Splinter.
Sayonara.
“There’s nothing more we can do for him. We offer our deepest apologies, Mr. Hara… Mr Niikura.”
The formal, falsely sympathetic voice sounded so far away, distorted and broken and blurred by the thoughts running through my head. I didn’t realize it was me they were addressing. I didn’t feel like Mr. Hara, I didn’t even feel human. I felt nothing and nothing is what I grew accustomed to, sitting there day after day, watching him get worse and worse and worse.
His face looked strangely naked under the dim overhead lights, without the wide smile he usually wore or that glint in his deep brown eyes. It was too serene, too plain. It wasn't my Die. They stole my Die from me that Saturday night, too drunk to drive, reading red as green.
They stole the Die with the fight in him. The Die I knew wouldn’t give up on life after a week of struggling, wouldn’t let death win, would try to make it through for me. But he was limp and cold, his skin a murky white, making the deep crimson of his hair look striking and vivid, beautiful even. If you could call him beautiful now.
The white canvas of his face was all gashes and bruises and broken glass and the bones hidden by fresh clinical linen were splintered and smashed. But the serene, plain mask plastered on his face made it seem like there was no pain, no discomfort, no rough collision with the concrete that caused blood to seep from where it shouldn’t seep and stole my Die from me. But yes, he was beautiful. Extremely beautiful. I’d always believed so and thank God I told him enough times.
He could’ve been sleeping. Sleeping despite the nightmares he’d suffer night after night, clinging to me with sweaty palms and screaming for his life. But he was free from those nightmares now and there was no life to scream for. He was sleeping and that thought kept me from crying in front of the doctors and the nurses and Kaoru. Show no emotion and retain your dignity. That’s what Kaoru taught us and even beside his best friend’s deathbed, his expression was carefully constructed, almost disinterested. Only his eyes gave away his sorrow and he turned away to face the wall.
I, however, simply couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sleeping redhead. My fingers reached out to touch him for one last time. Still soft, which surprised me. I kissed him on the lips, ignoring the blood and the scornful, reproachful looks from the medical staff and I swear I felt his breath tickle my face. But he was gone. The monitor said so. The squiggles had stopped, the dreadful, irritating beeping had stopped and I remember begging for them to start again, almost as if the glowing lines were brilliant pieces of artwork and the high-pitched beeps formed a masterpiece to rival the works of Beethoven or Bach.
He was my masterpiece and someone had broken him, stolen him from me.
And I still imagine he was sleeping because death is an ugly word.
The formal, falsely sympathetic voice sounded so far away, distorted and broken and blurred by the thoughts running through my head. I didn’t realize it was me they were addressing. I didn’t feel like Mr. Hara, I didn’t even feel human. I felt nothing and nothing is what I grew accustomed to, sitting there day after day, watching him get worse and worse and worse.
His face looked strangely naked under the dim overhead lights, without the wide smile he usually wore or that glint in his deep brown eyes. It was too serene, too plain. It wasn't my Die. They stole my Die from me that Saturday night, too drunk to drive, reading red as green.
They stole the Die with the fight in him. The Die I knew wouldn’t give up on life after a week of struggling, wouldn’t let death win, would try to make it through for me. But he was limp and cold, his skin a murky white, making the deep crimson of his hair look striking and vivid, beautiful even. If you could call him beautiful now.
The white canvas of his face was all gashes and bruises and broken glass and the bones hidden by fresh clinical linen were splintered and smashed. But the serene, plain mask plastered on his face made it seem like there was no pain, no discomfort, no rough collision with the concrete that caused blood to seep from where it shouldn’t seep and stole my Die from me. But yes, he was beautiful. Extremely beautiful. I’d always believed so and thank God I told him enough times.
He could’ve been sleeping. Sleeping despite the nightmares he’d suffer night after night, clinging to me with sweaty palms and screaming for his life. But he was free from those nightmares now and there was no life to scream for. He was sleeping and that thought kept me from crying in front of the doctors and the nurses and Kaoru. Show no emotion and retain your dignity. That’s what Kaoru taught us and even beside his best friend’s deathbed, his expression was carefully constructed, almost disinterested. Only his eyes gave away his sorrow and he turned away to face the wall.
I, however, simply couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sleeping redhead. My fingers reached out to touch him for one last time. Still soft, which surprised me. I kissed him on the lips, ignoring the blood and the scornful, reproachful looks from the medical staff and I swear I felt his breath tickle my face. But he was gone. The monitor said so. The squiggles had stopped, the dreadful, irritating beeping had stopped and I remember begging for them to start again, almost as if the glowing lines were brilliant pieces of artwork and the high-pitched beeps formed a masterpiece to rival the works of Beethoven or Bach.
He was my masterpiece and someone had broken him, stolen him from me.
And I still imagine he was sleeping because death is an ugly word.