#30, Thirty Ways to Say a Single Farewell / Bleach / Kuchiki Rukia
Title: Farewell in Writing
Fandom: Bleach
Author: Phoebe (calculusgoddess)
Character/relationship: Kuchiki Rukia
Theme number: #30, Thirty Ways to Say a Single Farewell
Disclaimer/claimer: Bleach owns my soul, but I don't own Bleach. Alas.
This takes place during somewhat early events (volume seven of the manga; after episode 16ish of the anime). If you've seen/read that far, then you'll be spoiler-free!
Summary: Sometimes it takes a while to write exactly what you want to say.
It was, always has been, and always will be a simple word. Some people might choose a different but similar phrase, making it into two or three words, but, really, everything can be said with one simple word.
"Farewell."
Rukia held up the paper in the light of Ichigo's room, that very word written upon it. The ink was still a bit wet, and looked shiny just for a moment, until it had finished drying. Somehow, what was written there just didn't look right. Of course the writing itself was not scribbled or grammatically incorrect, but something just did not feel right about leaving such a simple note to the person that she had shared so many struggles with in such a short span of time.
So, she set to writing something better, something more proper: something that would say just what she wanted to say to such a person. The scratching of pen upon paper echoed faintly in the room for some time. Pages were set aside, considered, reconsidered, and then crumpled up and thrown away, abandoned for their insufficiency. Eventually, something was written and not discarded. In fact, it had taken so long to reach her ideal that she was surprised Ichigo had not already returned to find her writing that note to him. Rukia held this letter up in the light, too, watching as the ink quickly dried.
She glanced toward the wastebasket. She may have finally written what she had wanted-- what she had needed-- to say, but it had sure taken enough tries. Perhaps there, within the wastebasket, there were about thirty sheets of paper. Each had some message of various length; some had unfinished sentences, incomplete thoughts, various ways which she had thought, each, the best way to say farewell to Ichigo but which were later rejected.
But finally her letter, the real farewell, was finished. She set it on top of his desk, where she thought it would most likely be seen, carefully arranging it so that it was not crinkled. Taking a few steps backward, she observed the product of her efforts: a room completely in order, the letter neatly on the desk, and all of her things nowhere to be seen, hidden in the sack that she had slung on her shoulder. Soon Ichigo's room, and Ichigo himself, would be rid of the last thing throwing chaos into this neat little world: herself.
Perhaps dwelling upon this very thought for a moment, Rukia frowned, her eyes turning downward toward the floor. This, however, only lasted a moment before she set her expression straight, rigid once more. She had to leave his house, this room, to get far away from Ichigo before she caused more trouble for him. There wasn't any other choice but to do so. Tugging her sack onto her back, she paced the few steps to the window.
The window-sill creaked slightly as she put her foot on it, a seemingly-loud, foreign sound against the quiet backdrop of the room. Rukia readied herself to go, to not turn back, to forget about his room, forget him, forget everyone that she had shared friendship with. But, just as she was about to jump, something stopped her, nearly causing her to lose her balance. A thought entered her mind: she had written her farewell, but had she spoken it? She turned from the window to look around the room, this room, one last time. There was a pause, and then:
"Farewell, Ichigo."
The words were said clearly, plainly, somehow managing to contain none of the difficulty that she had encountered when writing her good-bye. Perhaps she lingered a moment longer, noting some strange sadness to the voice that she heard sounding within the room. Was it truly her own voice, such an emotion within it? Though a strange and perplexing thought, she did not wait any longer to reflect upon it.
She was gone. And all that remained? Thirty-one farewells, all contained in that one little room.
Fandom: Bleach
Author: Phoebe (calculusgoddess)
Character/relationship: Kuchiki Rukia
Theme number: #30, Thirty Ways to Say a Single Farewell
Disclaimer/claimer: Bleach owns my soul, but I don't own Bleach. Alas.
This takes place during somewhat early events (volume seven of the manga; after episode 16ish of the anime). If you've seen/read that far, then you'll be spoiler-free!
Summary: Sometimes it takes a while to write exactly what you want to say.
It was, always has been, and always will be a simple word. Some people might choose a different but similar phrase, making it into two or three words, but, really, everything can be said with one simple word.
"Farewell."
Rukia held up the paper in the light of Ichigo's room, that very word written upon it. The ink was still a bit wet, and looked shiny just for a moment, until it had finished drying. Somehow, what was written there just didn't look right. Of course the writing itself was not scribbled or grammatically incorrect, but something just did not feel right about leaving such a simple note to the person that she had shared so many struggles with in such a short span of time.
So, she set to writing something better, something more proper: something that would say just what she wanted to say to such a person. The scratching of pen upon paper echoed faintly in the room for some time. Pages were set aside, considered, reconsidered, and then crumpled up and thrown away, abandoned for their insufficiency. Eventually, something was written and not discarded. In fact, it had taken so long to reach her ideal that she was surprised Ichigo had not already returned to find her writing that note to him. Rukia held this letter up in the light, too, watching as the ink quickly dried.
She glanced toward the wastebasket. She may have finally written what she had wanted-- what she had needed-- to say, but it had sure taken enough tries. Perhaps there, within the wastebasket, there were about thirty sheets of paper. Each had some message of various length; some had unfinished sentences, incomplete thoughts, various ways which she had thought, each, the best way to say farewell to Ichigo but which were later rejected.
But finally her letter, the real farewell, was finished. She set it on top of his desk, where she thought it would most likely be seen, carefully arranging it so that it was not crinkled. Taking a few steps backward, she observed the product of her efforts: a room completely in order, the letter neatly on the desk, and all of her things nowhere to be seen, hidden in the sack that she had slung on her shoulder. Soon Ichigo's room, and Ichigo himself, would be rid of the last thing throwing chaos into this neat little world: herself.
Perhaps dwelling upon this very thought for a moment, Rukia frowned, her eyes turning downward toward the floor. This, however, only lasted a moment before she set her expression straight, rigid once more. She had to leave his house, this room, to get far away from Ichigo before she caused more trouble for him. There wasn't any other choice but to do so. Tugging her sack onto her back, she paced the few steps to the window.
The window-sill creaked slightly as she put her foot on it, a seemingly-loud, foreign sound against the quiet backdrop of the room. Rukia readied herself to go, to not turn back, to forget about his room, forget him, forget everyone that she had shared friendship with. But, just as she was about to jump, something stopped her, nearly causing her to lose her balance. A thought entered her mind: she had written her farewell, but had she spoken it? She turned from the window to look around the room, this room, one last time. There was a pause, and then:
"Farewell, Ichigo."
The words were said clearly, plainly, somehow managing to contain none of the difficulty that she had encountered when writing her good-bye. Perhaps she lingered a moment longer, noting some strange sadness to the voice that she heard sounding within the room. Was it truly her own voice, such an emotion within it? Though a strange and perplexing thought, she did not wait any longer to reflect upon it.
She was gone. And all that remained? Thirty-one farewells, all contained in that one little room.