#kamishiro

It started with a cough.

It was subtle at first. Honestly, he had thought he’d pulled something in his chest at rehearsal the day prior. It wasn’t anything to write home about; a dull ache that could be easily overlooked.

“It could be worse,” he says, staring at the mirror. On a worse day, he’d scold himself for talking to himself, then lament at the fact he actually scolded himself, but today, he felt a little self-pity at the state of his body.

Christ, he needs to chill out. Why had he woken up so erratic?

The walk to school was more or less unremarkable. You two hadn’t coordinated walking together that morning, so it did get pretty lonely. He ended up narrating everything he was doing in his head to pass the time, something that was—admittedly—not out of character. It was a bad habit he’d have to break one of these days, he knows. Not today though, maybe next week when his chest isn’t so heavy. His chest does feel pretty heavy—the sky is cloudy today, isn’t it? Maybe it’ll rain. He hopes no snails come from the ground. He hates watching out for them while he walks. The air seems misty, though, huh?

That morning at school, he hadn’t felt great. He had this fullness in his lungs he just couldn’t get to go away. No matter how hard he coughed, the pressure just wouldn’t release. Now, he’d never been in the best health, so it wasn’t unusual for him to be sick, but you’d think he would’ve felt something the day before. He couldn’t recall feeling this amount of suffocating pain in his chest yesterday, save for when you were talking to that stupid upperclassman-

God, his chest really hurts!

He coughs again, this one curling his body over the desk and making him remember where he was. Will the inconvenience ever end?! He puts his head on the desk, letting a pitiful hand raise, begging for a pardon.

He locks eyes with an upperclassman in the hallway on accident, making his pulse quicken. He can’t believe the nerve of some people!

He catches himself, stopping for a moment. They were just walking—Whatever. He’s not himself today.

While his short interaction may have just been the most terrifying thing he’s ever done, coughing wildly in a public bathroom trumped it. Sure his voice may have cracked when he called the teachers name, and yes, everyone turned to look at him (thus interrupting their class time), but making a ruckus for other people to hear is where he drew the line. God, he really needs to get his act together before he officially has no chance with you, he’s so ridiculous.

Of course, he found it immature that his biggest worry at the moment was his troublesome feelings for his best friend, and not something of substance like grades or music, but that’s just who he is. (He’d never blame you for it.) Though the innate yearning that teenagers have for romance has been told of for years and years, he’ll—at times—stupidly talk himself into believing he’s the only one who has such perverse thoughts of others. It’s not like he doesn’t know it’s senseless, it’s just… whatever. In any case, it’s his own misfortune in of itself. (Which is not something he really needs right now, what with hacking up a lung and all.)

You’d probably think he looks so stupid right now, leaning over a dirty school toilet, kneeling on the dirty bathroom floor. You were the only opinion he just couldn’t shake. It seemed ironically fitting for a boy such as himself to be there; maybe getting sick was karma for being the way he is. He’d see later if he could try praying away his sin on the walk home. Ha!

Another cough wracks his body at the thought of your disgust, and a strange sense of adrenaline overtakes him; akin the feeling of fight or flight you get just before puking. He wracks his brain for the meaning of it all. Just why are you suddenly filling him with so much dread?—Well, more than usual. It’s conveniently almost enough to distract from the fact that he’s turning his body inside out.

Ah, too late.

The contents of his filthy stomach finally reach where he’s coughing from, pooling into a disgusting, viscose shape floating at the top of the water. He doesn’t have enough time to think about the sick, for he has continued to choke savagely on his own breath. He hacks for a while, for a moment he actually thinks this is where he will die. Will God truly subject him to the embarrassment of lying next to a dirty toilet full of bile? Can dead people even be embarrassed?—

What’s that?

His choking finally breaks, but he can’t feel relief for very long.

A small pink petal floats on the top of all the mess, he’s watched enough shows to know what it means. This may just be the first time in his life he hasn’t felt compelled to find out more. His brain goes fuzzy with understanding, for a moment he isn’t even there. He can’t reach a single image in his mind as he stares at the innocent symbol of youth and beauty.

He must’ve eaten something pretty crazy, huh? What a stupid boy he is, thinking that way. Ha! To think he’d fall victim to such nonsense! He should go outside more. Catching a rare, romanticized illness as a highschool boy? He isnt some girl. He doesn’t covet you so much as to die. He has a small crush—not even! A fondness!

He laughs for a while, running his hand through his hair as he stands up. He washes his hands just that much harder and only comes to when he notices the redness of them. When did that happen? He must’ve hit them on the desk, he can really be so careless! The automatic faucet no longer registers his hand as a humans and he curses it with annoyance. He feels so sorry he ever thought such a brain-dead idea. His anger is only heightened when he realizes he’ll have to walk back to class with pruny, red fingers. He really does hate that class, he must have another half hour-

The bell rings? But it’s only… 11? Ah, he must’ve been in class longer than he thought. He had only been in the bathroom for five minutes at most! Days feel shorter and shorter recently, maybe he’s been sleeping too much! He takes a sharp turn, his body subconsciously wandering to where you eat together with him. He doesn’t even heed the stares of his classmates, he’s stopped noticing actually, it’s not that big of a surprise, not like he’s been all that bothered much anymore. He doesn’t heed much of anything, now that he’s thinking—or struggling to think—about it.

He just sits with this blank stare, naturally waiting for you, as if you had to tag him out. He can’t hold an idea in his head for longer than a second, that is, until you walk by. The world stops spinning and he’s hit with a sudden overwhelming feeling of intoxication. Lucidity hits him like a thousand bricks, he can’t help from wondering if “they” are letting out hormones causing him to feel so good around you. What are “they”? Nothing. He doesn’t care to explain to any reader what’s going on. Some can be too stupid to understand.

A rise of euphoria bubbles into his throat and he can’t help but look at you with wide eyes. His good humor is back.

“Hi,” he breathes, his trance lifted.

Now, you (completely in the dark about this whole situation) didn’t exactly know why he was staring at you so intently. It made you feel the slightest bit self conscious, so you decided to inspect him further. His cheeks were blotchy, his pupils were blown, there was this strange stain on his collar—Jeez, what happened to his hands?

“Hi?” You make yourself comfortable next to him, pulling out your lunchbox. “We can go inside if it’s too wet, i just thought it might be nice—“

“No! It’s fine!” He shakes his head fervently. He does feel the need to do something, though. He doesn’t have any homework, and it’s not like he can play with his machines from school. He bounces his knee restlessly, trying desperately to start a conversation.

“So, h—“

“Are you—“

“Sorry, go ahead,” you prompt, not wanting to pass up an opportunity to hear him chat you up while in good spirits (very good, you noticed.) He’s been a little down in the dumps recently—not that you were paying extra attention to him or anything—so it was welcome.

This, however, was preposterous to him. The mere thought of taking up the sacred time he has with you with something as needless as what he had to say was sickening—sacrilege! He waves you off, his hands hasty from the rush.

“I was only gonna ask how your day was!” He blurts, the trembling of his body growing more and more apparent. He needs to hear all about it.

On a different day, he’d be a little more reluctant to be so obvious with you, but a parasite has turned him shameless. He would make an ass of himself to keep chasing this feeling, his chest feels so light he thinks he could faint. He hears the blood going to his ears, pounding into his skull with the fragility of a hammer. The monotonous world he was just in was bustling once again. He can’t help but feel giddy when you open your mouth.

You talk about nothing of particular importance. What you had for breakfast, who was in your first period, but despite the inconsequence, he’s desperately hung on every word. His head nods hastily, agreeing as if you were delivering a speech. He was sure that you’d be thrilled to have him listen so intently, but, if anything, your uneasiness only grew with each word he wasn’t speaking.

He was oblivious to your self-consciousness, as previously stated. Yes, there had to have been a small part of him that was mortified at the way he was acting, but he couldn’t find it in his whole self to mind. It would be redundant to say, once again, how desperate he was for the euphoria you brought him, so it won’t be recorded.

“Rui, are you… good?” You break him out of his mind, making him realize that he hadn’t been listening to your last few sentences. Damnit! How could he be so stupid as to ignore you? His excitement dulls for a moment, only a moment, at the feeling of worthlessness his ignorance has created. He’s terrified to go back to the anhedonia of his day—of his life?—without you. Is that how the rest of his life will be when you’re not around? Is grey what he will see until he dies?

Why would he die? He’s not suffering from anything, his chest just feels so tight recently. He probably pulled something at rehearsal the day before. Yes, that’s it. He recalls pulling something in his chest the day before. The excitement just messed with his memory, that’s all. No need to worry—

He coughs, his body curling in on itself once again, panicking. It was one thing to be alone and choking, to be disgusting in the comfort of his own company, but it’s another to hack up blood in front of you, having you watch as his body wracks itself from the strain. He waves his hands once again, desperate. He is fine... He has a small cold… Yes, he pulled something the day prior… He’s very clumsy….

He didn’t puke this time, he merely coughed up a petal. Ha! How odd it was to do such a thing!

Your horror is a given. It would be needless to say why, but it will be explained anyway (for the sake of clarity).

You had only learned about hanahaki from a recent showing of a musical he’d taken you to a few months ago. You had—admittedly—been slightly skeptical on the idea, thinking it was just another foreign concept for people to amuse themselves, but after a long debate on the topic, you had found out that it was, in fact, real (though uncommon).

It was a great shock to you that someone as agreeable as your best friend would be burdened with an illness of unrequited love. (In a moment of self reflection you would admit to yourself that he would be, in fact, very easy to love. You’d never say those words aloud, though, in fear of him getting the wrong idea.) The thought of your friend suffering from something so agonizing and potentially fatal was enough to make bile rise to your throat, but a new emotion soon followed it; anger. How dare someone not return his feelings? The nerve of this person to not want to spend their every moment with such a wonderful person is absurd! They must be an idiot, you couldn’t imagine being so dense.

He sees the color drain from your face and he’s not so out of his mind as to be ignorant to it. He can only assume you’re going to figure out his secret, who else could it be? Once again his world goes dark and hopeless, the mania he once rode on proceeding to crash and burn before he could appreciate it was even there. Everything has become dissonant, lacking harmony, or substance. He questions what an existence is where you don’t see him. It’s truly better to die than to live that way. After you mock him, he can simply just jump off the school roof. It would be tricky, but-

“Rui…” Your coddling voice rings out, filling his mouth with a sickly-sweet taste. Save him the embarrassment and pity, won’t you? You needn’t concern yourself with trivial matters, go on, now.

“Who is it?”

He freezes. He hadn’t excepted that. Could it be you were playing coy so as to not shoulder the guilt? No, that can’t be it. As unsound as he is, he knows you better than that. You would be true to yourself, he knows that’s the kind of person you are.

He’s furious with himself and you. He can’t believe he would ever think so lowly of you as to believe you’d actually talk him to suicide. What was with him? Hadn’t he had a relationship with you at all? He knows you well—too well—so it’s unthinkable he’d mischaracterize you. But on the other hand, he hardens himself on the fact you don’t know about his feelings. As appalling and depraved as it sounds, he’d never been subtle. Willfully ignorant, yes. Your subconscious must despise him so much as to block out any possible cues to your mind. How humiliating!

A thought races into his head; how is he to answer your question? He simply cannot say that he has feelings for you, he’s better off shooting himself in the foot and trying to run away. He tries to conjure up anybody he could be believably infatuated with, and much to his embarrassment only four people come to mind.

Emu? No, that would never work. She is much too… much. You’d never believe such an idiotic thing.

Tsukasa? Same problem. Claiming to have feelings for him would only stir up unwanted controversy.

Mizuki? Out of the question. You’ve had multiple conversations in which he’s told you how unromantic his love is for them. In hindsight, he should’ve covered his bases more. He’s so stupid.

Nene?

Nene!

It was a perfect crime. She knew about his feelings for you, so even if you did go to her, she’d have the brains to question him privately afterwards. They’re always accused of dating, they’re known for being close, she’s a very likable girl—God, Tsukasa couldn’t think of a better plan himself! Sometimes he could be a very calculated boy!

“Nene…” He rasps out, his head hung low to hide a sick smile. This is it. His hope is gone and he will die; die knowing that he was able to be saved if not for the circumstances. Everyone dies anyway, so why not now? why not yesterday, or the day before, or the year before? What difference is it to him, or to you for that matter!? If he were to drop to his knees and kick the bucket, would that change the course of the future? He’s, of course, not so arrogant to assume such! Such brainless sentiments aren’t reserved for him at the moment. And what is the future? The future has already happened! It’s over! Humans will be gone for good, the earth with explode, everything that will happen has happened. What use is one teenager’s life?

“Nene?” If he hears that name one more time, he may just vomit. He feels guilty to put the blame of his illness onto his bosom friend, but he’s sure she’d understand. Anyone who had any brain would do the same thing he has, so it’s not worth feeling guilty over.

You, on the other hand, are shocked once again. You had never expected it to be Nene. You anticipated someone more distant, far enough out of reach to warrant the one-sidedness. You supposed it wasn’t too far-fetched for him to be in love with Nene, they did spend their whole lives together. Yes, it wasn’t hard to believe when you really thought about it, but now you’re left frustrated at the state of things. Why didn’t Nene return his feelings? You’d thought for sure—

“Did you tell her?”

Great. His time would now be spent more productively if he dug his own grave, or made good of that promise to jump. Is he so inhumane with himself as to keep his this lie going before his death? No, he couldn’t… But what if… Whatever.

“I can’t.” Just shut up and lie in it. Prolonging this is inhumane, even for him.

“Why not?” You’re not helping. Why can’t you have the compassion to leave him be? You’re doing this to mess with him, aren’t you? Do you laugh at the fact he will surely die soon? You’re even worse than him. He can’t believe he loves you.

He loves you enough to die for it, he’d better humble himself.

Another cough.

“Rui! Hey, hey, you don’t need to tell me, it’s okay!” You rub his back, holding him so tenderly he starts to believe he died by some strange twist of fate and ended up in the afterlife. (Even in his suffering, his inner-monologue refused to use the word ‘heaven’. He had read in The Bible that suicide is a sin. He wonders what the perimeters are for an unrequited love gone involuntarily, yet very just, death.)

It pops into his mind that he’s still with you, and it sounds a little contradictory to say, but he’s annoyed. Not at you, no, never at you, but is it too much to ask to die at peace? (Well, as much peace he can have with the circumstances.) Must he be tortured with your face?

He stands up, his coughing seizing for a moment. He thanks whoever’s up there for letting him get through his sentences without choking. He looks down at you, still in your previous position.

“I don’t feel well,” he says curtly. What an idiotic statement! Obviously he doesn’t feel well, he just coughed up a flower. He talks to talk, what a brainless pastime! He should just walk away.

“I could’ve told you that,” you reply. “Do you want me to take you to—“

“I’m fine,” he rejects, walking away.

A worrying exchange…

You decide you need to help your friend. You can’t just watch him die.

That day, Rui walks home with the eloquence of a man on trial, trudging as if his fate had already been decided—it has. What can he do about it? He can’t even begin to imagine what death is. The thought that he will simply cease to exist, that he will just return from whence he came, no consciousness weighing him; it’s terrifying. People say “a fate worse than death” without thinking, but what is worse than death? Torture keeps you sane, mediocrity keeps you comfortable; death ends, that’s it. There’s nothing. Pain can stop, dullness can be invigorated, you cannot bring someone back from the dead! What a moronic fantasy to entertain! He’s going to die! He will die. Death, dying, and all words similar make him want to scream. Mortality is such a cruel idea. He tries to tell himself he shouldn’t worry about it, that it will come either way and should be accepted for a natural part of life, but he can’t stop himself. What is the point of anything if he is meant to die? He can’t control it.

It starts to rain, which is only another thing he has no say over. He grasps for any semblance of choice, of say, but all he finds is a pitiful snail making its way across the pavement.

He stops in horror, examining the sorry thing. They’re both alive, yes, that snail is living its only life, the same as him. He thinks of the amount of people who run their bikes over them without a second thought, he thinks of watching his peers pour salt to amuse themselves for a moment or two. They’ve probably forgotten taking lives. As previously stated, he takes better care to step around them when the air becomes dewy. It wouldn’t feel right to have such disregard for life, especially now.

He starts to think of all the bugs he’s slapped, all the stay cats he’s shooed away, all the rats he’s trapped, and it makes him feel sick. They are all dead now, their one life was ended. He should feel lucky he (at least) had a good run. He got to be a human being, isn’t that something? At least he lived 17 years, instead of a couple weeks. That snail will be dead in a few days if not caught, no doubt. Which is better; to live for as long as your body can, or die for the betterment of another? Isn’t that what his disease is… in a way? With or without meaning to, you hunted and killed him, stripping him of his choice. He is now the person in ethics questions who is tied to the tracks! Ha!

That snail has only moved a couple inches since he’s been watching…

He’s hit with a sudden wave of resentment.

Must be nice, huh? Being able to live so leisurely. The deplorable thing is surely not aware of its own existence. The more he thinks, the worse this resentment becomes. He’s so unlucky to be a human being, everything he’s stated before has been proven false. People are idiotic and dense. How braindead is it to become the only species capable of existential thought? Do we as a society benefit from such? He wouldn’t entertain the idea. Sure, other animals know they have the possibility to die, but they don’t actually grasp what it truly means. The more he thinks, animals cant love too, which is what caused his untimely death to begin with. Ignorance is bliss. Only the dumb are comfortable.

The tip of his fingers vibrate and go numb as his body fills with unbridled fury. How dare this thing taunt him? How dare it spark this conversation? If it could hold a thought in its head, it would no longer be moving; it would scream as he is now. How lucky is it, being able to live life without strain? It could barely be considered living, actually, he’d be surprised if it had a brain at all. What a depraved, useless, insignificant, and unenlightened waste of air.

In a fit of passion, he crushes a shell and the parasite inside. He drags its remains across the pavement.

It was going to die anyway.