Reverie and Nightmares

16

Mikan's View

Folding the clothes with Ryuga was always a neater way to get through the work, as I'd been happy that he would help whenever I could.

Even as a couple that's not married, well, at least not yet, I assume, we cooperated greatly together, halving work and sometimes covering up for each other, but never leaving one of the hooks in terms of our clothes. Of course, Ryuga wasn't that informed to separate the whites from the other clothes at first, but he learned, and that was what mattered.

The back pain from the hit I'd taken from my mother has long since passed, but now and then, I imagine it is coming back, and I guess my mind must be very strong to be able to replicate it only with the thought because it would return like a stray after being fed once.

The idea of adopting a cat by the pound was my main objective, and securing it a place, for the time being, was just as important. From my memory of our promise, we'd assumed the adoption of a male kitten or something like that. And my plan was for that to stick, and maybe, just maybe, adopt another one more?

Ryuga worked on loading the boxes from his car, telling me to grab a coffee if I needed it. I wasn't going to lie to him; I just couldn't, so along the walk, I'd stopped by a coffee shop I went to once or twice during our year in high school and picked myself a grande with a little extra milk. The winter air pushed at my hair, and I'd nearly lost my balance and dropped the cup as I'd quickly chosen which one was more important: the butterfly or the coffee, and there was no challenge in seeking that out. The butterfly would remind me about my father, who'd given me the original long before I'd even met Ryuga, seeing as it was his parting gift from the realm of the living and the dead. The color didn't vary too much from Ryuga's, and there was no way I was going to say that I'd chosen one over the other, but I'd at least wished that I'd kept the remains of the cheap fabric in a jar, a reminder of his existence.

After thinking more about it, I'd found myself around the neighborhood. The neighborhood I'd found hell on earth: the house I used to live with when my mother 'cared' for me. There wasn't a single good thing to come out from thinking more about it, and maybe I should've listened to my gut feeling and run away. Still, something pulled me towards the house, and I thought that only maybe, although it sounded impossible, to collect the remains of the original butterfly.

That sounded far more than rubbish, certainly, but it was a wicked dream that might not be impossible so much as more demented. No, no, no. The word that I should replace it with is immoral.

The creaking of the patio clicked into my ears, and I cringed. The weeds had overgrown since then, seeing as my mother used to bring me to cut them with my bare hands, but now, with me out of the picture, there was no point in thinking about cutting them down, was there? And the blood from my wrist when I'd enjoyed the cut with the garbage can? It was still there, alright, only it was darker. Browner, staler, maybe. And if a blood analyzer had taken samples, they'd probably find me on their records.

"She doesn't clean up after herself." I found myself mumbling.

The idea of the house being abandoned was my preferred guest of the state of the housing, and the worst I needed to fear was a drunk-as-all-hell mother who recognized her runaway child. Or maybe that wasn't all I should worry about, as the house would have probably been the nest of not one but a group of killers who'd been in hiding. It probably would've been enough to push me away, but I clicked the doorknob, the memories rushing close like ghastly wraiths.

Books, papers, and empty bottles of beer and scotch were scattered around every corner, yet I still felt impressed, as if I'd been visiting the house for the first time. It was as if the year I'd stuck around here didn't matter, or perhaps my thoughts had gone blind.