Ova Da Rainbow: HAWAII'S STORY (3)

In Sound and Fury

This chapter's first draft rubbed me in such a wrong way that I felt the need to rewrite, as it feels so very out of character for the growth Hawaiʻi has done with the past chapters. And  human life should not be so shrugged off in such a way like I did in the last draft, no matter how bad, no matter how disgusting someone may be.

So, have the new and improved chapter, with less murder, just pure reflection and angst, and just the littlest bit of police corruption. 

Mahalo Nui Loa for your love and support, and may you all have a lovely night. I promise to try to do better.

—1991—

Blood has a very strong smell.

However, this smell is not one that is particularly well loved, by nearly anyone in their right mind. And as quoted by a rather famous Scottish tragedy, all the perfumes in Arabia could not cover that scent.

Blood, flesh, and burnt hair. Those were smells that stuck to clothing, to your hands. They were smells that on their own were already horrible and disgusting, but with this unholy trinity of smells, there was an odd comfort to it all.

The colour wasn't too dashing either, it would've looked horrid with the purple she had decided to wear that day.

And of course, was the simple act of washing of hands afterwards, scrubbing at those damned spots, would these hands ever be clean, truely? Did it even matter if they were?

Those hands had held others in her own. Those hands had caressed children's cheeks to sleep. Those hands had run through hair and feathers and rubbed backs and pinched cheeks lovingly. Those hands had warmed to a comfortable heat to soothe nightmares and wipe away tears.

Those hands had held knives to throats, had threatened, had mangled skin beyond recognition. Those hands had bruised some of the largest nations in the world.

Those same hands that comforted and warmed had burned flesh, of friends, of loved ones, of enemies.

Those hands, those beautiful, horrible, centuries old hands, were now being washed with soap and water in the kitchen of the United States of America's house in the world of the Nations.

How could those hands kill someone?

The blood smell hadn't left, not in all the years that she had lived, it would probably never leave. Hawaiʻi should have expected that much.

Yet who would have thought the man to have had so much blood in him?

–Two weeks ago–

The call came at dinnertime, a time Anuenue rarely missed, and would at least give a call or something to make sure Hawaiʻi knew she was alright. But it was now late, and Anuenue still hadn't shown up. "Is this Miss Emma Kameāloha?"

Hawaiʻi made a note to herself to tell Anuenue to stop putting her down on legal documents as her emergency contact.

"Paul Kainalu Waiona Baker was killed in an incident this afternoon."

"What."

"He was walking across the street from picking up his siblings, and he was gunned down in what the HPD suspected to be a planned attack."

This report was later proven when the nephew of the attacker came forward to tell the police that his uncle talked about killing that "damn māhu that's preying on our kids."

It was so fast, so quick. There was no time to grieve. No time to even think.

If this was in the 60s, 70s, even, she would have had to wear a pin proclaiming that she was something she was not, just to not be arrested. She was born after that time, and she should have been able to think she was safe.