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Chapter Six: Ghost of You
The only sound was the constant drip-drip of the leaky faucet nearby. Other than that, the murky, dim, filthy prison cell was soundless. Shinomori Aoshi sat hunched up against the moist, moss-covered wall with his cuffed hands over his knees and his head buried in his arms.
Fury. Rage. Misery. Anguish. Hopelessness…they were all beyond him. He was at a point where emotions were the once fierce fire deep within his soul that had been extinguished long ago. He felt nothing but emptiness about him that he couldn't quite place.
He still loved her.
And always would.
No one could ever take her place. There would never be a second 'Demolition Lovers' with some girl who shared Misao's face, but never her fire. No one could replace Misao.
Aoshi looked up. The entire room was empty—save for the sleeping guard seated in front of his cell with empty bottles of sake slipping from his fingers and scattering the floor around him. The so-called "capture of the Demolition Lovers" was, for some reason, a cause for celebration among the police department. He found it incredibly stupid, yet terribly amusing at how two people caused the whole city trouble. He expected more from them. Police departments filled with officers all after two mortals. He'd laugh if he had the strength. The guard snorted suddenly and began to snore loudly; a bit of drool beginning to slide down the left corner of his mouth slowly and settle around his chin. Aoshi scowled at him.
He crawled toward the sleeping man and gently reached fro his gun. The moment Aoshi's hand connected with the smooth wood, the guard stirred; his head rolling from one shoulder to the other. He smacked his lips together once…twice…three times, and then drifted back into a drunken slumber, snoring lightly this time.
For three days, Aoshi had remained immobile. He had simply sat and stared. He arose no threats, offered no reason for anyone to watch for an attempt from him to escape, and gave no evidence he even knew where he was.
When the Kamiya girl came to apologize…. He didn't even spare her a glance. He ignored her hour and a half of blubbering and sorry attempts at apologies. He ignored her up until Himura came down and dragged her out. He was greatly relieved at no longer having to hear Kamiya's "sorrys" and her "fondest memories of Misao" when he could barely think of his own of her with a clear leveled head. She was probably trying to cheer him up with the funny little things Misao did when they were younger, but she was wasting her time.
Aoshi reached out toward the guard's gun again. This time, he grasped the wooden and metal handle firmly and slid it out of the holster. He then returned to his spot by the wall and sat, starring at the gun.
What was it that Misao told him about those ancient Greek philosophers? Was it the Cynics? Scorn virtue and seek pleasure? He mildly recalled the story of the homeless old Cynic man who owned nothing but a barrel and bread sack. One evening, Alexander the Great, feeling sorry for him, asked if there was anything he could do for him. In response, the old man requested that Alexander step to the side for he was blocking the sun.
Aoshi was the Cynic old man requesting that Death move to the side and reveal Misao. But, unlike Alexander, Death did not move to the side. Aoshi missed the setting sun's warm rays: Misao's happiness and light. He had nothing. He gave it all up for her. Now that she was gone, he had nothing to live for.
He pulled back the hammer on the gun. Should he end like Kurt Cobain? Gun in mouth, fall with a bang? Or maybe like Misao? Hit to the heart, dead without fear? What were those verses on her shirt again? He slowly brought the gun to his head, index finger on the trigger.
There walks a lady we all know
Who shines white light and wants to show
How everything still turns to gold
And if you listen very hard
The tune will come to you at last
When all are one and one is all
The pistol in his hand shook. It was odd at how friendly it had looked a moment ago. A bed of roses with a dozen reasons already available for him. She was gone! Gone, lying on some cold metal tray in some hospital storeroom! He had nothing…but her memory.
The gun slipped from his fingers. Suicide…an insult to her memory. He; who loved life and lived to the fullest. "Eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we die!" as the Epicureans would have put it. He expected more of himself. She expected more from him. Suicide. Could he go any lower?
The gun hit the floor, and suddenly—there she was. Standing right in front of him. A white hospital bloodstained gown, with her jeans beneath it. Her messy braid hung over her shoulder and draped around her face. Aoshi looked up, searching for her eyes. There they were: bright and as blue as ever.
Before he knew what was happening—the colossal, seemingly unbreakable damns around his heart shattered. The tears and emotions knocking it down and forcing it outward like pieces of a breaking glass window. The tears burst from his eyes like the flooding of the Nile. He reached out a trembling hand towards hers. Her skin was soft and cold. Smooth and delicate. He wanted to gather her in his arms, cover her face with kisses, and bury his face into the soft, warm flesh of her neck. He looked for her eyes again. There was nothing left to say.
"I mean this: forever."
