Author: LabyrinthDweller PM
From the phones of the distressed people on the street after the truck hit her to the phone she answered in her room with the Black Page leering at her as she said the words.Rated: Fiction T - English - Horror/Supernatural - Rin K. - Words: 705 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 1 - Published: 11-19-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7565497
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I've been wanting to write something for the (horrendously heartbroken, incredibly sad, suspenseful, well-done) game Calling for a while now. I...originally wanted my first Calling fic to be about Makoto BUT I GUESS it didn't work out like that.
I played the game through in Japanese because I'm a nerd and since I'm actually learning the language it helps. Besides, the language fit with the game and story. Especially since, you know, it took place in Japan.
PS: I have NO IDEA what I was thinking or where I was going with this. Enjoy?
It was a downright miracle that Rin had survived, mostly due to the hospital being so close by, her goal being so close by. The driver had confessed to being too preoccupied with his loud music to see the red light and to see the adolescent girl innocently crossing the street. He was driving a truck, so the excuse didn't let him walk free easily, but she supposed she didn't care...not too much. She did survive after all, he did try to swerve after all before the truck slammed into her terrified body, knocking her to the dirty pavement. Her ribs, arms, head cracked, there was blood, pain flooded her limbs but it felt so far away as the world faded to a dark color as voices of men and women shouted about her, calling for help, parting crowds of people aside to run to the hospital, calling out to her to make sure she was okay, calling on their phones to bring the police to attention.
"Moshi moshi? Moshi moshi!"
She opened her eyes just far enough to see the flickering image of a small, sickly girl sitting sadly in the waiting room as her bed raced past her. That was all she remembered, that and the voice of the marginally impatient secretary taking calls.
When she finally opened her eyes again that same sickly, poor little girl was standing on the window ledge, bearing an expression far more mature, far more distant, far more lost than anyone her age—anyone any age—should've been. Rin tried to lift her head to stop the small girl, as heavy and soft as it felt and as achingly painful as it was, but she could not speak in time. All she heard as her vision grew fuzzy with shock and adrenaline was the calling of the nurse as the girl stepped and disappeared over the window sill.
Rin had seen the flash of shock, sadness, and horrendous irony on the nurse's face before she forced a false smile on her face, telling her that her friend she went to the hospital to see was discharged two days ago. Dumb luck, Rin had thought at the time. She was too groggy to process the information she had seen in the nurse's eyes, and before she could ask another question the nurse had busied herself, turning to the phone on the table to call the doctor to tell him that Kagura Rin was awake and fully functional, the first words out of the nurse's mouth becoming the only thing Rin heard as she stared off into the distance, thinking deeply about the small girl who had jumped.
Maybe at one point she had put it together in her head, at some point in her dreams her subconscious put two and two together and she knew Reiko was dead, and she knew that she had witnessed the suffering girl's end. So young, so innocent and lonely, and she was dead. That thought never crossed her consciousness until she began to feel dizzy staring at the Kuroneko screen name on the Black Page. Her mind became a blur to the only things she remembered that fateful day, the voices, the phone calls, the small girl.
It seemed fitting that when her phone started ringing with music she had never heard before that she should speak the only words she remembered and would always remember as the world swam into black to drag her into the dreams and memories of the dead and tormented.