Ink Stained

45: no one knows anything*

誰も何も知らない

Pai woke up confused.

Her heart ached as if it had been pierced with a spear of ice when she stirred, slowly coming to wakefulness. She was weighed heavy by an indescribable sorrow that filled her whole being. A light headache tapped cautiously at the base of her skull, and she tried to avoid moving too quickly lest she jolt the headache into full power. Exhaustion made her limbs feel like they were stuffed full of heavy bricks. Her wrist hurt most, as if she'd slammed it against a wall.

She wanted to cry, but she didn't know why.

My heart, she thought groggily, lips twisting down, hand curling into a loose fist around a softness she thought was her duvet. It hurts.

We make you sad.

Go away.

We're sorry. You are sad because of us. You are sad because you share our grief. You weren't supposed to. We're sorry.

She heard the regret in it, in her words. She knew that the sentiment behind them was real.

Pai didn't know when she had come to accept that there was a voice in her head that spoke as if it was a separate being from her, or when she had started replying to it. Perhaps it was after something had overtaken her body in the bathroom at the train station, terrifying Teke Teke and sending the creature screeching away. Or maybe it was after she punched the mirror yet it remained unbroken, even despite her knuckles being torn and bleeding. She got the feeling that the voice had been with her for a long time, remaining silent until only just recently.

No, it wasn't a feeling – she was certain of it. The memories in her dreams said enough.

Let's paint it red, let's paint them all red.

Does he not fear us? What makes him different?

None of these were her thoughts. She knew they weren't hers. They belonged to the voice, her voice.

Kuniumi.

We're sorry.

Please go away.

Pai didn't know when she'd fallen asleep that night. After dinner, she'd carried her practically untouched bowl of miso soup to the kitchen, unable to finish it despite Yukiji having cooked it so well. She dropped the ceramic bowl and it crashed to the ground when her hands began to shake so hard that she couldn't keep a firm hold on the bowl for longer than a second. The shaking made the bandages wrapped around her injured right hand itch and hurt, until tears stung her eyes from the pain and she gave in and scratched and scratched at the wound until it was freely bleeding again

Kanou was also returning his bowl to the kitchen. He saw her hands, and took her into his office to wait the shaking out so that no one would see. He carefully unwound the bandaging, gently dabbing a herbal ointment that kept the incessant need to itch the wound at bay, and they waited for the shaking to cease before he wrapped new and clean bandages around her still too sensitive wounded hand. Even after the shaking stopped, though, the pain remained. Kanou gave her a mild sedative to help her fall asleep. She'd taken it, and stared at the ceiling of her room, but she didn't know how long it took for her to fall asleep.

As soon as she did, a dream – a memory – flooded her dreamscapes. Her heart pained her so much now because of what was in the dream, and what it meant if really was a memory.