just sitting there and listening . . . And occasionally surprising you with the side that no one was supposed to see.

"Aa. Good night then."

And yeah, you could say we were friends.

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End Part 4.