18. Bare
Finished:
Footsteps...
Guns...
Demons...
"It's okay," he croons to his sister, holding her tightly and stroking her soft silver hair almost fervently. "We'll be okay... they won't find us..."
Footsteps echo outside their hiding place. Korouna tightens into a ball and begins to shake harder; her brother tightens his slim arms around her, now beginning to tremble himself. His heart is racing. We have to get out of here, he thinks. We must find Mum and Dad before they get to them.
"Bashou," Korouna whispers, "I'm scared..."
Bashou turns and twists on his bed.
Black uniforms....
Bashou, 9 years old, is screaming in the hands of his captors.
So are his sister and parents.
"No!!" he howls. "Don't kill them!! Don't--"
The shotguns go off.
Blood and grey matter explode from their necks, spattering Bashou with morbid paint. Korouna screams, a sound rent with horror and grief.
His parents are dead.
And soon their children would follow.
The twisting turns to thrashing, his hands bent into claws with the pain of the memories.
He is thrown hard into a pitch-black room, slamming his shoulder against the wall. A snap! and a heated flash of pain informs him that his shoulder has been dislocated.
"B--Bashou?" The fragile, shaky voice of his sister awakens anger and fear in him.
"Korouna!!" Groping around in the blackness, he finds his sister. "Korouna... how long have you been in here??"
Korouna begins to cry. "I don't know, Bashou!" she whimpers. "They.. they poke me with needles... and I can't sleep -- I see them!"
Bashou is crying now, too. "I know," he whispers. "I know." His heart is overflowing with rage. How can they do this to them? And why? They were helpless... Bashou didn't even know who they were. Why would they want to even bother torturing an innocent family??
"Why won't they just go away and leave us alone?" Korouna cries. "I wish they would!" She hugged her brother, relying on him as she always did for her rock of strength.
Bashou is helpless to stop the most painful part of the dream.
"I wish... I wish I were dead too," Korouna whispers.
Bashou is floored. "What.. why??" he hisses.
"Then... then it would all be over, and I would be with Mommy and Daddy again." The six-year-old child collapses, shuddering and sobbing.
Bashou's heart is shot through with icy grief. His own sister wanted to die!
Suddenly light appears; a door must be opening.
Three silhouettes step into the dark chamber and head for Korouna, who cries out and shrinks back against the wall.
Bashou leaps to his feet, rage overriding the pain in his shoulder. "Get away from her!!" he shouts, charging one silhouette.
The figure raises an arm and backslaps him mightily, knocking him into the wall and dazing him. The figure grabs hold of Bashou in an iron grip; he hears Korouna scream in fear and pain.
Next, the metallic shiing! of a knife being drawn.
"Korouna!!" Bashou screams. "Korouna!!"
Her scream is cut short into a moist half-gargle; a sound of liquid hitting the ground.
The figure drops him and without a word walks backwards into the light; the two others follow, abandoning Korouna.
The door slams shut and it's pitch-black again. Bashou crawls over to his sister, sobbing, and moves his hand up her arm, going to her throat to feel for a pulse --
Warm wetness.
They have slit her throat from ear to ear.
Bashou curls up against his sister's corpse, stroking her hair, and buries his head in her marred neck, sobbing and cursing himself.
Eventually he falls into a tortured sleep.
Bashou is unconsciously curled into the same position he was in 11 years ago, face buried in his pillow instead of his sister's throat. Tears stream down his pale face.
The killers come back, how much later Bashou doesn't know.
A few hours, a day, a week.
He is too stunned to do anything but lay there next to Korouna, losing his mind, praying for the same thing his sister had wanted.
When they pick him up roughly, he is limp; grief has stolen his will to live. He no longer cares what happens to him; doesn't recognize where they have transported him to. The next few days are a complete blur.
The killers, of which Bashou learns later on are part of a large organization, create a feasible, believable story about how they found him wandering around their building, and decided to turn him in to the foster care system...
Finally Bashou is freed from the torturous confines of his nightmarish past. He wakes up to find Buson walking into the bedroom with two cups of tea, morning sunlight pouring in through the window.
Glancing at his partner's ashen, red-eyed face, Buson sets the cups down on the nightstand and asks of the problem.
Bashou turns to face him. "My sister," he whispers shakily. "I dreamt about her last night, Buson. About... the past." However close they are, the past is one thing Bashou refuses to tell his partner.
But today, he thinks, maybe that should change.
"I let her die," he says quietly.
Buson sits down on the edge of the bed. "Your sister?" he asks.
"I let her die. They had me, and they had her, and --" His voice breaks, and the floodgates open again. "And they killed her, Buson, they slit her throat and I just sat there and heard it happen and didn't do a damn thing."
Buson wraps his muscled arms around his partner's trembling body. Never before has he seen Bashou lay himself bare to anyone about anything, let alone something as personal as his dark past.
Bashou's voice is trembling in rage and grief. "They got her. They got my parents, and they got my sister, and they left me alone," he continues. "They shot our parents, Buson, they killed them right in front of us!!" Instantly Buson feels a pang of sorrow. His father had been a rich banker, his mother dead from an overdose when he was three, but even though his father is now in jail for tax evasion, he is not dead.
"How did they kill your parents?" he asks gently.
Bashou takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, even a little. "They shot them -- in the head -- and --" He gulps for air, slender chest heaving and hitching. "The blood -- oh, God, the blood, it -- it sprayed out in morbid fountains from their necks -- on me --" His blue-gray eyes, normally steely and calm, are wide with terror almost as overwhelming as it had been eleven years ago. Buson stroked his hair soothingly, much the way Bashou had stroked his twin sister's hair when they had been curled around each other, hiding from the killers in uniforms.
"How awful," he murmurs contemplatively, shuddering at the thought of someone else's blood on him, and feeling horribly sorry for what his partner had had to go through. Prior to today, he'd always thought his partner had had a relatively decent life, always secretly admiring his no-fucking-around attitude and the tight reins he always had on his emotions.
Until today, that is.
Now the Bashou he thought he knew is spilling out his traumatizing childhood, and Buson is inwardly glad to support his close friend.
"Why did they just leave me?" Bashou is asking. "Why didn't they take me?" Quiet rage overtakes the terror of the memories dredged up from the dark tunnels of his inner mind.
Buson has a horrible thought, and impulsively -- protectively -- tightens his grip. "Because," he whispers in reply, "then I never would have met you."
At this, Bashou's shaking seems to subside, and the shaking in his breath almost completely recedes.
Then, the silver-haired Rocket says something Buson has never heard him say before.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
They sit together then like Bashou and his sister did years ago, but Bashou is much calmer now, feeling safe from the nightmares ravaging his consciousness once more.
His past has been laid bare for the first time, and somehow, it doesn't feel too bad.
Perhaps, Bashou reflects, this isn't too bad.
It's not too bad.
Footsteps...
Guns...
Demons...
"It's okay," he croons to his sister, holding her tightly and stroking her soft silver hair almost fervently. "We'll be okay... they won't find us..."
Footsteps echo outside their hiding place. Korouna tightens into a ball and begins to shake harder; her brother tightens his slim arms around her, now beginning to tremble himself. His heart is racing. We have to get out of here, he thinks. We must find Mum and Dad before they get to them.
"Bashou," Korouna whispers, "I'm scared..."
Bashou turns and twists on his bed.
Black uniforms....
Bashou, 9 years old, is screaming in the hands of his captors.
So are his sister and parents.
"No!!" he howls. "Don't kill them!! Don't--"
The shotguns go off.
Blood and grey matter explode from their necks, spattering Bashou with morbid paint. Korouna screams, a sound rent with horror and grief.
His parents are dead.
And soon their children would follow.
The twisting turns to thrashing, his hands bent into claws with the pain of the memories.
He is thrown hard into a pitch-black room, slamming his shoulder against the wall. A snap! and a heated flash of pain informs him that his shoulder has been dislocated.
"B--Bashou?" The fragile, shaky voice of his sister awakens anger and fear in him.
"Korouna!!" Groping around in the blackness, he finds his sister. "Korouna... how long have you been in here??"
Korouna begins to cry. "I don't know, Bashou!" she whimpers. "They.. they poke me with needles... and I can't sleep -- I see them!"
Bashou is crying now, too. "I know," he whispers. "I know." His heart is overflowing with rage. How can they do this to them? And why? They were helpless... Bashou didn't even know who they were. Why would they want to even bother torturing an innocent family??
"Why won't they just go away and leave us alone?" Korouna cries. "I wish they would!" She hugged her brother, relying on him as she always did for her rock of strength.
Bashou is helpless to stop the most painful part of the dream.
"I wish... I wish I were dead too," Korouna whispers.
Bashou is floored. "What.. why??" he hisses.
"Then... then it would all be over, and I would be with Mommy and Daddy again." The six-year-old child collapses, shuddering and sobbing.
Bashou's heart is shot through with icy grief. His own sister wanted to die!
Suddenly light appears; a door must be opening.
Three silhouettes step into the dark chamber and head for Korouna, who cries out and shrinks back against the wall.
Bashou leaps to his feet, rage overriding the pain in his shoulder. "Get away from her!!" he shouts, charging one silhouette.
The figure raises an arm and backslaps him mightily, knocking him into the wall and dazing him. The figure grabs hold of Bashou in an iron grip; he hears Korouna scream in fear and pain.
Next, the metallic shiing! of a knife being drawn.
"Korouna!!" Bashou screams. "Korouna!!"
Her scream is cut short into a moist half-gargle; a sound of liquid hitting the ground.
The figure drops him and without a word walks backwards into the light; the two others follow, abandoning Korouna.
The door slams shut and it's pitch-black again. Bashou crawls over to his sister, sobbing, and moves his hand up her arm, going to her throat to feel for a pulse --
Warm wetness.
They have slit her throat from ear to ear.
Bashou curls up against his sister's corpse, stroking her hair, and buries his head in her marred neck, sobbing and cursing himself.
Eventually he falls into a tortured sleep.
Bashou is unconsciously curled into the same position he was in 11 years ago, face buried in his pillow instead of his sister's throat. Tears stream down his pale face.
The killers come back, how much later Bashou doesn't know.
A few hours, a day, a week.
He is too stunned to do anything but lay there next to Korouna, losing his mind, praying for the same thing his sister had wanted.
When they pick him up roughly, he is limp; grief has stolen his will to live. He no longer cares what happens to him; doesn't recognize where they have transported him to. The next few days are a complete blur.
The killers, of which Bashou learns later on are part of a large organization, create a feasible, believable story about how they found him wandering around their building, and decided to turn him in to the foster care system...
Finally Bashou is freed from the torturous confines of his nightmarish past. He wakes up to find Buson walking into the bedroom with two cups of tea, morning sunlight pouring in through the window.
Glancing at his partner's ashen, red-eyed face, Buson sets the cups down on the nightstand and asks of the problem.
Bashou turns to face him. "My sister," he whispers shakily. "I dreamt about her last night, Buson. About... the past." However close they are, the past is one thing Bashou refuses to tell his partner.
But today, he thinks, maybe that should change.
"I let her die," he says quietly.
Buson sits down on the edge of the bed. "Your sister?" he asks.
"I let her die. They had me, and they had her, and --" His voice breaks, and the floodgates open again. "And they killed her, Buson, they slit her throat and I just sat there and heard it happen and didn't do a damn thing."
Buson wraps his muscled arms around his partner's trembling body. Never before has he seen Bashou lay himself bare to anyone about anything, let alone something as personal as his dark past.
Bashou's voice is trembling in rage and grief. "They got her. They got my parents, and they got my sister, and they left me alone," he continues. "They shot our parents, Buson, they killed them right in front of us!!" Instantly Buson feels a pang of sorrow. His father had been a rich banker, his mother dead from an overdose when he was three, but even though his father is now in jail for tax evasion, he is not dead.
"How did they kill your parents?" he asks gently.
Bashou takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, even a little. "They shot them -- in the head -- and --" He gulps for air, slender chest heaving and hitching. "The blood -- oh, God, the blood, it -- it sprayed out in morbid fountains from their necks -- on me --" His blue-gray eyes, normally steely and calm, are wide with terror almost as overwhelming as it had been eleven years ago. Buson stroked his hair soothingly, much the way Bashou had stroked his twin sister's hair when they had been curled around each other, hiding from the killers in uniforms.
"How awful," he murmurs contemplatively, shuddering at the thought of someone else's blood on him, and feeling horribly sorry for what his partner had had to go through. Prior to today, he'd always thought his partner had had a relatively decent life, always secretly admiring his no-fucking-around attitude and the tight reins he always had on his emotions.
Until today, that is.
Now the Bashou he thought he knew is spilling out his traumatizing childhood, and Buson is inwardly glad to support his close friend.
"Why did they just leave me?" Bashou is asking. "Why didn't they take me?" Quiet rage overtakes the terror of the memories dredged up from the dark tunnels of his inner mind.
Buson has a horrible thought, and impulsively -- protectively -- tightens his grip. "Because," he whispers in reply, "then I never would have met you."
At this, Bashou's shaking seems to subside, and the shaking in his breath almost completely recedes.
Then, the silver-haired Rocket says something Buson has never heard him say before.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
They sit together then like Bashou and his sister did years ago, but Bashou is much calmer now, feeling safe from the nightmares ravaging his consciousness once more.
His past has been laid bare for the first time, and somehow, it doesn't feel too bad.
Perhaps, Bashou reflects, this isn't too bad.
It's not too bad.