Screaming in Silence
Chapter 3 - "Oil and Water".
You know I never really did understand why the fuck this monster wanted to be here and now; whenever he makes a quick movement, my mind flies back to when that mammoth backhand went across my face; whenever he smiles I think of the millions of eyes that saw with eyes unseeing that cunning smile, that smile that signaled the beginning of a systematic destruction of humanity.
But fuck, man. Whenever he moves quickly, he knows he's done something wrong. Whenever he smiles he knows he's done something good enough. I can't fucking fathom why he has to be so fucking...there.
And talking. Talking better now than he could ever. Fuck he knows the language. He knows it better than most degree-holding high-ups.
And that's-"Hayami what's wrong?"
So childish and simple it hurts.
He looked in deep contemplation, I couldn't see his face, it was just hanging over the balcony of the apartment; looking down into a blinding mixture of pure color.
Papa always mentioned I had a certain aptitude. A learning ability that no one other in my land had. I could think and focus on a particular subject with such precision and excellence that it intrigued Papa more than anything.
Even though with this ability; I let my time be consumed by learning the blunt art of War.
And as I said before, I was very precise and exact with everything that I did.
With a few megatons of over-force, maybe.
But with this aptitude that I dedicated to literature and the art of words.
With my newfound cosmic wisdom.
I couldn't see into Hayami's thoughts.
While I could understand the complexity of English literature, the subtle message of Japanese literature, and the robust and romantic literature of the European cultures.
I couldn't understand Hayami. His mind, his thoughts, his writings. He has enough of them to be six people and still maintain a bill of clean mental health.
But why is it so hard to get past him?
I say it again for a third time.
The hulking frame, losing a little bulk from the path of a doctor of philosophy, but keeping that menacing toned figure.
Drifted silently towards me. Now he's not on water, but just how he moves.
He doesn't make sound anymore.
I guess being away from the fuck-deafening cannons for this long may have helped his hearing improve.
Because after him telling me in his own stalker way, he can hear my heartbeat from across the room.
It sucks when I need to lie to him, since he's got his own fucking polygraph in his ears.
The third time?
I made a snort sound with my nose.
"Don't flick me off."
I made another one.
"Sarcasm doesn't help either."
"Neither does being quiet."
I sigh and inhale.
He perks up.
"I'm remembering you before you."
Now I look up. He's at the doorway looking at me, watching my bent figure be supported by the metal railing on the balcony.
He looks to talk, inhaling so subtly, that I just raise my hand for him to not talk.
"I'm remembering you before you." Really?
Do I want to remember something like that, something violent and ugly.
Something destructive and painful, something murderous and cold.
I guess yeah; I do.
A memory that kinda activates everything in me is that backhand.
That one powerful strike, throwing me down to his own mercy.
His naked frame, rippled with muscle and riddled with cuts.
His naked eye flowing with naked blood, his other flowing anger.
I feel the body press against me now though.
Not how my mind wants to feel him against me.
But how his comfort seems to roll off of him in a tantalizing wave.
I open my eyes, I open my eyes to everything beyond the sea.
Reconstruction happening; I see something I haven't taken in for a while.
I guess six months when he came into my life.
His hulking frame.
His bare body.
His bare emotion.
His thirst for all things high-class.
Something so essentially pleasing. Something so mixed in color.
Something that made my whole body go cold.
I guess when you have one sense demanding power in the brain, everything else just..dims.
And that's when the only warmth and support I felt.
Was from the hate I couldn't bear to hold anymore.
Fucking cool how my hate became love, right?
Hayami stares off into the sky.
And I wonder why humans always look into the sky during this time. Sure there's a visual display. A feast for the eyes.
But why do I feel his heart slowing, his temperature drop.
I fear for him sometimes. I fear for humanity.
I fear that I can't help him.
After feeling desolation with my own kind, I sought him again. I remembered the rage I felt.
But it wasn't at him.
It was Papa's rage.
But Papa's rage had died long ago.
I figured out in my own exploration that my rage was Papa's old rage.
Papa's fire had dimmed, and his hatred subsided.
I guess he thought his war was trivial, and I couldn't accept that.
Not after I had spent all those hours learning, training, fighting, building.
Now I know why he died, and why he didn't mind going.
And why it was idiotic and pathetic to cry over his corpse.
A spirit leaving the world in peace, like Papa is so much better than having a city's spirit leave in such sundered turmoil.
Sometimes it's just too much for me to bear.
But sometimes it's when I remind myself that learning about the humans and their culture and their lives...
I can support one.
And that somehow, the millions that ate my lead.
That tasted their own blood and fried flesh.
Can find some hope that their one killer now falls to the mercy of their savior, that his heartbeat slowing forces the killer to run to his so side that in the occasion that the heart stops, the killer can resuscitate for a time while the proper authorities on life arrive.
That when Hayami looks as if he is going to fall, my entire being screams out a defiant no, that suddenly my old bravado comes back and I can catch him with a fury and force of a thousand guns.
They wake me up sometimes, in the night.
When I think of Hayami being silently "sniped" from a rooftop or something unlikely.
I think of him dying and no amount of air from my chest can save him.
That no amount of repeated pressure I apply can help him.
Though, irony would have it that if I did lose him.
I would understand perfectly humanity's desire for me to be gone.
But for some reason, when my mind falls down to that level of helplessness, Hayami is there to give me a look.
"As long as I'm here, they won't hurt you." He'd say uncharacteristically.
And I believe him every time.
But some nights I just get off of the bed I made.
In order to look at him.
Lying and sleeping in a bed not well enough suited for the savior of mankind.
But to his own?
It was too rich.
And that's why whenever he appears to be falling.
My strength rises.
My heart hastens.
My mind goes primal to protect.
To protect the savior of my life.
A brilliant painted portrait of a perfect dusk sky has a red sun being halved; casting the night a lower red undertone while a pastel rainbow seems to follow in ascending fashion.
However two beings in this picture are no where in perfect harmony.
But how their bodies just seem to form into one another just gives more reason for them to be in perfect harmony.
But for now, they'll just be minor interval away from a perfect sound..
The taller of the two picks up the smaller, and the two head in. The taller just closing the screen door to the rebuilt apartment.
With the new government in place around Japan, a city which housed the hero of humanity renamed itself New Venice, after building it's land according to it's new watery foundation.
Days pass with this painting being repeatedly hung at around 6:53 PM.
But one day, a new painting dons a gilded frame.
A sad one.
I can't get out of this fucking pit.
Why the hell am I still alive here?
I don't want to be here.
His heartbeat dropped.
I can't stop crying.
Why the fuck did this happen now?
He's holding a piece of paper?
It has a line on it.
Blood always stains black.
Rust on the paper?
A second call, my hand reaching for his shoulder.
A third and a pressure making me turn to his face.
A face scarred now by concern and shrapnel.
And I watch him buckle his knees to my level, which isn't much of a difference anyway.
I see his golden eye, and my own pain being reflected in pristine love.
I lift my hands, and I gently comb my hands through coarse thick hair. Feeling my hands be stripped of painful memories into red hair. Red hair I can't get enough of.
I let a curse slip my lips, as I take the head and tilt it as to give myself access to the mouth that quivers at the corners to a confused and worried state.
I can't control my mind, I can't control this fucking pit.
But I can let him share my burden.
So I do, in one lick of my own lips, and a gentle press of mine to his.
A shock generates itself in my body, as my eyes are trained to the now narrow pupil of amazement and confusion.
"I can't ask you to understand my pain, especially when you don't see me as someone like this. You see me as a strong person."
I feel him holding me closer to him, bringing my mouth away from his but closer and closer to him and his ear.
In a slow whisper, as I spread my legs to fit closer to him and wrap my own arms around him as well, I spell out my problem.
"Love is something you can't understand, or control."
Till next year, I guess.
I never forget stories, really. But juggling ideas are hard to do. As well as forcing out something as complex as this, it takes a while.
But not two years, I think.
I hope this will tie you all over.
In the mean time? Listen to Barber's Adagio. It's the theme, I suppose, of this chapter.