[ONESHOT] Drowning.
The recesses of his mind are like caverns, deep and hollow-empty and filled with nothing but darkness. His heart is silent as though it has no beat, and his breathing is shallow but existent. The sweat on his forehead is nothing compared to the blood he has spilled for this-this dream. He gasps, throwing his mane-like hair backward, crimson-stained lips open toward the scorching stage lights above. He screeches out the last words of his song, and though the music ends, his words echo across the roar of the crowd. The pain in his throat doesn’t challenge the pain in his heart. Instead of muttering words of thanks-words of enlightenment-he simply tosses down the microphone with its stand and walks quickly off-stage. His torso is covered by red marks and cuts. He spits blood into one of the trash cans nearby as he grabs a bottle of water. He leaves one of his band mates to make the closing statements.
Kyo, Kyo, Kyo, he hears over and over again. He figures by ignoring them they would get the point that he doesn’t want to hear it. He moves into his dressing room and slams the door shut. “Fuck off,” he mutters.
They would never understand. He knows this for a fact, having decided long ago that it was nothing but the truth. The day they would understand his feelings, his lyrics-that would be the day he died. He cleans the blood off his mouth but leaves the wounds on his chest untouched, lighting a cigarette and finding a chair to sit in. He closes his eyes, exhaling smoke. He reopens his eyes to stare at the patterns of the smoke made in the midst of its flight before fading. It reminds him of the remnants of his happiness, fleeting farther until those remnants disappear. I wonder how many times a person can be crushed until they are beyond repair. I wonder how many fragments the human heart can sincerely be broken into, his thoughts resonate.
The door opens and the other band mates pile in the rather cramped dressing room. They are filled with smiles and laughter. He doesn’t pretend for anyone. He simply gazes up at the ceiling with the lit cigarette between his lips. “Kyo, you seem to be drifting lately,” Kaoru states solemnly and quietly.
“Kaoru, I don’t want to discuss this right now.”
“Later then.”
“Whatever.”
The others leave him relatively alone, though still in the same room. Kaoru is sincerely concerned. Kyo isn’t supposed to know, but he does. He had spent many of his sleepless nights listening to Kaoru and Totchi carry on hour-long conversations about how Kyo’s antisocial behavior are growing worse. His spells of depression are more often and last longer. But, no matter what happens to Kyo, his ability to produce lyrics never stops.
***************
Kyo is more peaceful when they return to the apartment all five of them share. However, Kyo chooses not to drink with the others and instead takes one of the bottles of alcohol from the liquor cabinet and walks off to his room. And, as all the nights before this month, he slams his door shut and locks it. Kaoru glances toward Kyo’s door worriedly. “He said he would tell me.”
**************
Kyo is drowning. He isn’t sure if he’s drowning more in the alcohol, or his nightmares. All he knows is that he’s drowning and for some reason or another he can’t fucking pull himself up anymore. No matter how much he thrashes and no matter how hard he claws for shore, he can’t find his footing. He keeps sinking, and sinking, and sinking. Always. He always returns to the damn bottom. He finds that he can’t cry. He thinks of the saddest things-the things he is certain would affect him emotionally-and nothing works. It’s ironic how they think it’s all an act, he thinks, his mind reeling in and out of hazy thoughts. They think this self-mutilation thing is all for attention. What would their reaction be if they only knew the truth behind it?
His hands were restless. He rubs his hands together continuously, feeling the bones in his fingers. He wonders what it would be like to feel his skeleton. He wonders what it would feel like to hold the strands of muscle tissue in his fingers. It’s then that he thinks, I wonder how people would react to a public suicide. On stage. With a crowd.
After a moment or two of silence within his own mind, he thinks again, I’m really fucked up.
**************
The days are turning into weeks, which are turning into months. He’s waiting for the months to turn into years and then the years to turn into nothing at all. Kaoru still worries and still asks questions. Kyo doesn’t blame him. If the roles were reversed, Kyo would feel the same way. Kyo remembers that he told Kaoru he would tell him and never did. Perhaps it’s better that way, though. There are just some things that some people shouldn’t know. Maybe this is one of those things.
Kaoru asks again, reminding Kyo that he couldn’t go back on his word. So Kyo makes a promise and offers to talk about it later. Kaoru makes sure to corner him this time. “You made a promise.”
“I know I did. I just don’t know if I want you to know.”
“If no one knows, then how can we fix it?”
“What if it’s not meant to be fixed?”
“What the hell do you mean? You make no sense.”
“What if there’s only one solution and it’s nothing you could help with?”
“What if, what if, what if. Just fucking tell me, Kyo.”
“I don’t like living anymore.”
Kaoru, being Kyo’s best friend, feels hurt by this. But it doesn’t surprise him, in all honesty. Kaoru only nods a little and looks at his feet. Kaoru can understand. Kaoru is the one closest to understanding, anyway. “Don’t do anything drastic. You know I try my hardest to ignore the self-mutilation thing, because it’s how you cope. But I don’t think I could handle it if you did something more.”
Kyo comes to his senses a little. “I won’t, Kaoru. I’m impulsive, but not stupid.”
***************
It’s their last performance of their tour and Kyo’s on stage. Of course, he’s pouring his heart into every shout, screech, and word uttered from his crimson-stained lips. His fingers are clawing at his chest leaving massive red lines over his flesh. He runs his fingers across his face, smearing a little blood on his cheek. His eyes find the stage lights and he gazes into them like they were eyes. He stands, stricken with awe. The chords ring out behind him and he gasps into the microphone. His vocal cords hurt but he can withstand it.
Kyo unleashes his grief, heartache, and wrath into the last phrases of the song. Again, the music ends and he cries out into the microphone one last time, collapsing on his hands and knees. The lights are fading except one solemn lamp that refuses to leave Kyo’s frame. Sweat and blood drips onto the stage, glittering in the dim light. The audience is quiet and still, watching him. He picks the microphone up one last time, almost brushing his lips against it. “I won’t drown… anymore.”
The crowd throws themselves into an uproar of cheers and shouts, screams and whistles for an encore. Kyo stands slowly and, with some slight assistance from Kaoru, waves to his fans before exiting the stage.