He wanted to pretend it was an accident.
'I wasn't paying attention to where I was going,' he could say, but everything was too precise for that. 'I visited a friend and their cat decided not to take a shine to me.' But even cats had a limit, and he would not be able to explain how, miraculously, his clothes had not been shredded by claws either. 'I was cooking- dicing some vegetables- and my hand slipped. The nurse said it was minor at worst.' If anyone cared enough to ask around, though, they would quickly learn the school nurse knew nothing of such an incident- she would likely think it was a prank being pulled.
He could no longer pretend it was an accident.
The feeling nagged at his bones like fever. Though the memory was still so fresh, naught but minutes old, Aoyama felt as though decades had passed. Still, he could picture everything- down to the last detail, down to the minute smudges on his mirror. Everything prior had been a whirling storm of words and metal and teeth- but he remembered the calm. He remembered when the chaos in his mind had dulled its roar and the dark waves thundering against his brain quelled. He'd stood above the sink motionlessly, hands gripping the porcelain rim; his eyes, empty, watching drops of water descend idly from the faucet to the basin. Nothing was different- yet, at the same time, everything was.
The bathroom felt sinister. To an outsider, perhaps it would be. Not everyone could appreciate art the way Aoyama could.
It started sloppy. Pristine granite countertops were laden with merlot smears, dashed here and there; they were careless, inexperienced brushstrokes, culminating in a juvenile piece. But yet, their bold hue stood stark against the rest of the room- an accent piece. Underfoot, black tiled floors glimmered beneath the heavy light of a studio mirror, reflecting a glowing hue like the heart of a fire gone dead- embers, breathing shallow, starved for air. Such a muted, humble tone made a spectacular highlight for the vanity, whose colors were so vivid, so full of life, that Aoyama had nearly been overwhelmed by their artistry. In truth, he'd nearly fainted. But such art demanded a captive audience, and Aoyama, unable to move his feet from where he'd anchored himself, had played the part.
It had been lamentable that the piece was not sufficient- Aoyama had put a great deal of himself into it. Still, he knew he could do better, and with crestfallen demeanor he scrapped the artwork and laid his canvas bare. Another time, he supposed, a great composition would strike him. But until he was satisfied, he would not allow himself to share such a creation with any other soul. Besides, he told himself, he would require a new brush in order to articulate such a masterpiece; his current tool was no good in its condition.
Such a shame the blade had gone rusty.
