pain shapes a woman into a warrior
HOUR AFTER HOUR, all night long, the patter of the rain rained down. All night long, as Mizuki tossed and turned, its cold monotony pulsated against the windows. A gust of wind occasionally whipped overhead, and the rain would wave with the sound, passing its quick hands over the panes; at other times there was a muffled sound that lulled everything to sleep in the dead exterior. Her soul, as always, was painfully conscious of the world. The day, like happiness, kept procrastinating— indifferently, it seemed. Waves of desperation and loneliness crashed against the shore in her mind, over and over again. Mizuki recognised the waves, remaining on the beach for many, many hours, haunted by memories lingering like a softly uttered curse.
She felt so old, so awfully old and worn, yet so young all at once, raw as an open wound, torn by an anguish that never quite left her, no matter what happened, no matter where she was, no matter who she surrounded herself with.
Grief slept on her bed, snuggled cosily in the vacant spot beside her, seeping into the empty spaces, and into her. It watched her fidget and crumble, hovering over her shoulders and caressing her head. Quiet and Greif made quite a pair, actually. They complimented each other. Grief slid its arms around her and refused to let go— grief, an amputation, and hope, an incurable haemophilia. She bled and bled and bled.
Waiting for something, for anyone, to save her.
"Mizuki?" Her aunt's saccharine voice flooded the room, penetrating the silence. "Breakfast is ready."
Akira gazed at her niece's form, buried under thick blankets, facing the window.
A frown tugged at her lips, hearing her dry reply.
"I'll eat later."
Akira watched sorrowfully.
"Okay."
The brunette sighed deeply. Mizuki always told her her brain ran at a million thoughts per second...a hot fucking mess, she called it...the ability to overthink herself into a catastrophe. But what Akira feared most was her heart, because, although her mind could bring shame to any natural disaster mother nature offered, her heart could make it look as if everything was okay, and that was dangerous beyond measure.
Akira feared the day her heart could no longer hold it all in.
Sparing one last glance at the girl, she shut the door gently, slipping her hand into her pocket and retrieving her phone. Dainty fingers typed in her password, pressing on a green app and dialling a newly inputted phone number.
"Hi, Kuroo-kun? This is Akira."
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
Heart, what a rare bird you are, what a vindictive creation. Remembering, that's what you forced her to do, that's all she could do; remembering, remembering, remembering— memories so evocative, they brought tears to her eyes. But, alas, Mizuki never let them fall, shutting her lilac-coloured eyes, squeezing them tightly and willing the tears to vanish.
An overwhelmingly intense pain swept over her, and she overflowed with an acuteness of sensations. The moon, outside her window, revealed itself like a pearl to her equally naked heart, watching her child dismally.
She, who was mad—godstruck, godswept, godnonsensical, kept making a sound, like the nightingale who wept her lost child, albeit a bit more pleasantly melodic, inexhaustibly wild.
Sorrow this, Sorrow that.
Sorrow this, Sorrow that.
Mizuki could only sigh in agreement.
"What am I supposed to do?" she asked the moon, honey-melon, dripping thick sweet light, looking at the astronomical object with those big tragic eyes of hers. "I feel as though I am a ghost in my life." Mizuki rolled onto her back, staring at her ceiling, aware of the imaginative noose tightening around her neck. "I want to drink moonlight and bathe in flower petals. To wear the earth, sleep in streams, and taste the stars."
Her lips curled downwards.
"Yet all I can do is mope in my bed."
A memory crawled to the front of her brain, flashing before her eyes.
"Merry Christmas, Mama," called a young Mizuki, curled up against her mother, pulling herself closer to her angel, her saviour, her life. She nudged her face into the warmth of her neck, ignoring the sharpness of her protruding bones. She breathed in that familiar scent: lavender, her mother's favourite, and disinfectant, the hospital's favourite. It never failed to comfort Mizuki, reminding her that this place, that she, was her home.
A frail hand ran through her hair, fingers digging lightly into her scalp, massaging away the ever-building tension.
"Merry Christmas."
Mizuki could feel another weak, ailing arm pull itself up to rest upon her shoulder. To this, she shifted closer and allowed her body to relax.
"Do you think Santa will get my letter? I hope he does." Mizuki shut her eyes, sinking further into her mother, barely able to pick up on the fading heartbeat. "You know, I asked him to help you get better. I've been a very good girl this year! That has to count for something, right?"
Silence.
Mizuki waited for her mother's reply. It always took a few minutes for her to answer.
But as the minutes ticked past, a sense of foreboding washed over.
"Mama?"
She looked up, spotting her dimmed eyes, a lifeless expression washing over contently.
Her eyes widened, and a guttural sob left her throat though she tried desperately to hold the rest back. Her whole chest ached with a pain that made her feel as though her heart was being ripped in two, gripped at each end with clawed hands, tearing slowly and torturously.
"Mama, please," Mizuki begged through broken sobs. "Not now, Mama. You said we had more time. You said we'd be together forever! You promised me! You promised!"
She bit her quivering lip harshly, tears streaming down her face.
"Please don't leave me."
Her mother never heard her.
And at that moment—the moment of realisation that life no longer had her mother in it—Mizuki felt devastation unlike any she'd ever known. The barrenness was indescribable. The emptiness that opened up in her seemed to stretch on forever; she could see no end to it, could find no source of comfort in it, could not imagine a way.
And, so, she screamed. Mizuki screamed. She wailed, she cried, and she screamed. As loud as she could. She halfway hoped that if her mother could hear her on her way to heaven, she would turn around and come back to her.
But that was never going to happen.
Her mother was gone, and Mizuki was bereft of her hero.
After that fateful Christmas, she no longer cried, nor sobbed, nor wailed. Her grief was horribly discreet but as persistent and almost as silent as bleeding from an unstitched wound.
"I wonder what mom would do?"
A broken, wet laugh escaped her throat.
"Who am I kidding? She's not here."
Mizuki turned to the argent moon, a tear searing down her cheek.
"You're not here."
Perhaps it is the greatest grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
Her door opened, yellow lights streaming into her room, rushing to rid the solemn darkness that settled comfortably, familiarly.
Mizuki sighed, knowing it was her aunt, probably coming to tell her that dinner was ready. It was dark out again, the moon watching over her once again, a frequent, sympathetic company.
Her bed dipped, and familiar sparks erupted over her skin, gentle fingers brushing over her upper arm. Mizuki's eyes widened, and she turned to see Akaashi smiling softly above her.
"Keiji? What are you doing here?"
"We came to visit you!" Bokuto said gleefully, watching as she took them in, seeing the four dressed in cringy Christmas sweaters.
She laughed softly. "Why are you wearing those?"
"Bo and Kuro forced us," Kenma mumbled, moving to the other side of her bed. Mizuki watched the shortest shuffle under her blankets. She opened her arms, and he curled into her welcoming embrace, pressing himself as close as he could to her, nosing her neck and settling comfortably.
"You okay?" Akaashi asked, rubbing her arm. Mizuki shrugged and just laid her chin on Kenma's head, inhaling his faint scent of apples.
"Your aunt says dinner is ready," Kuroo informed her, sitting at the edge of the bed with Bokuto beside him, a frown displayed on his lips. He didn't like seeing his soulmate like that, so down, so dejected...so broken.
"Could we go later?" she asked quietly.
Akaashi's face softened in understanding. "Of course," he said, watching his two soulmates embrace under the blanket. "We'll go help your aunt out. Just come down when you feel like it."
Mizuki nodded.
Kuroo and Akaashi left, and Bokuto slipped in behind Mizuki, spooning her in his arms, hoping to provide some comfort, any comfort, to the lavenderette. A small smile quirked at her lips, appreciative of the gesture, even if it did little to diminish the sadness churning in her chest.
"We're here," he mumbled into her ear, holding her tightly.
"I know."
Give her a few days of peace in your arms— she needs it terribly. She's ragged, worn, exhausted. After that, maybe, just maybe, she can face the world.