13^th Theatre Presents. . .

You didn’t really bother with hiding it, you just dumped it into your bookbag, alongside a box of matches. It didn’t really matter if you got caught, really. You were doing the world a favor, not to mention saving yourself from something humongously worse. Throughout the train ride, it felt like people were staring at you, everyone on the train, even though it was so crowded most people were just closing their eyes and ignoring anything more solid than music.

You got off hurriedly, ignoring the jostling and aiming to be one of the first out of the station, striding quickly down the streets. As you walked, your bag bumped against your leg, and the movement made your stomach twist in knots. Chill. It’ll all be over quickly.

Yeah. Right. Quick like a bunny, right? Or was that a mongoose? Either way, it didn’t change that every second seemed to be crawling by like a crippled, overburdened ant. You forced yourself not to sigh in exasperation as you moved forward, passing a coffee shop and resisting the urge to dash in for an espresso, just to calm your nerves.

The school wasn’t empty when you got there, and you paused for a moment, trying to think back on what you normally did.

Sit at your desk. Shoot. Maybe you could skip P.E or something. That would only be in a few hours. . . No, too long, you could feel it-

"Hey, [name]-chan!"

You froze, gaping for a moment at Fuko, as if she’d grown a third eye. She smiled innocently back at you, cocking her head, "[name]-chan?"

Haruka peered at you, knocking her long black hair over her shoulder and squinting her large eyes, "You seem out of it. Got a date with someone?"

Fuko almost clapped her hands, grinning at Haruka, "That would be so cool!"

"That sort of depends on the guy, Fuko-chan," Haruka was saying, "I mean, if it was Ryoichi-san, it would be sort of meh and weird, but if it was for, say, Light-kun . . ."

You saw, over Haruka’s shoulder, Ryoichi flinch slightly. It was a well known fact that he had a monster crush on Haruka, while meanwhile, Haruka really liked Light.

"I don’t think Ryoichi-kun is that bad," you found yourself saying, "I mean, he’s sort of odd, but that just means you won’t get bored, right?"

Funny looks all around. Okay, maybe you were missing something.

"Do you, maybe. . . like Ryoichi-san?" Fuko asked, leaning forward to peer at you. You drew back.

"Wha- No!" that was a repulsive idea indeed, "I’m just saying, oddness isn’t that bad!"

"Uh-huh. . ." neither of them seemed convinced and you felt your face heat. That just wasn’t fair. First you find a murderous book, or the book of a murderer that happens to be able to kill people, now your two sort-of-friends (hey, you’d only known them for five days or so) think you have a crush on the weirdest guy in class.

The weirdest guy in class who also happened to be staring at you. Damn it, he was totally eves dropping!

Damn it if you weren’t going to use it to your advantage though. Standing, you quickly excused yourself to the bathroom.

"Do you think we went too far?" you heard Fuko ask. But before Haruka could respond, you’d left the classroom, striding to the bathroom, and cursing how obvious you were being. You’d have to skip class today, to at least even it out a little, although it probably didn’t make much difference.

Things would be fine as long as you made certain no one could identify the book. Stepping into the bathroom, you scoured around for somewhere to hide, since stalls wouldn’t really be the easiest way to go about things, and eventually just settled for wedging your bag in between the hinges of the door, shuffling through it before ripping out the the book by a corner of it’s cover and pulling out the matches.

First things first- it would burn more thoroughly if you tore up the pages. Setting the box of matches down, you grabbed a fistful of pages and pulled, smoothing them down over the sink counter to rip them carefully into strips, and then small squares. You couldn’t manage to rip the cover once you finished, so you just dropped it on the pages and struck a match, letting it fall onto the paper.

The whole thing flared up immediately, and you didn’t wait for it to gather momentum, snatching up your bag and dashing out of the bathroom to make your way out of the school.

- -- - -

The adults didn’t get back to the house till after you anyway, so you didn’t worry about the odd stares on the train or what people would think. You weren’t going to get in trouble once you made it back to the large building, and you were already peacefully forgetting about the deadly book.

The first thing you did was flip on the news.

" . . . . InterPOL is mobilizing to investigate the many deaths that have happened to prisoners on a worldwide scale, however there has been no word as of yet from the Japanese police. . . ."

The world fuzzed out for a moment, and you scrunched up, trying to remember why this freaked you out so much.

Something about a book . .. OMGTHAT1L1KETOTALLY. . .no, that wasn’t it. . . .

Rubbing your forehead and closing your eyes didn’t either, so you eventually just picked up the remote, flipping through the channels and eventually settling on Sakura TV.

"It is a stunning thought to think that Kobayashi-san could have been the first victim of this mass killing, but there is no other way to explain the deaths. . . ."

That was it.

The remote fell from your hand, dropping to the soft carpet.

Scrambling to your feet, you hurried to find the newspaper from the morning before, before deciding to just go to bed. You had school the next day, and you couldn’t go with a headache like this.

So you just collapsed on top of the blankets, not bothering to change, or even to write anything down. You should really tell the police now, before you forget. . . something whispered in the back of your head.

You brushed it off. After all, who would believe you?

- - -- -

The next day, you got up, got dressed like normal, and stepped out to get your breakfast. The Sato’s were already eating, but Mrs. Sato looked up from her rice as you emerged.

"You’re school’s closed," she told you, finishing the last of it, muttering a small thanks and standing, "There’s no reason to attend."

She left, walking quickly, and followed soon after by her husband.

School closed? You didn’t bother to ask why, having a sneaking suspicion but not being quite certain what it was. Not the best grounds for questioning. But you were free to do whatever, huh?

Something like. . . .

Hanging out with Friends, chapter Eight

Lounging around and relaxing, chapter Nine

Homework. You didn’t get any done last night, chapter Ten

Taking a walk to clear your head. You’d be better afterwards, chapter Eleven

This is the third chapter of a CYOA I'm doing for Death Note. I'm very proud of myself for finishing it, if not on schedule, than in a timely manner. Yay for Min-chan!

Full story published on Lunaescence.com under Murder-chan.

Well now, you can rate your blog entries. How charming. Actually I suppose it would be terribly useful. -fiddles-

Rated for C for "Caution", however C may also stand for Crazy, which is apt. So we're using it, as I have no idea what some people would be cautious of. And anyway, this is my blog.

It annoys me that there is no hotline for where to go when you need help with something that may be considered in the realms of psychic training. No, you have to buy books and books don't really answer the questions I at least have. Or if you need the questions answered, you can buy books, cds and sign up for an online course, but that doesn't allow for question and answer sessions or even asking anything at all.

Finally there are 'psychic hotlines' which really don't belong to psychics at all. They belong to people who think they are psychic and who think they can make money off of it. (See stage one.) I don't even begin to guess how you would broach anything beyond "Will I be able to win this guys heart?" or "Will my grandmother be all right?"

Okay, maybe deeper questions, but I don't really know what they'd be. And how do you pick up on what the real answer is if you only have a voice to go on? Yeah, sure there's gut instinct, but there's only so much a voice can tell you- like learning anything, you need more.

My water filter filled itself. Assuming that everyone was telling the truth and no one else in the house filled it, which was like two people. Naturally my grandfather over reacted and accused me of accusing them of lying, which is to be expected but still makes me feel sort of like a freak. However, I know my water filter was not all the way full before, because I poured a cup out and put it back in the fridge.

No, of course not. She's just being a crazy psycho bitch who can't remember anything she does and blames it on us. Because deep down he knows he wants to just get rid of me. And yes, he did say that. Not the crazy-psycho-bitch part, but everything after that. I heard him through the wall, complaining to my grandma.

And yet people insist that I'm just imagining that he doesn't want me there. How quaint. And shut up, I know I didn't use that word right.

Actually, living here I would probably be more prone to thinking I was crazy- I mean, it's not the first thing that's done something like that, and the other times were more clearly not them. (Come to think of it, I'm not even sure why I bothered mentioning it to them.) Like my Chopin CD, which had been scratched up and broken, but which I recently found whole and unmarred. (Not that I'd missed it- I don't really listen to classical much anymore.) And my Japanese-English-English-Japanese mini-dictionary, which dissappeared from my bookshelf and only reappeared after I stated outloud that I wanted it back- in the front row corner of the bookshelf-chest-thing that I had already checked repeatedly.

But there was the bathroom light, when I was eight and still living with my mom. It fell down while I was undressing for a bath (since we had a bath at that time, although we couldn't shower, unless we wanted to tip over the tub.) My mother and my almost/future stepdad both came rushing in as I was crouched behind the laundry basket we used strickly for towels, and my mom went almost immediately into a state of overdrive- panic and anger and blam all mixing up into some sticky solution, heated up until it popped into a popcorn like bloat.

She accused me of throwing my clothes up to hit the lamp, I cried and said I hadn't, which I hadn't, because I wasn't quite that odd of a child. Or extravagent by any definition, I suppose, which is the sort of person who would do such a thing if such a thing was to be done at all, in my mind.

But she did see the shattered glass as well, so I can't have been hallucinating.

The only other time something closer to violence has happened was recently, when a glass jar was thrown at my feet. No one else was in the room and I was walking back towards my computer, quite far away from any glass jars in particular. (At least, to far away for it to have been a shift in gravity or a bump, both of which have happened.)

The actually really scary thing is that I'm pretty certain it's not me. I mean, if it was, wouldn't I have some sort of effect when I actually concentrated on trying to move something? And even if that weren't the case, I don't think latent psychokineses would explain being touched. Physically. When no one else is in the room.

Which has happened twice. The first time was a touch on my arm as I woke up, and both my hands were curled up within eachother near my chest, and the second was actually a touch on the lips, once again with both my hands next to my chest because that's sort of how I sleep.

I actually don't know why I'm posting this, since about half the people who read it and probably more are going to think "What an idiot" when they read it and come up with a long list of reasons why exactly I'm an idiot for not knowing what's going on and I'm going to be able to explain away every reason and then they'll just say I'm making excuses. But go ahead and post them. I'll probably just ignore them anyway. I think I'm kind of just trying to get rid of some of the pressure building up in my skull and ribcage.

"The dusk is calm, your eyes are cold. . ."

Her mouth is wide and leering, curling into something that vaguely resembles a smile. She’s crouching on the large wall along the sidewalk, eyes glittering in that way they always did, the way that makes him think of tears and confetti valentines. Clad in black on black, a darkly gloved hand extending towards him.

He pays her no mind, walking forward, pacing his steps, forcing himself not to close his eyes and drown in her laughter or maybe his fear. Panic setting in, cold seeping through his skin, his fingers dipping into his pockets, brushing the pen and the half-sheet of paper. But it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t have a name. Just a word she used to be called by. Words interspersed in laughter, "The ferns grow full in curling fronds. . ."

He thinks that’s what she’s saying. But it might just be what she wants him to hear. Playing with his head. Mind games. Newspapers flashing through his eyes, black and white, bold letters. Missing. He blocks her out as she stands up, walking along behind him. He can hear her boots on the stone, but it seems muffled and strange like she’s walking on velvet.

Step step step. This isn’t getting him anywhere. Try not to run. Walking in ice water. Proclaimed Dead. Missing missing missing. "Your faeries touch the damp-edged ponds."

There’s something in the way she says it. Likes she knows something. His feet stop. He doesn’t know why. He can’t feel his hands. She stops beside him, voice dipping and rising and dipping in sing-song.

He turns, stepping back, to the curb, looking up at her, as she smiles like a small child, the little girl down the street covered in bruises with an opened box of cookies under her shirt. Sweets have never tasted quite the same. Chocolate chips reminded him of broken hearts. Her singing, "You’ve found here what it always takes. . ."

She’s sitting down, here feet dangling, tap tap tap against a grid of lace and vines. Her shoelaces glitter and gleam like they’re woven through with crystal and metal and frost, and he finds himself staring at them, looking anywhere but her face. Reflections under water. Missing. Presumed dead. "The grass is soft, the air is sweet."

Finger’s uncurling just out of his view, an extra joint, dirty nails. She’d been wearing gloves, hadn’t she? His hand moving automatically. Skin against skin.

Fingers entwined. Pressed together, the lone spark of warmth passing back and forth between them. Hair twines together. Glittering shoelaces catch what remains of the light. She’s still singing, a bright merry tune, humming under her breath when there aren’t any words, "The night pulls on in blighted dreams. . ."

Pictures on paper, black and white, charcoal dots on gray. Empty eyes, muck and mud encasing her neck, covering the bruises and scratches and fingerprints over the skin, hiding the pain from children’s eyes. Hands found bare and bitten by fishes of ice. Winter. It was a cold winter.

He was at his aunt’s in Kyoto when it happened. Eating cookies and candy and everything else they would gorge on. He’d sneak into the kitchen after bedtime and nick sugary treats, determined that for once he would be breaking the snacks to the fantasy picnics with people who didn’t exist and who were very very secret. Humming, "Your mind sinks deep in follied fear."

Childish names. A hedge hog with spines of over large thorns, wrapped in vegetation and flowers. A man of pebbles and gravel with fingers coated in a salty red crust. A woman who never talks, with horns on the tips of her ears.

He’s kissing her now, pressing his lips to hers, over her jawline, down her throat. One of her hands is tangled in his hair and the other slips along the vertebrae of his back. She nips at his ear as he presses her into the wall, but the wall isn’t really there and they tumble through along the grass. He’s straddling her waist and she’s laughing, "The pre-dawn light is grim and veiled. . ."

His hands slip up her shirt, fumbling with the clasp of her bra, ripping through the fabric when it doesn’t yield to his will. One of her hands is on his hip and her pants are loose and hanging around her like a shroud.

They’re shivering, in a river of ice water. His hands feel numb, rubbing against her skin for something more than warmth that he just can’t seem to find. She’s still laughing, like it won’t stop, like there’s something in the words that she finds uproariously funny but can’t quite explain. She draws him down, whispering like she’s just trying to get out them out of the way, "The clouds are harsh and bringing rain."

Her hands trace on his bare chest and he wonders when he took off his shirt before it doesn’t matter, nothing matters but the feel of her around him, of being inside of her. The wind takes her song, carrying it on as she moans, fingers digging into his skin.

His eyes open and his body is tense, wound up like a spring. He feels sunlight crawling over his skin, seeking to burn her away, the very memory of her. He sits up, drawing one of the blankets around him to keep it at bay, trembling, sensitive, hard. Misa groans, curled beside the disappearing hollow he leaves behind. He feels cold, which of itself is nothing new, but there’s something inside the cold, a crystal bell dropped on a stairway in his memory, calling him to open his drawer and take out the dark glove he found in his hand the morning after her death. It smells like salt and rotting vegetation and he doesn’t really know why he keeps it. He can feel what’s inside through the fabric, but he opens it anyway. A coin, tinted a dark red, a small thorn, a square of lined paper, folded up neatly. Unfolded, he can see that the words are written in a scrawl of cursive. English. A language he couldn’t understand then. He’d forgotten about the note by the time he reached middle school, so he smooths down the paper, which feels like silk or fur, and says the words in a whisper, like they can conjure memories of cookies and stomach aches and a girl who had too many butterfly bruises over her arms.

"Your Faeries" © Astrid Sonia Tieholz