Days of Red and White: 2

DAYS OF RED AND WHITE

Episode Two: Kikimasu

I fall and rise over and over again as each day passes in that static bed of white. The spouts of unconsciousness gradually grow less and less as with each day the nurses remove the sheets with less of the smudge of iron red.

By the time was able to properly comprehend my surroundings and properly speak, I found that I knew most if not all of the nurses by face and the main doctor attending me was on shifts with my sensei himself. The ‘hospital’ as I so liked to call it was a small institute, but since the bombings as from now had only been light, the capacity was rarely pressed. I would often look toward people I knew, hoping for salvation; but they didn’t seem to see me as anything but the patient with the impossible case.

When the day becomes dark the lights turn the narrow cut window near the top of the far wall into a slice of reflecting glass. I find myself cringing my head to the far end of the pillow, turning the room sideways, just so I can see the stars. But more often than not the bulbs are left burning and yellow during the tiresome mornings, and the only stars I see are the reflections of the glinting metal of the weary bed-frame, the sheen of the liquid, balanced in tubes and bags, or the doors broken nose, who creaks and moans at the slightest zephyr. And among them all there is one withered moon, which is my face- peering into its own eyes.

They had cut my hair. Back then it was both smooth and bristled. So thin, that the sensation of running my fingers over my own exposed head seemed to tickle. It made me feel so exposed; so bare compared the hair that hung around my shoulders when I was born. It has grown a bit since then, once again thick enough to be considered solid black. Long enough to begin to sit flat rather sprig upward like grass. I must have been away for more months than I had known it to have grown so far out.

I wonder if the others spend their time pondering why my hair grows backwards. Could I painstakingly trim millimetres off every week? How could they not see? How could they not believe? I clench my fists; my fingers are even thinner than before. I am not slight boned, but malnutrition reaches even the men with the widest of shoulders or the highest of cheeks.

My moon sets into the darkness of the evening when I prop myself backward and watch my younger sister, Kaho, leaves the room. She settles down silently, kneeling on the side near my knees, her cheek resting on the mattress by my side. Her eyebrows are pressed inward and her lips turn to a subtle frown, concerned.

“I really hope you’re okay, Akira.” She says sternly. Her words are not sympathetic, only flustered. She settles her head into the blankets, face down. I pet her head gently. Her usually primed hair is limp and straight.

I’m sorry Kaho. I’m sorry for going away. I’m sorry when I vanish. I’m sorry for being so heartless. She twitches.

“I’m sorry.” My voice is lonely. I’m sorry but you can’t understand... you can’t hear me.

I lift my hand away. Why? Why....

Kaho lifts her head, her face red and frightened. “I can hear you Akira! Stop it!”

“No!” My voice is out before I can control it. “You can’t hear me! You can’t understand. You can’t.” It raises, the pressing air pushing pain through my lungs.

“You can’t hear me! You never can. No matter what I say its only ever lost! You never understand.” I’m no longer talking to my staring sister, but everyone. Everyone in the whole wide world.

“Why!? Why is this....?” I slump forward, my shoulders heaving, and my tongue twitching between breaths. Some people understand. The army; they understood for their own reasons. And June.

June tried to understand. June tried his hardest to try his best. He tried to remain the friend he always was despite the fact that day after day I slipped further and further away. At the very least he tried to believe me. At the very most he pretended to believe me.

But no-one ever heard me.

“For what?” Kaho’s voice is faint but smiling.

“I’m sorry.” I say again. I feel bad for yelling at her, but I can’t stand to set her eyes on her face. A face of ignorance; a face that had yet to know what was about to happen. A fake face.

Why don’t you hear me? Why can’t I be heard?

Kaho takes both of my hands in hers. “It’s a shame you had to be like this.” She says, “But even so, you seemed to have so much fun yesterday. It really makes me happy to see that.”

I only look at her, still breathing heavily. My chest hurts from yelling. She pats my shoulder. Pauperising for a moment with a suspended grin; waiting for an answer she will never get. She eventually asks the question, just subtle small talk.

“That cake June’s mother made was delicious, wasn’t it?”

”That’s right...”I say, agreeing to nothing. Kaho leans over to a glass balancing on the small shelf by my side. There is a sprig of some unknown flower resting on its rim. She picks it and twirls it between her thumb.

“Though that never stopped you after all of these years” She says as she lifts up the glass. “Soon I won’t have an excuse to tell you to not do this, since you’ll be hatachi soon.” She brings it to her nose and takes a whiff, her face sour at the smell. Her eyes suddenly brighten up at me. “You remembered? I was certain you’d have forgotten by now. This is great!”

“What so great when I’m about to be lectured by a fourteen year old.” I say. Remembered...? What had I said?

Kaho places the glass back down and spins the flower in my face. I flinch backwards.

“I bought you this.” The flower rolls against her lips. “I can’t stay for long or else I will be late.” She pulls my head into a hug, singing my name before skipping toward the exit.

“Goodmorning Kaho.” I call after her, sending her off with a common farewell.

Dawn falls, and the sun sets below the window, growing into the ground. My eyes are closed, but sleep is ellusive, escaping beneath the blanket across my cold toes. It must be nearing three a.m when the door clicks shut. Gently, gently.

My eyes open easily. They were never truly sleepy. Behind the bending door the halls are black, and there is one person, creeping inwards, a grin across his face. June.

He leaves the door open a crack then carefully pulls a chair from its tight home on the wall, settling stubbornly beside me. In his hands he holds an empty bottle.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” He says under his breath.