Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha. All credit belongs to Takahashi, Rumiko.
Warning: Child Death
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The shrill sound of a telephone ringing awakes me from a dreamless sleep. I ignore it, pretend I don’t hear it. No one calls in the middle of the night for a decent reason anyway. Why should I be bothered? The sound stops mid-ringing and I turn on my side, cursing whoever disturbed my sleep for a meaningless reason no doubt. Then the ringing starts anew, more insistent, louder, piercing through my half lucid state. I get up mechanically, walk towards the screaming machine, pick up the receiver with closed eyes. The words are curt and to the point, the voice colorless and stern; just like it always is when this person calls me. My hazy mind re-evaluates my previous assumption. This person never calls without a reason. I stand still, listening to the commanding tone on the other side of the phone. He must have stopped talking because there is only silence and the soft exhalation of breaths for a moment.
“I understand.” The voice feels foreign, hoarse with remnants of sleep. Not my voice. Not his voice. Not anyone’s voice. This voice cannot belong to a living being for there is not a spark of life coloring it. The familiar beeping of a dead line awakes me again. I put the receiver down, walk towards the bathroom. I must bathe, dress, take the first bus home. I search my wardrobe for suitable clothing. Black; it must be black I remind myself absent-mindedly. Not white. White is the color she must be wearing only. The hours pass by without conscious thought, blurs of animated movement. Cars, trees, people; they pass me by, leave me behind. Or am I the one moving ahead of them? I cannot discern any longer. There is only one phrase resounding in my distorted thoughts. Eight o’clock. Time moves forward. It is the natural order. Time will always move even if we don’t. I could be sitting in a trance forever, yet time will still move forward regardless of my statuesque state.
I feel hands on my body, urging me, leading me somewhere. My eyes are still tightly shut or, if they are open, I cannot tell, for the only color I see is black. Everywhere. Blanketing the people, the buildings, the sky, me. Then there is a sliver of white; blinding in its painful radiance, beckoning me, luring me towards it. I reach out with cold hands, yet what meets my touch is even colder. Devoid of breath. Still. The cold permeates my skin, awakes me with an arctic intensity, clears my eyes, unplugs my ears. I can see; a small body bathed in white light, people clad in black tears. I can hear; her silence, their cries. It does not last. Nothing lasts. There is only time.
People are embracing each other mutely, seeking comfort from one another, joining their sorrows. Ah, I understand. This is a wedding. A wedding of spirits. Why am I wearing black in a wedding? I chuckle faintly at the contrast of my situation. Stricken expressions meet my soft laughter. It only causes me to laugh harder, my frame shaking with slight tremors. Finally, I understand. They came here to see that blinding light. They came here to laugh alongside me. Why aren’t they laughing? They should be laughing. I must find someone to share this with as well. I must find a partner. A steely grip encircles my wrist, drags me away from the haunting crowd; faces I know, faces I can’t recognize. Strangers. I must have known them at one time, but I cannot remember. Then silence. Blissful silence.
My head turns of its own volition. No. That is not true. Is this burning sensation on my cheek pain? Something warm presses against my forehead as I am lowered to my knees. The pressure on my shoulders is unbearable. I do not even register the phantom pain. I cannot. Scalding heat washes over my eyelids. Tears? How can I shed tears when my eyes are shut? No. Not mine. They belong to the pressure, holding me down. They mar my skin like a branding iron. I did not know this man’s tears could feel so hot for I have never seen this man cry. Why is he crying? He should be laughing. I do not wish to gaze upon his tear streaked face. This broken man is not the man I know. I do not want to see him. I keep my eyes closed; and I laugh as his tears rain down my face.