was heavily sleepy when I wrote this thing. It was so random and
unexpected I surprised myself. Not
the best thing ever written, but it might amuse some bored souls out
was looping Tori Amos' – Cruel and Enigma's – Gravity of Love
while writing this. They
just kept me in that… depressed mood. Inspirational, isn't it
Enjoy? And; reviews make me endlessly happy. (Major hinting here).
Disclaimer; I managed bribing Nomura-sama into giving me Kadaj. But then he bribed ninjas into stealing Kadaj back. Which I, in turn bribed into leaving Kadaj with me and stealing every other bi-shounen created by Nomura. I know. Genius.
I'm confused. My life isn't turning out quite like I expected it to.
What happened to my straight A's, my knight in shining armour, my castle and that white horse?
Well, apparently… that went down the drain somewhere around the time I hit puberty.
And met Kadaj.
See, he moved into the big old house down the street. Yes, the big creepy house that had remained with an 'ON SALE' sign on it's lawn for fifteen years. It's pretty cliché if you think about it.
I was twelve at the time, bored out of my mind, secretly wishing for something new to happen for once.
And it did. Or more like… he did. He and his family popped out of nowhere, and he crashed into my life just like a meteor; the damage too big to fix, the impact too strong to ignore.
One day he was just there, sitting next to me in class, his head hanging low and eyes hiding underneath a veil of silver hair. Hair I envied for the longest time. Who wouldn't?
And I was drawn like a moth to a flame. I never talked to him, not once – afraid that I might say something wrong. No, I hoped, and almost knewthe day would come when he would speak to me.
Days, weeks – even months passed before that actually happened.
And he turned to me and quietly stated that I should help him with math, almost reluctantly it seemed.
His eyes would never once look up from underneath that pretty hair of his, and his voice would always stay calm and poised.
So I helped him; I never got a 'thank you' – but I figured he was that type of person.
We walked home together the next week, the other children shooting us the most feared and disgusted looks I had ever seen. (I was pushed away from the others later, excluded just like he'd been. People were never good with things they couldn't control. It scared them.)
He dragged me all the way, his fingers tightly clutching the pink, bubbly material of my jacket.
Not home, but to the little park not far from where we lived. And he pulled me to the nearest bench, jumped up on it and just sat there; his head hanging low just like always.
It struck me as something awkward at first; that he'd done something like that – but I didn't question it.
I just followed that little burning feeling in my gut and sat down next to him, staring up at the grey sky and trying to form different shapes and patterns with the warm air leaving my lungs.
We didn't speak that day, and he left me sitting there on the bench. I guess I couldn't afford feeling disappointed with all the other thoughts and feelings already invading my head.
I got thoroughly yelled at once I finally got home; my father strictly telling me to stay away from 'that boy'.
He told me they were heathens, devil-worshippers, murderers even.
That's why Kadaj and I walked home together the next day; the same silence surrounding us, the same cold, strong grip around my jacket, tugging me towards the same park and that exact same bench.
I was never the obedient one to start with, that's what my siblings were for.
And I started whistling my way through 'My Girl', something he seemed to find fascinating, or endlessly annoying, either way, his head lifted from its slouch. And his face remained turned towards mine the entire time – I still hadn't seen his eyes, seeing as they were always safely curtained by his hair.
I found it cute, amusing that my whistling had caught his attention – so I kept it up; even as my face started to feel stiff and ache, I kept it up; just for him.
I felt like it was doing him good, I felt like I couldn't stop. So I didn't.
He left me that day, too. And I dragged my way home to get scolded again; this time by my mother; figuring they would take it family-member by family-member the more hopeless they felt it got.
I was grounded.
And I was the one to leave the bench first the next day; once again gaining his attention as he visibly flinched, his fingers clenching around the tired old wooden bench. I told him I had to go home, and why.
And it ached strangely within me as I left him sitting there; feeling like I was leaving a puppy to starve.
'Cause that was exactly what he reminded me of back then; a small puppy.
Lost, confused and starved.
The following day at school was reality. It came hitting me straight in the face. Literally. Just in the form of one of my old friends. I was called a freak, 'the devil's left hand' and pushed into a corner to receive a suitable punishment by my once so called dear and loving class-mates.
I was given an ultimatum; him or them. I wonder how it must have been to see me being dragged away by him after school, where the action itself so clearly spoke whose side I was on.
I was more than mildly surprised when we ended up outside a dark, worn old house where its aura was practically screaming 'HAUNTED'. Nevertheless I followed.
I had always had a thing for over-extraordinary things.
Though I was faintly disappointed of the fact that it looked pretty ordinary on the inside, just a bit more spartanly decorated than other houses I had been in. Furniture didn't seem to be their top-priority.
I saw his eyes for the first time that day; and I was staring like a fool with my breath stuck in my throat.
He thought it was from fear and made sure to quickly hide behind his hair again; though I knew better.
I was in awe. How could such a colour, such a shadeof green even exist?
I could hear other people in several parts of the house, quietly having their conversations – but they never once came out of their hiding spots to show who they were.
I slowly ate my previous thoughts and went back to thinking the house might have been haunted after all, if only a little.
And I happily, yet calmly let him take care of my bruised arms (from shielding myself), and my scratched cheek – the lip I had to keep sucking on, he quietly said, almost whispered as he put the first-aid kit back into it's spot; in a cold blue-painted cabinet above the sink.
He confused me on more levels than one; but it felt great. To once be thoroughly confused in my life, seeing it as my parents had made it perfectly solid to keep their children living in a bubble of lies and illusions.
I made a promise that day; to stick by his side no matter what. And I did.
We faced the bullies together, we were outcasts together; he healed my bruised skin whenever I would get 'lectured' by my parents. He had turned into my best friend.
But it was more than just that, I felt. It was like we were connected on a whole different level; spiritually. (no matter how cheesy it sounds, it's still true.)
And what separated him from the rest was that he never left; was always by my side – no matter what.
By the time we were fourteen, I was of course the black sheep of the family by then, nonetheless – we were at the stage of climbing through each other's bedroom-windows whenever the weather would be too cruel to handle.
Or more like… my window, seeing it as his was three floors above ground-level.
We never talked too much. I would talk and he would listen – agree occasionally and speak quietly very rarely. But it was okay with me. I had gotten used to it along the way.
I liked it best when it was foggy outside and he would climb through my window and just sit down by me on the mattress. The lights would go out, the music would be turned off and we would just sit there and stare out the window for hours; breaking the silence with nothing more than solid breathing from both sides.
And he would always hold my hand; cool, strong fingers filling the spaces between mine.
It was almost like he was saying 'no matter what happens, I'll hold your hand'. And it felt comforting. Safe.
Now, we'll never really know if that was what he was really thinking, but I like to imagine it was – it made my world seem a whole lot better.
At fifteen, I was introduced to the annoying, clichéd art of crushing on someone.
Not, Kadaj, as some might think. But with a blond, blue-eyed kid in our parallel-class. The quiet and broody type as well, where girls would flock around him like sheep.
I would stare at him during our shared classes, I would fantasize about him before sleep and I would doodle his name all over my notes while in class, mostly math. I was gifted within the mathematic area, so I never really paid much attention to our teacher.
I was too wrapped up in the new boy to realise Kadaj left school without me. That he was no longer coming over to my house as often, that he wasn't even holding my hand anymore. I only realised it when someone mockingly laughed and asked if I had had a fight with my'booooyfriend',Kadaj.
I was met with a set of cold, green eyes when his door opened (once again having my breath hitch at the sight of them). And we just looked at each other for the longest time before I apologized and threw myself around his neck in the most teddy-bearish hug I could muster.
He stumbled back a few steps, not quite prepared for the hug. But his limp arms eventually lifted and encircled my waist, slowly tightening just to the point where I could only afford small breaths.
The hugs became more and more frequent. Something I didn't mind, but encouraged instead; still determined in my path of making him open up to me.
He would crawl up my vines, through my window, into my room and wrap me in his arms, the first thing he did. Most of those times I couldn't help but laugh. At the randomness of it all, and the once again puppy-like way of his actions.
Something told me emotions weren't a frequent thing at his house. So, I was happy to teach and to help.
It's funny how I never realised he always hugged me more when the other boy was around, the grip tightening to almost painful. I guess I was too naïve to realise, too blinded by my happiness.
When we turned sixteen small conversations weren't very foreign anymore. He would quietly talk to me, start small conversations about nothing and everything. Once, I even heard his laughter, or the hint of it.
I'll never forget the electrifying feeling coursing through my stomach right then and there.
It was so boyish and cute. And so… new. And I was so surprised I was afraid my eyes would pop out and my heart would stop. Over-reaction? No, not at all.
He, of course, got scared by my way of reacting and made sure not to laugh in the future to come.
Once again; he failed to interpret my reactions and thought I found him strange rather than intriguing and fascinating.
My parents, well, they had long since started acting like I didn't exist, along with the rest of my family.
To them, I was the serpent in paradise. The destroyer and the one who threatened to burst their little bubble. I had slowly gotten accustomed to it, and tried to pretend that I was nothing but an exchange-student, stuck with a cruel host-family. It was so much better that way than facing the truth, anyway.
Also, high-school came along; and Kadaj and I chose the same, of course – that was almost a self-written fact. We were sticking with each other, no matter what.
The only problem was that… we got placed in separate classes.
And I found my first day of high-school the emptiest day of my life, feeling like half of me was left at home… or was sitting in a classroom a few floors up.
Though he was waiting by my locker at the end of the day, his back leaning against the dark-blue metal, those green eyes peaking out from underneath that silver hair of his. That same silver hair which had managed to earn him quite a bit of popularity, according to my new classmates.
Who, of course, had no idea they were talking about my best friend.
Three months into high-school, he was already the star of many day-dreams. And I found it hilarious, thoroughly confused about the other feeling settling at the pit of my stomach.
One month later, a guy in class mustered the courage to ask me out. And hesitated for some reason, and told him I would think about it.
I told Kadaj about it later that day, while lying on my bed and watching the glued on paper-butterflies on my ceiling. And he didn't react, apart from the fact that he pulled his hand to himself to rest it on his chest instead. That was also the first time I managed to realise how pretty his profile was as I stared at him, confused by his previous action. I distantly wondered if his skin was as smooth as it looked like.
And for the first time in very long, I was left with a strong urge of crying as he left without as much as a word only minutes later.
I told the other boy I had to decline, confusing myself more than him. I didn't know why, but I felt like it was wrong to date him. I felt like I was already taken, which was absurd. I was just as single as he was, and he really wasn't bad. Nonetheless, the spot by my locker was empty and lacking a Kadaj.
So I found myself following the road to end up outside his door. What I received reminded me of a scene years earlier; green, cold eyes staring back at me.
And I don't know whose surprise was stronger as I calmly stepped forward and pressed my lips against his in a small, chaste kiss. Neither our eyes closed, yet it sent shivers through my body, feeling the similar response from him as his once lifeless arms came to rest on my hips.
Our first kiss didn't last long though, as a female voice came walking down the stairs, belonging to a girl I had seen in his class several times earlier.
That was the first time I ran from him, instead of to him; harshly slapping his hands away from me as the grip had started tightened, knowing what was to happen. And that was the very first time I cried for him.
I told the other boy I had changed my mind, gladly taking him up on his offer the next day at school.
He seemed sceptic at first. Why the sudden change of heart? He never objected though, and our date was scheduled to be on Friday, two days from then.
When the school-day ended, I wasn't surprised to find a certain silver-haired boy resting his back against the cool metal of my locker. And I wasn't the least bit sad orregretful as I turned from my view behind the corner, and simply decided I didn't need my books; that the net was just as good as any book.
My walk home was hurried and nervous. I was expecting him to jump out any second.
But he never did. And I got home safely.
I locked my window that night too, and made sure to pull my curtains down.
Sleep never came though, as I could have sworn he was standing right below my window, on the lawn, staring up – just like he'd done once a long time ago.
I found one single white note at the bottom of my locker. It said 'stop avoiding me'.
He was never the one to be overly-emotional to begin with.
But I didn't obey the request and simply threw the note in between one of the pages of my math-book.
And I made a u-turn the second I saw the hint of silver hair coming down the hall, hurrying down the shiny floor. He spotted me, of course and made it just in time to see me closing the door to a boy's car and driving off.
From my little glance, I noticed he didn't look happy. And that the rain made him look dangerously fuming.
A small distant voice scolded me at the memory of what his lips had felt like, and I turned with the fakest smile I could muster, successfully convincing the boy behind the steering wheel.
The date was… fun. In a common-hollywood-billy-and-sue-kind of way. Movies, dinner, small talk.
No mystery, no sparks, no chemistry what so ever.
And I was let down, and freaked out at the same time, wondering why I was so bored and unsatisfied as I walked the steps up to my house.
I couldn't remember leaving my window open as I opened the door to my room and saw an all too familiar form lying on my bed, looking at me.
And I sat down at the edge, knowing that running wouldn't help. That running wasn't me, us. That we never did things that way. And he sat up, and leaned in without a word, to rest his lips against mine.
A small voice in my head asked me if I was starved when my fingers ghosted their way into his hair and savoured in the soft feel of it. Our eyes were open, just like the first time.
And the kiss was salty and bitter as I realised I was crying. I was thoroughly kissed that night, and he spent the night; that quiet, silky voice of his explaining everything.
It was the next morning that I realised what had happened. That I was, and always had been in love with him.
At seventeen, it was well-known that we were dating. And he made sure to steady the rumours as his fingers would softly snake their way between mine and his thumb would stroke small lazy circles across my palm.
I made sure to let him know I loved his eyes. And he made sure to indulge me with the sight of them as often as he could. I also told him about that time he had laughed; happily informing him on how the sound had sent shivers of excitement down my spine. It was a big plus when I found out his sides were ticklish, realising I could hear him laugh and giggle whenever I pleased.
That year was probably one of the best years of my life.
Eighteen was… life-changing. And my virginity was given to him one cold, rainy October-night.
He had climbed through my window, soaked and shivering. And the sight of green eyes gazing at me through wet tendrils of silver hair tingled through me.
And I just knew what was going to happen.
I woke up at dawn, in a tight grip and small breaths puffing against my collarbone as lips awoke and placed small butterfly kisses across my skin.
It happened again; our fingers laced above our heads and his hips rhythmically rocking between my thighs.
'I love you' would echo in my ear with every movement, and I would finally arch into him and gasp out his name so loudly I later wondered just how my family had remained sleeping.
He loved me. And I loved him.
Those words were the only thing that mattered when I got a call the next evening; the number unknown and the voice cold and slightly familiar as it reminded me so much of someone else's.
Those three words were the only thing that kept ringing through my ears over and over again as his brother told me Kadaj had been killed in a car-accident. The other driver had been drunk and driving.
'I love you', 'I love you', 'I love you'.
And then he was gone.
I'll never love again; I'm sure of that. Not after him.
Even now, ten years later, sitting in an apartment with the big city buzzing outside my window and typing away on my computer; I know for sure that I'll never be able to love again.
I have loved. And been loved – and that's all that matters.
As I finish the ending to my story, my sleepy body barely makes it down the hallway. Curiously, I peak into one of the rooms and smile as bright, green eyes stare back at me and silver hair shines in the moon-light.
"Mommy, can you tell me about dad again?"
A/N (Again); I didn't plan on killing him; but… I ended up doing it anyway. For that, I apologize. But I just can't see Kadaj doing the whole 'wife and kids'-thing. So I chose an ending that suits him better. Dead. I'm so mean. He'll probably haunt me, though I wouldn't exactly complain if I saw the ghost of Kadaj floating above my bed. Au contraire. I would only get sued...for… stuff. Anyway, way off topic here. Not that I'm ever on topic anyway.