This chapter's first draft rubbed me in such a wrong way that I felt the need to rewrite, as it feels so very out of character for the growth Hawaiʻi has done with the past chapters. And human life should not be so shrugged off in such a way like I did in the last draft, no matter how bad, no matter how disgusting someone may be.
So, have the new and improved chapter, with less murder, just pure reflection and angst, and just the littlest bit of police corruption.
Mahalo Nui Loa for your love and support, and may you all have a lovely night. I promise to try to do better.
—1991—
Blood has a very strong smell.
However, this smell is not one that is particularly well loved, by nearly anyone in their right mind. And as quoted by a rather famous Scottish tragedy, all the perfumes in Arabia could not cover that scent.
Blood, flesh, and burnt hair. Those were smells that stuck to clothing, to your hands. They were smells that on their own were already horrible and disgusting, but with this unholy trinity of smells, there was an odd comfort to it all.
The colour wasn't too dashing either, it would've looked horrid with the purple she had decided to wear that day.
And of course, was the simple act of washing of hands afterwards, scrubbing at those damned spots, would these hands ever be clean, truely? Did it even matter if they were?
Those hands had held others in her own. Those hands had caressed children's cheeks to sleep. Those hands had run through hair and feathers and rubbed backs and pinched cheeks lovingly. Those hands had warmed to a comfortable heat to soothe nightmares and wipe away tears.
Those hands had held knives to throats, had threatened, had mangled skin beyond recognition. Those hands had bruised some of the largest nations in the world.
Those same hands that comforted and warmed had burned flesh, of friends, of loved ones, of enemies.
Those hands, those beautiful, horrible, centuries old hands, were now being washed with soap and water in the kitchen of the United States of America's house in the world of the Nations.
How could those hands kill someone?
The blood smell hadn't left, not in all the years that she had lived, it would probably never leave. Hawaiʻi should have expected that much.
Yet who would have thought the man to have had so much blood in him?
–Two weeks ago–
The call came at dinnertime, a time Anuenue rarely missed, and would at least give a call or something to make sure Hawaiʻi knew she was alright. But it was now late, and Anuenue still hadn't shown up. "Is this Miss Emma Kameāloha?"
Hawaiʻi made a note to herself to tell Anuenue to stop putting her down on legal documents as her emergency contact.
"Paul Kainalu Waiona Baker was killed in an incident this afternoon."
"What."
"He was walking across the street from picking up his siblings, and he was gunned down in what the HPD suspected to be a planned attack."
This report was later proven when the nephew of the attacker came forward to tell the police that his uncle talked about killing that "damn māhu that's preying on our kids."
It was so fast, so quick. There was no time to grieve. No time to even think.
If this was in the 60s, 70s, even, she would have had to wear a pin proclaiming that she was something she was not, just to not be arrested. She was born after that time, and she should have been able to think she was safe.
She did, and she paid the price with her life.
How many more young men and women will have to go through the same?
Anuenue had a funeral two weeks later, a private one, with quite a few names that specifically were barred from attending.
Kailani Kameāloha (and anyone close to her), and Lucius Kangur.
The reasons given were that it was because Anuenue "thought" she was a māhu that this happened in the first place. And as such, it was Aunty Lani, who encouraged it so much from the start, who should take the complete and utter fault of it. And facing the allegations of homosexuality that came with Lucius? Unacceptable.
No, Anuenue would have a nice, quiet, sanitized funeral, with a headstone that read,
"Paul Kainalu Waiona-Baker, 1972-1991. Earth has no sorrow, that heaven cannot heal. - Isaiah 35:10"
This quote is often misattributed to be a Bible verse, with several different false origin verses, though it was written by Thomas Moore, an Irish poet.
How fitting, that the headstone of a young woman dressed in the suit she graduated in, would have a quote that wasn't bothered to be checked with the bible that the priest read as she was put in the ground.
Amen, Amen, Amen.
It was so upsetting, so outrageous. Aunts and Uncles who hadn't so much as cared as to know who Anuenue and her siblings were before, were now fighting each other for custody of the rest.
And why?
Was it guilt of not being there for their dearest "nephew"? Was it because they finally realised what life was like in foster homes? Was it because they didn't want those children growing up with the same sinful lifestyle?
And that was that. That was all that was left of a bright shooting star that fell so far, so fast, without a child to point it out and make a wish with eyes shut tight.
Kālahui was hit the hardest by not going to the funeral, but Hawaiʻi didn't even know if she could handle going anyways.
She was only physically around 10 years old now, but she had the furrowed brow of someone four times her age. It was sad, almost, how full of anger and turmoil she had come into this world. Few saw her laugh, few saw her even smile anymore.
Anuenue was one of the few people who got past her guard she put up, and now the walls were all rebuilt, this time made of iron, instead of stone.
That went against everything Hawaiʻi believed a child should be. She needed to talk to someone about it all. And so, she decided to speak to Niʻihau.
It was always so awkward to speak to him.
"Nii, I just don't know what to do. Kālahui, the poor thing, she's... She's not taking it well. She's currently in her room trying to see if she can melt away among her stuffed animals." Hawaiʻi said, sighing. "It's not working very well."
"First human friend's death?" Niʻihau said quietly, and Hawaiʻi nodded. "That's always so hard. Poor thing."
"Yeah. And she wasn't allowed to go to the funeral because of me." Hawaiʻi said, before sighing. "And the thing is, she had loved Anuenue so much, and now she's just wallowing alone and pushing any friends she had away from her."
"Understandable, really." Niʻihau said, before biting the inside of his cheek, seemingly in thought. "When was the last time you were on Niʻihau?"
"Oh, years ago. A little after the second world war, I think, personally thanking Ben Kanahele and his wife."
"Oh Ella, that was a good woman. Fighter to the end. I was so happy to see she made it out alive." Niʻihau said, before laughing a little. "And that long ago? Really? I forgot you came at all."
"What are you plotting, Nii?"
"What if I... What if I let her come to the island for a few weeks? Nothing big, nothing crazy." Niʻihau said. "You can bring pretty much anyone, I can talk to the Robinsons. They like me pretty well, and I trust you, I think."
"Glad for the confidence." Hawaiʻi rolled her eyes. "What's the change in heart?"
"Sometimes you need to get away from things that remind you of the person you lost for a while. You know that." Niʻihau said. "And Kālahui... She's never lost anyone before, right?"
"Yeah." Hawaiʻi said. "Though, I really need to stay near Honolulu. Got a lot of things to do here."
"Damn it." Niʻihau said under his breath, wincing a little at the curse. "Well... If you want... you can let her just stay with me for a few days. You know. Let her get away from the news and the craziness."
Hawaiʻi smiled. "Of course. It's no big deal, and I trust you. I also trust her to kick some ass if needed. It would be good for her to stay where mostly everyone speaks Olelo Hawaiʻi, so..."
"Are you sure you don't want to come?" Niʻihau interrupted. "Wai, I just... I want you to heal too. This hurts you. I can see that."
"Nii, you're only a couple decades older than me. I think I can deal with myself." Hawaiʻi smiled, "Besides. I'm a bit of the reason why she couldn't attend the funeral, and she is a little bit mad at me."
"Don't kill anyone. I mean it, Wai. You don't want that on your hands." Niʻihau whispered.
"I won't." Hawaiʻi said, rolling her eyes.
Niʻihau nodded understandingly, and put his forehead to Hawaiʻi's. Hawaiʻi could not help but smile a little at the gesture. Her brother had never been... physically affectionate. He liked to keep his distance for that.
But it was nice to break a few walls down.
—Two Weeks Later—
Hawaiʻi had killed men before. That wasn't a problem. What was the problem was how easy it was that she could've killed this one.
Hawaiʻi didn't like to admit it, but the police department of her islands were corrupt. It shouldn't have been so easy to walk in, to ask to see the person behind the bars, to get alone time with him.
It shouldn't have been so easy to feel the heat warm up on her hands, it shouldn't have been so easy to burn that flesh.
She couldn't.
Was that weak?
Was finding the ease of violence sickening... not getting justice?
Hawaiʻi had fantasized about killing people before. She had nightmares and dreams about it. It was so disgusting to her, how she couldn't tell the difference at times. Blood, burnt flesh and hair.
She had fantasized about killing Dole and ending her torment. She had fantasized about killing Johnny herself, and had rejoiced to hear of his murder. She had fantasized about killing Thalia Massie's mother, who had murdered before as well.
But did that really make her any different?
And the smell of blood didn't bother her, not really, and not if she just treated this like another task, another menial chore. The blood on her hands was from the man's nose. That was all.
Something whispered to her that she should have killed him where he stood, she should have. Someone would cover for her, surely.
Her killer having a bloody nose was the justice Anuenue deserved? Really? She should have made him lose his life the way that she lost hers.
Four kids without a sister.
If she had killed him, seven kids would have lost someone in this massacre.
And so she didn't.
And it all made her feel so numb.
"An eventful night?" America asked, looking a little interested in the overall sight of Hawaiʻi in the kitchen washing blood.
"Nothing of substance. In order to eat pork you have to kill a pig." Hawaiʻi said, not looking her former brother in the eyes. He would believe she killed someone, she knew that.
"That's not pig blood. I am pretty sure of that."
"You would know what the blood of men looked like, wouldn't you?" Hawaiʻi said, her voice a deadpan.
America sat back in his seat, raising his hands in the air in a form of surrender, while Hawaiʻi continued to wash her hands.
"I have to buy some new clothes, though. Such a shame. I like purple." Hawaiʻi said, before shrugging. "Oh, well. I promise, he's not dead. Broken nose... but not dead."
"Can I ask questions without being the next victim?"
"Jury's still out." Hawaiʻi said, before sighing a little. "Well, that's as clean as these hands are getting tonight."
"Are you alright?"
"It's 4 AM my time, I'm washing blood off my hands, and I smell like gas. I think there's your answer." Hawaiʻi said, sighing.
America shrugged. "Alright. Why didn't you wash up at your house in the islands?"
"I..." Hawaiʻi looked down at her hands. "I don't really know. I guess I wanted to be near people. My daughter's with my brother on his island, and I didn't want to go home to my thoughts, I guess."
"Guilt?"
"Guilty? Not really. No need to feel guilt." Hawaiʻi laughed a little. "It's a little funny, really. Funny how easy it is to find people. How easy it is to light things on fire and watch it all burn down."
"Am I in imminent danger of arson any time soon?"
"Eh, not any time soon." Hawaiʻi said, before looking away. "The way I almost traded a life for a life, I guess, is what's bugging me. It's so fucked up. This whole world is so fucked up."
"It is." America said. "But what are you going to do about it? Make it more fucked up?"
"That was rude. Maybe I will commit arson here." Hawaiʻi said, "Blow off some steam, because I left him to live."
"Be my guest, as long as you keep the arson away from the actual important things."
"Sure." Hawaiʻi said, before sighing silently to herself, looking back towards America. "I shouldn't be so surprised to think that AIDs was slower than a bullet."
"Oh... interesting."
"Shit, being a lesbian was hard enough."
"Is Sober Hawaiʻi coming out as a lesbian, or is Drunk Wai not thinking straight?"
"Like I said, I'm gay, I'm never thinking straight. I had one." Hawaiʻi rubbed her eyes. "I'm no lightweight."
"Didn't think so." America said, before laughing a little. "I already knew that one, though. Don't know why you thought to tell me now, after whatever the hell you came back from."
"That's the best time to tell someone." Hawaiʻi said cheerfully. "Life is such a funny thing, isn't it? How short it is. How nothing seems to matter."
"Something about a poor actor, something about a tale told by an idiot." America muttered to himself.
"You know a quote like that makes you sound like your father, right?" Hawaiʻi said, shaking her head and laughing a little. "You really are just like him."
"You insult me as if you aren't the one still wearing his flag." America said, rolling his eyes.
"But I don't act like him." Hawaiʻi said, before slowly looking at her hands again. "I don't."
"Mhm." America said, and let Hawaiʻi silently lean against his shoulder,
"She should have died later in life." Hawaiʻi said, her face set forward, staring at a stain on the wall that probably wouldn't come out. "She should have lived. And yet she didn't."
"I know."
"And here I am, sitting next to a person who I don't even know what relationship I have with, and I'm leaning on him like we're still close." Hawaiʻi said.
"No one's forcing you." America said, before sighing a little. "No one's ever going to force you to deal with me at all when you don't want to."
Hawaiʻi then said, in a small, quiet voice, "Can I stay a while with you anyways?"
"I don't mind that."
And so the night began creeping its petty pace, ending in the last state of the Union falling asleep, hair in disarray, a faint smell of blood and gasoline still present ever so slightly on her clothing. She was curled up, and though not a single person dared spoke about it afterwards, tears had obviously soaked the collar of her shirt.
When questioned about what the hell happened, the United States shrugged, and said,
"Wai had a long night."