http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5189799/1/Til_Death_Do_Us_Part - This is the piece I am most proud of, though bare in mind, it was written almost 2 years ago, when I was 15. Most of my other stuff on FF.net is really old and quite embarressing.
And this is the most recent piece of fanfic that I've written, though it's at least 9 months old now as well.
My mother always used to say that had she not had to bathe me when I was younger, she would have never known that I was a girl. Rather than staying indoors to idly make paper cranes, delicate enough to flutter in the drafts that chilled our house to its wooden bone, I would be outdoors, scampering along the crystal fissures because I was brave or naive enough to truly believe that deep down in my heart, I could fly. Off the indigo rocks her voice would echo and I would pretend not to hear her calling for me as the dusky air thickened and the trilling of the cicadas urged me to behave and return home. It was when her voice became angrier, shrill and often furious saying, ‘Where is that girl? I’ll let her have it when she gets back,” that I knew I had to obey, or else my father would join her in finding me.
Yet when I did return home, hair mussed up, hands rough from clutching jagged rock faces and occasionally dripping blood if I had happened to slip and lose my footing, there would be a steaming cup of green tea and my father’s bemused smile, watching as my mother’s arms didn’t strike me but held me, attempting to pull me close, scrub the smudges off my face, or untangle my hair, whilst I writhed about manically to get away from her.
It was a struggle though since she was so strong, not from manual work but from endless determination to succeed. On a good day she could easily defeat my father with a kendo stick, he being one of the most notorious swordsmen around. He told me she’d always been this way, ever since the day they had first met and that if he hadn’t chanced upon hearing her singing one day when he was late to class, he would have never guessed that at her core was a woman who just wanted to care for all she could touch.
Pressed up close to her, I would always note that we had the same skin – milky, but in a way that gave us a more curious appearance instead of simply pallor. I had her smile too, which was almost given seeing as how my father seldom smiled, but when he did smile, I knew I had to treasure it as though he had just bestowed me with a precious gift. In a way, he always did. My father did not believe in doing anything unless you did it to the fullest extent, meaning that any signs of emotion he showed me were infinitely more valuable than gold.
One of my features though presented a lot of thought for our neighbours, who often enjoyed pondering at how they came to be. Neither of my parents had blue eyes, you see, so it was quite a shock for them when I first flickered my eyelids and gazed upon the world with a pair of brilliant azure orbs. Apparently my grandmother had taken one swift look at me before declaring that I had far too much water in my personality, a trait she deemed extremely inauspicious. In her mind I would grow up to be flighty, indecisive, gauche, and yet always be able to make a quick escape; a necessary skill for I would certainly be a troublemaker. I do not contradict what she predicted as all of it is true in some form or other. I just feel slightly sad that my grandmother was denied the joy she would have undoubtedly gained from seeing what an inept her granddaughter became. She passed away when I was a little over a year old.
Most of my early childhood remains forgotten, blurred into only a few choice memories because every day that passed was practically the same, overflowing with monotony. There is one that stands out though, a giant towering over the rest.
That evening it was raining, water sloshing down in sheets and even seeping a little through the roof. It had been pouring all day long and I was restless, being unable to explore a cave I had stumbled across the day before. If I didn’t claim it as my own territory soon, another child might, something I dreaded increasingly.
All of us had been inside that day, my mother persuading my father that there was no way he could walk to work in that kind of weather without catching a chill. She had spent the entire day reading, content to lounge on the futon with book after book. I had attempted to fold a whole collection of origami creatures but after discovering it was far too difficult to create a paper fox, I gave up and instead pleaded at my father to teach me some characters. He agreed and I found myself placed carefully on his lap whilst he tapped at the brushes and inspected the ink stone.
Large hands curled around mine, before the brush was dipped into the black lacquer liquid. A few fleet wrist movements resulted in a character appearing on the scroll which lay on the table and I squinted in effort to read it.
“Hikari,” I exclaimed in excitement and my mother glanced up from her book. It was rare for me to be able to recognise the first character marked on the scroll by my father, but this was one that he showed me frequently. To him, it was important.
“Correct,” he said and although it would be inaudible to many, I could hear the muted sense of pride in his voice. “And which character goes with this, the opposite of light?”
I paused and bit my lip, a habit I was told I inherited from my mother. He turned to glance at her and I took the opportunity to snatch up another of the brushes lying to the side and carelessly scrawled down what I though the answer was in my eagerness to impress. The brush slipped from my grasp several times due to something my grandmother had not foreseen. I was also one of the clumsy members of society who write with their left hands. Predictably, I managed to splash myself with almost as much ink as I dipped the brush in.
“There,” I said, announcing that I was done. “The opposite of light, yami.”
I suppose my father would have smiled at me again had there not have been a knocking at the door that precise moment. My mother placed down her book and frowned, clearly puzzled at who would be calling under the circumstances, but my father just slid me from his lap and ruffled my dark hair before striding across the room to greet the visitor.
The minute the door was opened I shivered, the room having become so much colder. All I could see was an obscure silhouette of a man, and it must have been a man since no women could have been so tall, so broad in the shoulders, and so deeply terrifying without any distinguishable features. The next thing I knew my mother had pushed me into the cramped back room along with our dog, Angelo and shut the door tight.
If the door had been a person it would have surely been bruised after the way I treated it. I hollered, battering and pounding it with my fists and when that failed, I punched it instead, reluctantly surrendering when I had succeeding in splitting the knuckles of both my hands. I couldn’t hear anything that was happening. The rain outside was lashing down harder than ever, Angelo was barking beside me and I was breathing so heavily that it was echoing in my chest as well as my head.
I can’t have been trapped in there for long, but when you are scared your mind loses all its sense of how the world works and seconds slowly transform into minutes, minutes to hours and hours to days. In all honesty, I think I fell asleep but how I managed to is still something of a mystery to me.
Sooner or later the door creaked open and Angelo scurried out, pleased to finally have freedom once more. I stood up, glanced at my mother’s tear-torn face and plodded back into the main room without so much as breathing a sigh of relief. Helplessly, I watched as she stumbled quietly over to the futon and proceeded to collapse into a wailing ball. Looking around the room, I saw that everything was as it had been, all still intact. There was but one thing missing.
I cautiously stepped past my mother to reach the table, where the scroll still lay. In the top right hand corner, the only part left untouched by my messy calligraphy, something new had been written. In the hiragana script, my father had left me a message.Xion, gomenasai.
I turned around and edged towards the futon. My mother looked up hesitantly when I tapped her on the shoulder, rubbed her eyes with her sleeves and then opened her arms for me to join her. We spent the rest of the night sitting there sobbing, hoping there would be some comfort in the fact that we were both crying together.