Twinkling Lights and Powder-Soft Hands
twinkling lights and powder-soft hands; general; r; sora, yoite
[[Disturbing themes, including child abuse. Don't like, don't read :|b]]
He remembers being bullied away from all the 'good' foods, all the 'top shelf' stuff. It was set up high, out of reach, organized by worth and demand. It was only the bottom shelf stuff he was allowed easy access to. Not the Pop-tarts. Pop-tarts were top shelf. Chips, chocolates, snacks. The fruit-flavored cereals. Vanilla cookies. He'd always wondered how they tasted. Condensed milk was bottom shelf, flour, powders, baking supplies that he wouldn't touch. The older cereals, going stale. Oatmeal, but the plain kind, nothing like the upper shelf apple cinnamon kind.
He remembers the easy victories for the food of his choice. I don't want that. Sora touched that. He accidentally ruined a whole box of instant mashed potatoes that way. He felt bad, because the potatoes hadn't done anything particularly bad to deserve that. He remembers winning a whole turkey sandwich like that. That had been nice.
He remembers the sweet, sweet smell of freshly baked apple pie wafting all the way down to his cage, taunting him. Ha ha, you can't have me. He remembers entering the kitchen, remembers selfishly sticking his hand straight into the center of the pie, the agonizing sting of the heat, the throb of those apple pieces sticking to pink skin, searing at his flesh.
He remembers his aunt, coming at him with the knife. That had been scary. He'd thought she was going to go through with it, for a few heart-stopping seconds, that apple still slipping and sliding down his fingers, sticky. They threw out the pie.
He remembers... feeling lonely. Feeling fragile. He remembers strong hands and bruises on his upper arms - people grabbed him sometimes, and shook him. The bruises were long and thin, dark against pale skin. He liked to look at them under the light, and mush his fingers into them until they hurt and they made him squirm but they were white, for a few crucial milliseconds, clean, gone, and that was what mattered. He remembers doing that later on too, but rot never faded like the bruises did. There was only that ache.
He remembers his first apology. It was a Friday night. His father had been in a foul mood, and Sora knew better than to reach for his food too quickly at night. It was a silly mistake. Silly. He remembers saying that out loud, quiet and shocked. Silly.
His father had jumped, had grabbed Sora's fingers and squeezed and twisted, tight tight tight. Why don't you learn, you never learn! He remembers the hatred in those eyes, the utter and complete loathing. He remembers not breathing. He remembers a 'pop'.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Tiny words, so unfamiliar when being used in his direction. He'd felt confused, and scared. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. He understood it, so close to a Sunday, couldn't say anything too out of line, with tape around his fingers, with so many strange stares already. Sora's seven years old, Sora's not in school yet, Sora's very ill. Sora hadn't really registered the pain until they'd been straightened, taped.
He remembers laughing, when he was alone again, after. He remembers laughing and laughing and laughing and then crying. Crying, sobbing that shook his shoulders and made his bones ache, made his fingers throb. Those words he hadn't quite absorbed, that came rolling back up, thick with tears. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to feel that, I'm sorry you're attached to my body. You don't deserve this, you deserve a better life. Better hands. He remembers feeling embarrassed. Talking to fingers.
He remembers the twang every time he tried to bend them after. His right pinky still didn't straighten, not all the way.
He remembers... Oh, God, he remembers understanding. He remembers the aversion to hospitals and all their numerous questions. He remembers trying to keep extra quiet, after the fingers - if he didn't bother anyone, if he kept out of the way, they didn't get so angry, didn't feel that need to hit and hit. It couldn't escalate, there was no need for trouble, no need for hospitals.
He similarly remembers hopeless nights, tiny muscles lacking the necessary force to slam his arm hard enough against the window sill, that cement, against the bars of his cage, that steel, the bruises and scrapes after. He remembers praying for the strength with every hit. Pay attention, pay attention, give me something. Give me something someone will notice. Give me something someone will ask me about.
He remembers quiet nights.
He remembers his father slipping into that tiny twin mattress when he thought Sora was asleep, arms wrapping so tight around him that, had he been able to breathe at all, he couldn't have tried. He remembers the brief, high-flying moments of hope, blind hope, aching for more of those sorries, more of something, anything. He remembers that pit in his stomach when his father would speak.
Sachiko, my Sachiko. He remembers the fingers playing at his skin, playing where they didn't belong. Sachiko, my Sachiko. He remembers the shudder of disgust, every time the hands would dip lower, under his waistband, how quickly his father would leave.
He remembers when he used to ache for those nights, first for the affection, for that initial hope and fervent wishing. Later, because of Her, of this Sachiko, of these words he'd get to hear. He'd never known his mother's name for certain, nobody would tell him. He liked to think that was her name. Sachiko. No matter what it really was, he liked to fantasize, to wonder. He wanted to know what she was like, what she looked like. He wanted to know more about his very first victim. Longed, yearned.
With the Shinrabanshou, with his erasure in sight, sometimes he'd doze off, and daydream. He invented beautiful scenes in his head, beautiful events with flowing and silky fabrics, with pretty and twinkling lights and powder-soft hands and hair. Beautiful times, that she'd been robbed of. Sometimes she was faceless. Sometimes she looked like Hana. Her laugh always sounded like bells.
He remembers never wanting to meet her. He didn't think he could look her in the eyes. He didn't think he could apologize. He didn't think he had the gall.
He remembers dark, blissful dark. He remembers hanging shirts over that barred window to block out the moon, wanting to drench the room in all that dark and black. He remembers letting it swallow him whole at night and not feeling the least bit afraid of whatever the shadows would carry. It was the light that judged, that exposed all his pores and his cracks and let the world see him for how he is. People misunderstood the dark. He liked the dark.
But he also remembers those shirts getting drenched. He remembers leaving the windows open, sometimes on accident and sometimes on purpose, shivering just to feel something. He remembers when it would rain and the water would pool outside his window, down his wall, onto the cement floor. He remembers being terrified someone would find out. Those were the accident times. Those were the ones he didn't mean. Nobody wanted to sleep in the wet. Nobody wanted to sleep in the mud.
This is now, when his fingers ache. When his teeth hurt, when his knuckles crack, when his joints creak and moan and threaten to cave in beneath him. This is now when he tries so so hard not to be scared, to keep everything together, when he has to hug his knees when he sits to keep himself from falling into tiny pieces. When he fears dust, of all things, when he's afraid of what he could become. He remembers long nights, shaking, so much he can't sleep, remembers when those black speckles started creeping along his skin and no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn't make them go away.
He remembers scalding hot mugs. He remembers angry typing, the patter of the keyboard. Jeans. Coffee. Gunpowder. He remembers knee-socks. He remembers a small mouth and wide eyes. He-- he remembers comfort. He remembers cold, tiny hands that touched so delicately against his own, and he was so afraid of his own, the callouses, the dark splotches seeping through his gloves, soaking deep into pale white skin and, oh, gods, he'd never be able to forgive himself--
He just remembers different times. He remembers things white and soft, but maybe that's not remembering, maybe that was another daydream. He remembers things going dark, and then he'd open his eyes, but his vision wouldn't return, not yet. He remembers ten fingers and ten -- no, five toes. He remembers losing count. He remembers cold and ups and downs, tiny fingers laced into awkward ones and holding on so tight and so comforted. He remembers wondering if it was what 'home' felt like.
He remembers-- He remembers when he started living. He remembers when he stopped. No. That's not right. Those are just daydreams. He wonders if he did ever start. He wonders when he would have. Maybe it was with the Shinrabanshou. Maybe it was with Lemon tea. Maybe it was with death and decay.
He remembers Hana. He remembers Yukimi. And Miharu. Gods, does he remember Miharu.
He remembers what's important.
Yeah. Yeah, he remembers that.
[[Disturbing themes, including child abuse. Don't like, don't read :|b]]
He remembers being bullied away from all the 'good' foods, all the 'top shelf' stuff. It was set up high, out of reach, organized by worth and demand. It was only the bottom shelf stuff he was allowed easy access to. Not the Pop-tarts. Pop-tarts were top shelf. Chips, chocolates, snacks. The fruit-flavored cereals. Vanilla cookies. He'd always wondered how they tasted. Condensed milk was bottom shelf, flour, powders, baking supplies that he wouldn't touch. The older cereals, going stale. Oatmeal, but the plain kind, nothing like the upper shelf apple cinnamon kind.
He remembers the easy victories for the food of his choice. I don't want that. Sora touched that. He accidentally ruined a whole box of instant mashed potatoes that way. He felt bad, because the potatoes hadn't done anything particularly bad to deserve that. He remembers winning a whole turkey sandwich like that. That had been nice.
He remembers the sweet, sweet smell of freshly baked apple pie wafting all the way down to his cage, taunting him. Ha ha, you can't have me. He remembers entering the kitchen, remembers selfishly sticking his hand straight into the center of the pie, the agonizing sting of the heat, the throb of those apple pieces sticking to pink skin, searing at his flesh.
He remembers his aunt, coming at him with the knife. That had been scary. He'd thought she was going to go through with it, for a few heart-stopping seconds, that apple still slipping and sliding down his fingers, sticky. They threw out the pie.
He remembers... feeling lonely. Feeling fragile. He remembers strong hands and bruises on his upper arms - people grabbed him sometimes, and shook him. The bruises were long and thin, dark against pale skin. He liked to look at them under the light, and mush his fingers into them until they hurt and they made him squirm but they were white, for a few crucial milliseconds, clean, gone, and that was what mattered. He remembers doing that later on too, but rot never faded like the bruises did. There was only that ache.
He remembers his first apology. It was a Friday night. His father had been in a foul mood, and Sora knew better than to reach for his food too quickly at night. It was a silly mistake. Silly. He remembers saying that out loud, quiet and shocked. Silly.
His father had jumped, had grabbed Sora's fingers and squeezed and twisted, tight tight tight. Why don't you learn, you never learn! He remembers the hatred in those eyes, the utter and complete loathing. He remembers not breathing. He remembers a 'pop'.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Tiny words, so unfamiliar when being used in his direction. He'd felt confused, and scared. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. He understood it, so close to a Sunday, couldn't say anything too out of line, with tape around his fingers, with so many strange stares already. Sora's seven years old, Sora's not in school yet, Sora's very ill. Sora hadn't really registered the pain until they'd been straightened, taped.
He remembers laughing, when he was alone again, after. He remembers laughing and laughing and laughing and then crying. Crying, sobbing that shook his shoulders and made his bones ache, made his fingers throb. Those words he hadn't quite absorbed, that came rolling back up, thick with tears. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to feel that, I'm sorry you're attached to my body. You don't deserve this, you deserve a better life. Better hands. He remembers feeling embarrassed. Talking to fingers.
He remembers the twang every time he tried to bend them after. His right pinky still didn't straighten, not all the way.
He remembers... Oh, God, he remembers understanding. He remembers the aversion to hospitals and all their numerous questions. He remembers trying to keep extra quiet, after the fingers - if he didn't bother anyone, if he kept out of the way, they didn't get so angry, didn't feel that need to hit and hit. It couldn't escalate, there was no need for trouble, no need for hospitals.
He similarly remembers hopeless nights, tiny muscles lacking the necessary force to slam his arm hard enough against the window sill, that cement, against the bars of his cage, that steel, the bruises and scrapes after. He remembers praying for the strength with every hit. Pay attention, pay attention, give me something. Give me something someone will notice. Give me something someone will ask me about.
He remembers quiet nights.
He remembers his father slipping into that tiny twin mattress when he thought Sora was asleep, arms wrapping so tight around him that, had he been able to breathe at all, he couldn't have tried. He remembers the brief, high-flying moments of hope, blind hope, aching for more of those sorries, more of something, anything. He remembers that pit in his stomach when his father would speak.
Sachiko, my Sachiko. He remembers the fingers playing at his skin, playing where they didn't belong. Sachiko, my Sachiko. He remembers the shudder of disgust, every time the hands would dip lower, under his waistband, how quickly his father would leave.
He remembers when he used to ache for those nights, first for the affection, for that initial hope and fervent wishing. Later, because of Her, of this Sachiko, of these words he'd get to hear. He'd never known his mother's name for certain, nobody would tell him. He liked to think that was her name. Sachiko. No matter what it really was, he liked to fantasize, to wonder. He wanted to know what she was like, what she looked like. He wanted to know more about his very first victim. Longed, yearned.
With the Shinrabanshou, with his erasure in sight, sometimes he'd doze off, and daydream. He invented beautiful scenes in his head, beautiful events with flowing and silky fabrics, with pretty and twinkling lights and powder-soft hands and hair. Beautiful times, that she'd been robbed of. Sometimes she was faceless. Sometimes she looked like Hana. Her laugh always sounded like bells.
He remembers never wanting to meet her. He didn't think he could look her in the eyes. He didn't think he could apologize. He didn't think he had the gall.
He remembers dark, blissful dark. He remembers hanging shirts over that barred window to block out the moon, wanting to drench the room in all that dark and black. He remembers letting it swallow him whole at night and not feeling the least bit afraid of whatever the shadows would carry. It was the light that judged, that exposed all his pores and his cracks and let the world see him for how he is. People misunderstood the dark. He liked the dark.
But he also remembers those shirts getting drenched. He remembers leaving the windows open, sometimes on accident and sometimes on purpose, shivering just to feel something. He remembers when it would rain and the water would pool outside his window, down his wall, onto the cement floor. He remembers being terrified someone would find out. Those were the accident times. Those were the ones he didn't mean. Nobody wanted to sleep in the wet. Nobody wanted to sleep in the mud.
This is now, when his fingers ache. When his teeth hurt, when his knuckles crack, when his joints creak and moan and threaten to cave in beneath him. This is now when he tries so so hard not to be scared, to keep everything together, when he has to hug his knees when he sits to keep himself from falling into tiny pieces. When he fears dust, of all things, when he's afraid of what he could become. He remembers long nights, shaking, so much he can't sleep, remembers when those black speckles started creeping along his skin and no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn't make them go away.
He remembers scalding hot mugs. He remembers angry typing, the patter of the keyboard. Jeans. Coffee. Gunpowder. He remembers knee-socks. He remembers a small mouth and wide eyes. He-- he remembers comfort. He remembers cold, tiny hands that touched so delicately against his own, and he was so afraid of his own, the callouses, the dark splotches seeping through his gloves, soaking deep into pale white skin and, oh, gods, he'd never be able to forgive himself--
He just remembers different times. He remembers things white and soft, but maybe that's not remembering, maybe that was another daydream. He remembers things going dark, and then he'd open his eyes, but his vision wouldn't return, not yet. He remembers ten fingers and ten -- no, five toes. He remembers losing count. He remembers cold and ups and downs, tiny fingers laced into awkward ones and holding on so tight and so comforted. He remembers wondering if it was what 'home' felt like.
He remembers-- He remembers when he started living. He remembers when he stopped. No. That's not right. Those are just daydreams. He wonders if he did ever start. He wonders when he would have. Maybe it was with the Shinrabanshou. Maybe it was with Lemon tea. Maybe it was with death and decay.
He remembers Hana. He remembers Yukimi. And Miharu. Gods, does he remember Miharu.
He remembers what's important.
Yeah. Yeah, he remembers that.