Haunted Roads

WHO: Keisuke & open
WHEN; Wed, Feb. 13th (evening)
WHERE: Walking out on the streets near Uwajima Super Market
RATING: PG?

Keisuke did miss the sun at times, and he found usually the darker the night, the more he wished he could see the light of day. Sometimes he let his artwork reflect this, bright burning colors of reds and yellows, mixing to create oranges or staying streaked in messy smears across canvas as he rubbed the paint on his hands, wondering if he could remember what true sunshine felt like. Then he would remember the burn, the searing pain of flesh roasting, charring in the dim dusk light and he would shiver, out of habit rather than cold, and pull his thin leather gloves on tighter. It had been a long time before he could write, much less draw without pain throbbing in his hands after Mimoru's death and although the scars had begun to fade, he would never forget how close to being burned alive that day.

He walked slowly now, his worn and broken-in black converses making no sounds as he worked his way out of the carts and people near the Japanese supermarket. Even if he'd bought no more than a coffee to drink, the warm cup giving him a fake mockery of the real warmth he could never grasp, it was enough to give him a pleasant reminder of Japan, hearing the words and reading the signs. The cashier had smiled at him, her dimples playing up the rosy color of her cheeks. He'd smiled back and let his eyes linger on hers for a few extra moments, always keeping his options for a blood partner open. Sometimes they appeared in the strangest of places, met at the most unique of opportunities. One was not to look the gift horse in the mouth.

The two scarves he wore, one thin black one, the other a striped blue-green, hung down from where he'd casually wrapped them around his neck. The stripped one had loosened and was now dangling in two loops around his neck and back as he continued forward, art pad under one arm, pencil and pen clipped to his jeans pocket. The grey pair of jeans had threatened to fall off when he'd pulled them on the night before, when he'd been preparing for resting during the day and he'd looped a white braided belt through to keep them secured.

Nearing a bench near the park, he glanced around for a trashcan to throw his cup away in. The brown liquid was now cold and he'd never been very fond of coffee and its aftertaste to want to drink it anyway. Locating one hidden away by tall bushes, he walked over, bending slightly to make sure his cup went into the small opening. His ears heard the sound of footsteps approaching as his cup made a soft bouncing sound as it ricocheted inside the metal can down to its soggy demise.

It was Valentine's Day, and Chris was scheduled off. Ironic, really, since he had no plans and no prospects for this traditionally romantic evening. If he'd been on speaking terms with his co-workers beyond nodding and attempting to smile when they crossed paths in the corridors, he could have offered to take someone else's shift so at least they could have a good evening. But he had not, and ten p.m. found him not clocking in at work but wandering up to the thirteenth floor.

He'd been on this level before, mostly to the gardens. He had even encountered a person or two up here, but tonight, as he quietly entered through the door that led to the swimming pool, there was nothing but echoing, dimly lit silence. Chris padded across the tiled floor, glancing around as if unsure what he might find. Lounge chairs, crafted to withstand both water and humidity, were arranged near the edge of the pool. The smooth surface looked brilliant blue in the low lighting.

He would have been surprised to find anyone else up here tonight. It was a night for love in just about everyone in the world's expectations, and he figured the Towers' residents were all either having romantic dinners and carnal desserts or else brooding over their solitary states. It seemed to be one or the other on this, the most commercialized holiday after Christmas.

Chris remembered the previous Valentine's Day distinctly even though he'd technically been alone then, as well. He had not quite worked up the gumption to ask the beautiful seventeen-year-old Violette Robichaux to dinner, and he'd spent the evening slipping away from his dishwashing duties to lurk in the back of the restaurant and watch her sing. He had been certain that he was not imagining the wistful gazes she cast him from the stage as she sang the most melodic Cajun love songs. He had not understood all of the French lyrics, but he'd savored the way her soft voice had caressed each syllable before lovingly releasing it from her throat.

Two weeks later, he'd mustered the nerve to actually talk to her, and their relationship, chaste and sweet until the bitter end, had started from there.

( my bloody valentine )