Summary: Jamie is the next incarnation of Misuzu. For some reason, she's always being sent to the hospital for some unknown cause. She suspects her mother to be over thinking it, but is she? After months of treatment, her teacher, Mr. Kunisake, comes to her aid. These are her last thoughts. OC Character Death YukitoxMisuzu?
Just had a whim this morning at 3 am to write this; no idea why, just did. Anyways, I think it is one of my most refined and tragic pieces. I don't think the flow of writing has ever come to me so quickly since I started my KH fanfiction. Anyways, I hope you like!
The AID of Fresh Flowers
(I DO NOT OWN AIR, NOR DO I CLAIM TO! IF I DID, MISURU WOULDN'T HAVE DIED! NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT!)
God, I hate hospitals. I am so sick of them! You would think that after all the work that they've done on me that I wouldn't have to go back every couple of weeks just because I caught the flu. The flu. I should be healthy as a horse by now, maybe with a bowl of chicken soup in my lap while I watch afternoon cartoons like Tom and Jerry like any other normal teen. Mom says I'm not normal. She says it's because I have a weak immune system, but I've never seen it ever have problems before. I think my mom might be one of those people who have emetophobia, or fear people being sick. If I'm not hauled in here for some "horrible virus", apparently I have something wrong with me. If I even feel like if I even show signs of a disease, one second later, I end up in the hospital. It's come to the point where I'm terrified of sneezing in my own house. What I don't get is, why is she dragging me into her crazy fear? If you're afraid of being sick, shouldn't you be the one to feel it instead of your teenage daughter? You know another thing that annoys me? Flowers.
Oh, it's not that I don't hate flowers. It's just annoying in the way people give me flowers. People come into my room with a large bouquet of flowers and as soon as they see the IV tubes stuck in me, they get that stupid, pitiful smile that I have an increasing desire to slap off of their face. And to top it all off, they bring me marigolds and cypress for flowers. Do these people even know what those flowers represent? Death and pain. Comforting, isn't it? But that's not even the worst part. Oh ho ho, far from it! No, not only do they give me flowers that represent death and pain, they give me flowers that can't die. They are freaking plastic! Now, I have to look at them every day, their immortality staring at me like a slap in the face, a constant reminder of death and pain that surrounds all hospitals. A kind nurse sees the large group of the flowers and says that I'm lucky to have so many flowers. She can go put a sock in it. Those flowers are only huge in numbers because they haven't died. My family had long stopped coming here to visit anymore. The decent thing that they could do would at least drop by and say a quick hello, tell me about their day, and leave (maybe take away some of the marigolds on the way out) without that stupid, sympathetic look etched across their face, or better yet, bring me fresh flowers instead of fake ones. That would be reassurance enough. Fresh flowers have fragrance. Fresh flowers have life. Fresh flowers mean I'm healthy. Fresh flowers mean I can get out of here in a matter of days. Plastic flowers do not apply to this logic. It's like they expected me to die or something…
I had this really cool teacher at my high school; his name was Mr. Kunisaki. He was my English teacher. Unlike some of the other teachers in my school, people rarely ever fell asleep in his class. He would always fill the classroom with laughter while slurping on some ramen and share his personal anecdotes of him trying to become a puppeteer in his youth and many other stories that sometimes rarely had any relevance to his lessons. He was one of the few teachers that everyone respected. When he came to visit, he didn't even have a remotely sympathetic face. This was action enough to add it to the list of reasons I liked him. Call it a school girl crush if you will, but I loved him, none the less. He just came and said "Sick again, Jamie?" with his usual 10 mega watt smile and plopped a gigantic stack of homework next to my nightstand. That's Mr. K: Always blunt and right to the point. I blushed a little bit, him seeing me in a hospital nighty, with no back to speak of. This thought kept my back pinned against the upright hospital bed. He told me that everyone had missed me at my school. I could only scoff after that. Outside of my small circle of friends, what people at school cared to see my face? After visiting for a couple more minutes, he turned and left, but not before leaving behind a small plant pot filled with dirt. I asked what the pot of dirt was for. He said that it had a flower growing inside of it, and that if I took care of it everyday, by the time it finished growing, I would be out of the hospital. I thought his request was little odd, but that was just Mr. Kunisaki's way.
Everyday since then, I had watered and cared for the little plant, eager to find out what it would turn out to be. I was the only person who even came close to the tiny thing. I wouldn't even let the nurses come near it. It was the first gift I had ever received from the young teacher and the plant was my responsibility, and my responsibility only. By the end of the month, my "condition" had gotten better. Doctors called it a miracle. I called it not being sick. Whatever M.O. I had of not living apparently had vanished into thin air now that I had something relying on me. One the last day of September, the little green plant had bloomed into a tiny white and yellow flower that I recognized to be a daisy, the flower of innocence; the perfect symbol for my oblivious life. I smiled as I packed up my things and cradled the small plant in my arms, finally being able to put on my normal clothes for the first time in weeks and walk out of that stupid hospital. From some unknown reason, I felt as if I had some sort of invisible wings on my back that hadn't stretched out for ages, desperate to fly and carrying me on the winds, past the stars, and far away from any hospitals or from anything on the ground below. Visions of gliding over the sky with the clouds at my feet began briefly flashing through my head before I shrugged it off. With a light spring in my step, I took in the pleasure of a fresh breathe of oxygen, instead of the usual recycled air of the indoors, and carried my small plant with me home. Unfortunately, there was one thing I forgotten about: Daisies were the flowers of death as well as innocence...
A couple weeks after being released from the hospital, Jamie caught the flu again and passed away from AIDS. Her family found her collapsed and curled up around a small broken pot with a wilted daisy in it, a small content smile on her face. At her funeral, there were no marigolds and cypress, by request of Mr. Kunisaki. Only potted plants and fresh daisies.