InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Inevitable ❯ Abnegation ( Chapter 15 )

Disclaimer: I'm beginning to think that the only reason I do these, is for my own amusement. But I digress. I do not own Inuyasha.

 

Author's Note: It seems I won't reach my goal and finish this story in less than a year, which, considering the short length of this, is really quite pathetic. Sorry everyone, but maybe, just maybe I'll be able to muster my motivation and update less sporadically, who knows.

 

And, of course, I can't forget the wonderful Wendy, and all the beta snaps I still owe her for all of her great help with this 'fic.

 

 

Inevitable

 

Chapter 15

Abnegation

 

 

There is a broken puzzle that has scattered its pieces across my mind, little bits and pieces of yesterday and yesteryear; the coffee I spilled at work, the phone call from Souta telling me that he's moving again, and the conversation I had so long ago with a boy I thought I knew.

 

I remember that at first there was only the shock, and then of course the hurt, the painful prodding at the back of my eyes that I fought so hard to beat. I blinked and saw the corners of the room blur, leaving him right in the centre of my vision, clear and tall and right there, standing in front of me, and I lowered my head because I wanted so badly to hide.

 

But when breathing slowly became not so hard, and the stinging in my eyes not so strong, I let go of the air in my lungs, feeling the hollowness fill my stomach, until it was suddenly chased out by a hot wave of anger and denial.

 

My hands came away from my head, moving slowly to rest on the floor where I curled them into fists. A thread of coherency was pulled through my thoughts, `That…that…asshole.'

 

“You asshole,” I'd said before I even realized it. I couldn't remember being so vulgar before, but I had suddenly felt so hot, and the steam of the baths seemed strangely thicker and heavier, and the pounding in my temples was hammering away at the corresponding beat that went thud thud in my heart.

 

If he had expected it, I can't remember.

 

“You - you're - you…liar - you're lying, you're lying! Why are you lying? Why - gods, I don't believe you! I don't believe you, I don't, I don't….” I withered away into sobs. “You're lying, you were lying, you were always lying - did you always lie? Always?” And I looked up at him, desperate to know - desperate for anything.

 

Everything I'd been building, building from him, for him, had all toppled down on me. I was trapped beneath it all and I was suffocating, looking, struggling for a way out. Anything. But already I felt the pain bear down on me, and there were too many bruises and breaks and wounds to fix, too many to crawl out unscathed, unhurt. Perhaps it had always been meant to end that way.

 

There is a piece missing from this one, and it's been much too long for me to go looking and find it. Some must begin where others leave off, and what was missing between where my memories are patched together is gone forever.

 

Not much is lost; I think that perhaps I was too angry and confused to remember what things - most likely obscenities - that would have left my mouth, what insults and accusations I could have thrown at him. But I do remember that I yelled, though not what I said. Whatever it could have been, I know it must have been horrible, for where my memory picks up I am tossed - no, shoved - into the sweltry water of the bath, robe and all.

 

I came up sputtering, feeling drugged and weighted down, the cloth of my robe absorbing the water like a sponge, weighing on my small frame. My eyes were burning and I believed I had swallowed some water, for my throat hurt and felt scalded. I was gasping for breath and the steam only made it worse, and all I remember feeling at that very moment was how self-conscious I was of crying.

 

For a moment or two, I floundered in the water, gasping and choking and crying my eyes out like the foolish girl that I was.

 

He pulled me out - of course he pulled me out. And my arms were to hot and heavy and like lead to resist him when he removed my waterlogged robe.

 

Surging up again like a tidal wave, the anger was again hot and spewing forth from my mouth as I screamed - or yelled, or something, and then I was snatching at the new robe he was holding in his hands (he must have fetched one, I can't recall) and wrapping it about myself, so uncomfortable beneath his gaze that betrayed nothing to me, no matter how hard I looked.

 

“Get away - just get away!” I screamed, fumbling to get my arms in the sleeves, crying and grappling with the heavy material, hating him for everything and anything - but most of all because I still loved him.

 

He was doing nothing again. Just standing there, watching me, unreadable. It made me hate him more.

 

“Get out - get out…please…” And I was blubbering again, crying and useless, so useless. I fell to the floor, landing with a loud thump. “Am I this worthless to you?” I held up my hands, having already realized long before - perhaps farther back than I thought - that fighting was futile. I was trying to escape the wreckage, but I was lost in the shipwrecked mess, treading water.

 

For a time, neither of us moved, me on my place on the floor, crying so hard that soon there weren't even tears. He just stood across from me, silent and brooding. I think that his lack of response made me cry harder. He always got upset when I cried, always - always. It was one of the few strings I had held onto to make me believe he cared. But his scissors had cut even that string.

 

“G - gods y - you a - are - are su - succch a - a…a j - jerk…” I choked out, covering my face in my hands and hating him and hating myself and hating everything.

 

But then he was there, at my side, touching my head, touching my back, touching me, and I wanted it and despised it and it just…made everything inside hurt so badly.

 

Bile rose in my throat. “Don't touch me.” I wouldn't, couldn't, let him touch me. I wiped at my eyes desperately, holding back my sobs.

 

“Go away,” I said.

 

His hand left my shoulder, but he did not leave my side.

 

“Go away…” I reiterated, whispering.

 

“No.”

 

I choked, and broke out in tears again, the salty wetness pouring down my face, and I held my robe together, my hands shaking as I pulled it about myself tighter. I took the moment to pull myself back into a semblance of order, risking a look up at him.

 

He was staring, his eyes concerned and…and hurt? I covered my mouth quickly, closing my eyes.

 

“Just…just tell me why, tell me - just…” I bowed my head, resting it on my knees; the violence of my crying subsided for the most part, allowing me space enough to breathe.

 

For a while I had thought that he would not answer, and when I finally heard him move I stiffened, tightening my arms about my knees. But he only stood, moving away from me. I did not suppress my sigh of relief.

 

“Kagome, I don't…I'm not…”

 

“Just tell me!” I burst out, throwing my arms up, my head snapping up to face him, my open hands hanging in the air. I could not understand the hesitation I now saw in his features. “Just tell me why…”

 

His brows furrowed, arms crossing over his chest, feet apart and firmly rooted on the floor. I remembered this pose, his posture. The same knot I'd felt earlier rose in my throat; so many things about him I remembered, so many things that I did not.

 

But then his eyes closed. That part was new.

 

“It doesn't exist, Kagome.”

 

“…What?” I opened my mouth, trying to say more, but nothing came. I shuffled back on the floor, holding tightly to my robe. I had been frowning, confused.

 

His eyes then opened, looking straight at me.

 

“Love does not exist, Kagome, it never did.” His voice held a strange quality of finality.

 

“Yes it does,” I almost spat, desperate to hang onto it. I confused even myself, grappling at something I was frantic to escape, and yet still holding it too closely to ever let go. “Yes it does,” I repeated, but to myself.

 

Shaking his head, he took a step forward. I did not move. His face was sad. “No, Kagome, no, it doesn't.”

 

Angry, I began to yell, “Yes it do -”

 

“No it doesn't!”

 

I stopped, stilling. He was suddenly angry. I said nothing.

 

Clenching his fists, he took two more steps towards me. “Tell me - tell me of one person - one person, that has ever confessed to - to love. Tell me.”

 

“I -” But there was nothing I could say.

 

“You see, Kagome? Don't you see?”

 

“But - but Miroku-sama -”

 

“Has never said it - never!”

 

“Some things don't need words!” I cried, leaning forward, almost pleading.

 

He shook his head, frustrated. “Whatever exists in your world, Kagome,” he said to me, still shaking his head, “does not exist here.”

 

I was crying again. I wondered how I had come to this.

 

“Love is just a word. It means nothing to me.” He turned away.

 

My head was touching the boards of the floor. I was crying, but my body didn't shake and I didn't fight to breathe as I had before. I felt desolate. I had given up.

 

“But what about her?” I asked him softly, and looking up I saw him stop in the doorway, his back to me.

 

There was a stretch of silence, and then he had said, “I don't even know what love is, Kagome.”

 

I do not know how I rose to my feet, but suddenly I was staggering across to him, and he turned around abruptly, a fleeting look of alarm passing over his face. I walked up to him, stopping right in front of him, staring up at him, he staring back.

 

“Screw you,” I said, and walked out the door.

 

I had not taken more than a few steps when he yelled after me, “Wha - where the hell are you going?”

 

And I had just continued walking.