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Stretching and suffocating, silence takes lives every night and day with the blade of misunderstanding and poison of severed connections -- it is cruel, merciless, and suffocating. Shifting, you hear the old bamboo wood that made the engawa creak in a wail beneath you, like a cry of pain or a scream of agony. You cannot help but falter, although only slightly. An undetectable flinch that leaves your body void.
The wood creaks again as the demon behind you takes a step backwards, lingering at his spot for a second more than necessary before he turns around and enters his home once more, shutting the shoji behind him. His steps were light, not fitting his stature but you supposed it was better than loud stomps.
No words of protest leave your lips at his evident uninterest in you as his footsteps become lighter the more distance he puts between both of you, not that you had even been given a chance to whine like a child at his icy demeanor. Somehow, you know he doesn't care about you -- he bothers more about his duel than with your existence, your life a mere ticket that grants him entrance to the bitter taste of death after the end. Dull amethyst orbs blink once, twice, and then thrice before you turn around to listen to the whispers of the night once more.
It's boring. For a child to enjoy the hums of the cricket and the mere howl of the wind is much too unrealistic. But it's not like anyone cares for your opinion, so you purse your lips and swallow your words as you remind yourself a phrase that you've repeated to yourself as if a mantra that never stops thrumming. You're alive, strange as it may be.
You don't want to test the luck that kept you alive during that blizzard, the waters are fine as they are and you leave it with hesitance. You're alive and for now that's all that matters. It's all that can matter. You're not selfish enough to yearn more than a life that's not meant to be yours to live.
Clutching the okumi of the haori draped over your figure loosely, you hung your feet at the edge of the engawa carelessly, the weight of gravity heavy against your shoulders, the untrimmed grass tickling your skin as you swung them back and forth in a repetitive manner. It's boring, this home is dull and bleak and you want to go back to Kokushibo. But you suppose he's busy with other matters, and you're particularly certain you won't bother to ask the cherry-colored man.
