Weiss Kreuz - slash_me_twice - 052. Low
052. Low - d1
Notes on names: Schuldig is the German word for "guilt."
Notes on music (do get your hands on these, if you can):
Primary Song: Sia, ‘Breathe Me’
Secondary Song: Moody Blues, ‘Nights In White Satin’
*
The rain beats down on the window, the tin roof. It sounds like God himself is crashing down in giant, cosmic pieces. It sounds as if his guilt has finally caught up with him.
Why does it always rain? he thinks.
There is no answer. But he can feel it in his bones: soon, there will be.
A cold wind gusts a shower of rain through the window. It is a cutout in the wall, without glass, without even a tattered curtain. Ran has sunk low in the world. Lower than he ever thought possible.
Lower than a room in a hospital, watching his sister breathe her life away.
His guilt closes in. He can feel it now, approaching even through the rain. It has been shadowing him since he left Japan, always a step behind, but never more, and never less. It toys with him; tests his resolve. Sometimes, when he leaves to buy vegetables in the market, he catches a familiar scent in his doorway, sees that the cook fire has been lit while he was away.
He is not ready to give in.
At least, that’s what he tells himself.
Someone raps sharply at the door. The sound rattles the tin roof in a different rhythm than the rain. The sound rattles his bones. He does not know what the rattling means inside of him. But the knocking stops and the door opens, and he can feel guilt at his back, waiting to embrace him in the darkness.
He hears a sigh, the wringing of wet clothes and someone muttering soft complaints. He doesn’t hear the words-just the voice. His guilt come to claim him again.
“Of all the damned places,” the man at his back says, “why did you come to this shithole?”
Ran is silent.
Guilt walks in wet shoes. They were always expensive; Ran wonders if they are ruined. Thinks-imagines, without looking-that they are.
There is someone standing beside him now, looking out the window into the glittering rain. Into the darkness.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
His guilt says, “Because I wasn’t lying to you.”
He shifts, closes his eyes in resignation. “Why did she die?” he asks.
And once again, he is told, “It wasn’t your fault. These things happen.”
The screech of car tires he never heard. The paramedics whose bloodstained hands he never saw. The telephone call he never received because he is supposed to be dead, dead so many times over. And she died alone.
The irony does not escape him. Rather, it batters him every day, like the monsoon rains on his tin roof.
“Was she in pain?” he asks.
The man at his side says, “You’re suffering more than she ever did.”
And he opens his eyes then, stares his guilt in the face, and sees only a hazy figure with piercing, pale eyes. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“I owe you,” he hears, a whisper in the dark. “And I always pay my debts.”
“You’re free. Go away. Leave me in peace.”
A hand grips his wrist suddenly, painfully. “I know what you did,” his guilt hisses. Fingers dig into the fresh scar.
Ran buckles and is caught. He sinks, one with his guilt, to the floor, and is cradled.
He knows when he wakes up, he will be on a plane back to Japan. He always is.
He wonders if, this time, he will be able to stay there.
He wonders if this time, he will not run from guilt, but face it without flinching in the light.
Notes on names: Schuldig is the German word for "guilt."
Notes on music (do get your hands on these, if you can):
Primary Song: Sia, ‘Breathe Me’
Secondary Song: Moody Blues, ‘Nights In White Satin’
*
The rain beats down on the window, the tin roof. It sounds like God himself is crashing down in giant, cosmic pieces. It sounds as if his guilt has finally caught up with him.
Why does it always rain? he thinks.
There is no answer. But he can feel it in his bones: soon, there will be.
A cold wind gusts a shower of rain through the window. It is a cutout in the wall, without glass, without even a tattered curtain. Ran has sunk low in the world. Lower than he ever thought possible.
Lower than a room in a hospital, watching his sister breathe her life away.
His guilt closes in. He can feel it now, approaching even through the rain. It has been shadowing him since he left Japan, always a step behind, but never more, and never less. It toys with him; tests his resolve. Sometimes, when he leaves to buy vegetables in the market, he catches a familiar scent in his doorway, sees that the cook fire has been lit while he was away.
He is not ready to give in.
At least, that’s what he tells himself.
Someone raps sharply at the door. The sound rattles the tin roof in a different rhythm than the rain. The sound rattles his bones. He does not know what the rattling means inside of him. But the knocking stops and the door opens, and he can feel guilt at his back, waiting to embrace him in the darkness.
He hears a sigh, the wringing of wet clothes and someone muttering soft complaints. He doesn’t hear the words-just the voice. His guilt come to claim him again.
“Of all the damned places,” the man at his back says, “why did you come to this shithole?”
Ran is silent.
Guilt walks in wet shoes. They were always expensive; Ran wonders if they are ruined. Thinks-imagines, without looking-that they are.
There is someone standing beside him now, looking out the window into the glittering rain. Into the darkness.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
His guilt says, “Because I wasn’t lying to you.”
He shifts, closes his eyes in resignation. “Why did she die?” he asks.
And once again, he is told, “It wasn’t your fault. These things happen.”
The screech of car tires he never heard. The paramedics whose bloodstained hands he never saw. The telephone call he never received because he is supposed to be dead, dead so many times over. And she died alone.
The irony does not escape him. Rather, it batters him every day, like the monsoon rains on his tin roof.
“Was she in pain?” he asks.
The man at his side says, “You’re suffering more than she ever did.”
And he opens his eyes then, stares his guilt in the face, and sees only a hazy figure with piercing, pale eyes. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“I owe you,” he hears, a whisper in the dark. “And I always pay my debts.”
“You’re free. Go away. Leave me in peace.”
A hand grips his wrist suddenly, painfully. “I know what you did,” his guilt hisses. Fingers dig into the fresh scar.
Ran buckles and is caught. He sinks, one with his guilt, to the floor, and is cradled.
He knows when he wakes up, he will be on a plane back to Japan. He always is.
He wonders if, this time, he will be able to stay there.
He wonders if this time, he will not run from guilt, but face it without flinching in the light.