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Halloween was arguably the most popular holiday of the year - it was festive, had a bit of an edge to it, and most importantly, past a certain age you weren’t obligated to hang out with your relatives.
So people went out in their best spooky outfits, attended Halloween parades, visited haunted amusement parks, or danced the night away at parties. If children slept through the night without much trick-or-treating, and adults busied themselves escaping their responsibilities with cat ears and a cheap witch-themed punch, teenagers were left with two options : a horror movie marathon to be concluded in a sweets-induced sugar coma, or slipping away in the middle of the night to do stupid coming-of-age shit.
Bachira was in the camp of the latter.
That’s why he was roaming the streets on Hallow’s Eve, hands warmed up by a heat packet he had shoved into his coat, vibrating with his entire being at the prospect of summoning ghouls and other evil spirits on the most exciting night of the year.
Behind him trail Chigiri and Isagi, Chigiri being here because Bachira’s whims were slightly less boring than the prospect of watching camp horror in his room and trying to get drunk on whatever’s hard liquor leftovers were stashed under his sister’s bed. Isagi never liked the supernatural, something about his ba-chan forbidding him from dabbling in the occult when he was seven ; and Isagi loved his ba-chan. But he loved Bachira more, so he complied fairly quickly.
Isagi rapidly loses his spirit - no pun intended - when he realizes exactly where Bachira is dragging them : the infamous Itoshi murder house, where a teenager a year under them named Itoshi Rin murdered his entire family two years ago, and then killed himself immediately after. It was the talk of the town for the entire year - still is, even if it’s all ushers and troubled mumbling, now, like a village curse that only grows in power the more you speak of it.
“ I really don’t think this is a good idea, “ Isagi mutters, growing fidgety with every step he takes behind Bachira.
Bachira sighs ; he stops in his trail to frame Isagi’s shoulders with his arm, messing up with his hair in an attempt to calm his friend’s nerves and distract him from his own coward-ness.
” Isagi, my sweet summer child, “ Bachira sings in his ear with a gentle yet mischievous tone. “ You need to live a little bit. “
He releases his best friend and starts sprinting forward, the wind scratching at his cheeks making him feel so very much alive he starts cackling, increasing his pace without even looking behind him to make sure his friends are following.
” I was born in April, “ Isagi mumbles with a frown, fiddling with the soft strands of his green scarf.
” Come on, you scaredy cat, “ Chigiri muses while he slaps Isagi loudly on the back. “ Whatever Bachira is scheming has to be better than spending the night in front of the TV. “
They finally arrive at the Itoshi house ; it used to be a beautiful place, a traditional Japanese home slightly in retreat from the other neighboring houses in a charming cul-de-sac. Some of its former glory still shines, allure dimmed by the boarded windows and the dusty entrance, the roof and its walls partly overtaken by vegetation. The lawn is overgrown but strangely silent, as if life had long stopped thriving under its soil ; in retreat from the entrance, the koi pond had stilled and dried a year ago, now sprouting moss on its inside walls.
The wind can be heard rattling against the house’s sturdy frame and making the wood planks creak in a sinister echo, harsh shadows casting hands on its structure whenever the moon peeks through a curtain of clouds. Bachira’s eyes are twinkling from the wondrous sight in front of him, and he doesn’t regret in the slightest dragging his friends to the pinnacle of their -or at least his- existence. The police tape is still tied in between two maple trees framing the entrance, and Bachira slips away under the ugly yellow strand, as nimble as a cat.
He feels a rush of energy when the front stairs squeak from under the sole of his boots, the wood pliant and moldy in spots, slowly rotting away under the passage of time. There is a certain beauty in decay, because it is inevitable - poetic, of sorts. It made him cherish his own mortality, and wonder if the human soul was prone to decay as well. He couldn’t wait to find out.
As he’s about to open the front door, he realizes he’s the only one who has climbed those stairs - when he turns, Chigiri and Isagi are still behind the police tape, looking at him with visible apprehension.
” What are you guys doing ? “ Bachira asks quietly, but it rings loud in the silence of the night. He frowns slightly.
” I’m uh - not so sure anymore about all of this, “ Chigiri gestures vaguely while pointing at the house. He, who was full of bravado in his daily life, looked oddly meek planted in the middle of the road, especially with Bachira looming over him from the height of the stairs.
” What do you mean, “ He backtracks, stepping strongly on the wood in rapid squeak-squeak-squeaks, and the teenager is back in front of his friends, the police tape the only delimitation separating them from each other. “ We’re here. It took us an hour to get to the house because Isagi forgot to refill his bus pass, and you want to go back ? “
Bachira expected to have to coax Isagi with promises of sweet bread and head scratches to have him enter the house, but he never imagined Chigiri would back out so quickly. The red head was fierce and sometimes a little mean, and he never seemed afraid of anything. Until tonight.
” Look, “ Chigiri starts arguing, not quite meeting Bachira’s eyes - one of his fingers is rolled around a beautiful strand of silky red hair, and he keeps twisting it as if to ground himself. “ I admit, the house is really creepy. But mostly - look at that police tape. People died here, Bachira. “ He finally looks up, and his eyes are a little sad. “ Real people. “
“ Yes, that’s the whole point, “ Bachira hisses, hands flying in the air out of frustration. “ We’re summoning the spirit of someone who died. There kind of isn’t any other way around. “
He sees doubt written all over Isagi’s face as well, and it annoys him a little bit ; what were they so worried about ? They were here to talk to the dead. Have a conversation with a possible evil spirit. Maybe get a little possessed. All things with a maximum potential of fear factor.
“ If Chigiri bails, I bail too, “ Isagi finally ushers, and there’s something final in his eyes that tells Bachira he has maybe a five percent chance to turn things around.
He graces Isagi with his best puppy eyes, to no avail.
“ I don’t know why you’re so fucking obsessed with that house, “ Chigiri mumbles under his breath, but it’s loud enough for all of them to hear.
It shuts Bachira up quickly - he could lie about it. But he could certainly not tell them the real reason he wanted to make contact with the afterlife. So he says nothing, and he glares instead. It comes out more like a pout than a real glare, but Bachira was never that good at making people feel blameworthy.
” Sorry, Bachira, “ Chigiri hits that last nail in the fun coffin, and he has the decency to look a little bit guilty. “ It’s disrespectful, I think. I’m not stepping into this house. “
Bachira humphs loudly ; his friends were stubborn, but so was he, especially when it came to the Itoshi murder house. He crosses his arms and gives them what he hopes is a lasting glower, in hopes they regret not entering the haunted grounds with him, finally turns around to walk the stairs once again.
“ Well too bad, “ the wooden planks squeak underneath every step he takes with the same cadence of his words. “ There’s no way I’m not entering this beautiful murder house tonight. “
Bachira stands on the porch to glance back one last time, a curse on the tongue for his backstabbing friends ; he’s even more determined now to find the room Itoshi Rin died in and make contact with his spirit. Maybe the vengeful ghost was the only friend he needed.
“ Have your stupid movie marathon if you want it. Without me. “
Chigiri sighs, his shoulders sunk low under Bachira’s scorn.
” We’re gonna wait for you outside, “ he calmly declares to his unreasonable friend. “ But if you’re not back in half-an-hour, I’m leaving. “
“ Be safe, “ Isagi chirps in, looking a little dejected, and Bachira’s soured mood sweetens a tad when he feels the concern of his best friend lacing his words.
He sends a kiss flying Isagi’s way, still glares at Chigiri for good measure and finally opens the front door, the old wood lamenting under his touch.
He steps inside of the house.
A heavy layer of dust comes alive under his feet when he closes the door behind him and walks past the doorstep, his cellphone’s flashlight casting a halo of light within these haunted halls. The furniture is still there, wrapped under stained plastic sheets, oddly frozen in time. If it wasn’t for dust motes rolling around like little creatures, condemned windows and the deep red spots of dried blood adorning the hall, the house would look almost inhabitable.
Bachira had spent an unhealthy amount of time researching the Itoshi murder house ; it sparked from a faint interest at first, because gruesome murders in a small town such as theirs were practically unheard of. It quickly morphed into fascination when he saw Itoshi Rin’s portrait in the papers, and his beautiful, haunting eyes. Rin had a pretty face overall, and there was something about his mouth that wasn’t quite smiling, something secretive sprung from the nature of haughty self-portraits hung in art galleries - but to Bachira, it was all in the eyes. They were undoubtedly one of a monster, bottom eyelashes the long legs casting a spider’s web he found himself stepping into willingly ; they invited him in in ways that other people weren’t.
(When people asked him why he spent his lunch break keeping up with the Itoshi murders instead of being a normal teenager playing ball or something, he simply shrugged, and got back to reading about the horrible details of the case on the cracked screen of his cellphone. He couldn’t admit to the truth : that he saw parts of himself reflected in Itoshi Rin’s eyes.)
That dark spot on the ground was probably where Rin stabbed his father to death as he was getting home from work, seventeen hits directly to the chest administered in cold, calculated precision. Photos of the crime scene were never leaked, disappointingly so, but Bachira was nothing if not a creative person ; he was able to picture the face and body of the gaunt man that was Itoshi Aoto lying on the ground, pale and dying a miserable death. He wonders what he looked like three days later, when one of Itoshi senior’s coworkers had come to his house worried about his whereabouts, only to find out the entire family had been murdered in cold blood.
Bachira proceeds through the living room to then enter the kitchen : he could see the rings of past plates that had been garnishing the table on the night of the murders, and probably had been picked up as evidence, or been disposed of by the cleaning crew later on once the investigation came to an end. Bachira supposes a haunting consists of many things, and sometimes those things manifested in the little traces of dwelling left where life had ended long ago.
Blood is sprayed on the kitchen floor ; dried lashes of dark brown garnish the oven door, still half-open but emptied of its content, gathering the remnants of a broken home instead. Something died inside of it - some sort of animal - but the bones have been cleaned dry of its flesh and hollowed out by scavengers. He almost wants to grab some for his growing collection, but he decides otherwise. There’s a main event to attend to, and he can always pick up a bone or two on his way back, as a memento - put it under his pillow to dream of beautiful hauntings.
They say Rin slit his mother’s throat from behind as she was making dinner, and he slowly watched her bleed to death against the fridge before calmly walking away, possibly to wait for his father to come home. There’s indeed a pool of dried blood in the empty space where the fridge used to be, and bloody footsteps peppered in a crimson trail exit the kitchen to the corridor that leads to the stairs.
Bachira’s hair rises on his nap ; he’s never been more stimulated in his life. He licks his dry lips, his tongue left lingering on one of his pointy canines, and his shivering has nothing to do with the cold nights of late October.
A lot of people can’t stomach the gruesome details of a crime scene - let alone visit one - but Bachira always had a weird relationship with life. It all started when he picked up the corpse of a dead baby bird that had dropped from its nest, amazed at how fragile it looked, its little eyes closed and body broken from the fall. He remembers feeling sad, but he was also curious. About the body. He hid it in a box under his bed and watched the corpse decay over two weeks, and found that the stench of death wasn’t something to be feared, but rather loved. He also remembers how upset it made his mother when she found a rotting bird in her son’s bedroom, and how she forced him to throw it away. His mom never yelled much at him, but collecting dead animals seemed to have crossed some sort of line. He just got better at hiding them someplace else, like the shared garden of their apartment complex.
His fascination with death quickly turned into a quest of figuring out why animals died, why people died ; and what was awaiting them at the end of the final journey, because there had to be something more to it. Bodies decayed, but what of the human spirit ? Bachira naturally started to dabble into the occult, and once he found a post on some obscure fringe blog raving about contacting the spirits of murderers, it clicked : who could help him understand death better than those who chose to end life with their own hands ? They had to be the vessel for something greater than life, for they had looked right into the eyes of death and became its architect.
A monster was taking form inside of his heart, and instead of being afraid he only grew more desperate to find out what that monster was made of. The Itoshi murders, and Itoshi Rin were only the logical path his journey had taken.
He walks all the way up the staircase where the bloody footsteps lead him, slowly becoming more faded the more he climbs. They stop when the stairs come to an end, but Bachira doesn’t need them to know where he has to go. He spent several hours studying the layout of this house, going as far as to dig up the plans from the municipal archives with a stolen library card, and he immediately turns right, to a spacious room with an unbolted door left to rot right next to its frame.
They say the worst of the crime scene was Itoshi Sae’s bedroom, where the murders simultaneously started and ended. Sae was lying down in his bed, possibly reading something, when Rin stepped in and proceeded to stab his brother 42 times in the chest and the abdomen, while Tokyo Rendez-Vous was blasting through the speakers of the stereo Sae kept in his room. Unconfirmed rumours speak of missing organs, and considering Rin had been found dead with his wrists slashed lying in bed right next to the cold body of his brother, mouth covered with blood, people speculate he possibly consumed his brother in a very literal way.
The bed is long gone ; it’s actually the only room that was completely emptied of its furniture, the tatamis stripped bare as well, but it wasn’t enough to prevent some blood from seeping into the wooden floorboards underneath. The only thing that remained in the room was a big bulky thing covered with a heavy cloth, resting on the back walls of the crime scene, which happened to be the exact thing Bachira was looking for.
Bachira walks straight to it, fingers itching with anticipation ; he throws away the cover on the ground and under it is a tall standing mirror in surprisingly pristine condition.
There were plenty of urban legends floating around the Itoshi murder house. One of them was that on the night of a new moon, at the brink of midnight, someone brave enough to cross the doorstep could go all the way up to the second floor and say Itoshi Rin’s name seven times in the old mirror, and he would appear behind you. If you were lucky enough to survive the encounter, you could then pick up the small pocket knife lying next to it and carve your name into the walls - and get bragging rights for the rest of your high school career. He didn’t care about that.
Bachira runs his hand over the small number of names already chiseled into the wood, and ponders upon the poetry of the new moon happening on Hallow’s Eve, of all the possible nights of the month. It made the night so very special to him, because he cared about numerology and fated coincidences a great deal - he feels shivers run from his neck all the way down his spine, and he smiles.
He gazes at his reflection in the mirror - there’s nothing around him, except him, alone, his face lit up in a transcendental way by the flashlight of his cellphone. He gulps, suddenly nervous ; it’s not that he’s afraid of Itoshi Rin’s spirit showing up and murdering him (that would be pretty exciting). He thinks he’s afraid of chasing ghosts where they don’t exist, afraid humans are all just carbon with an expiration date. Afraid that no one is ever truly gonna understand him.
He braces himself - and says the words out loud in a haunting litany.
Itoshi Rin. Itoshi Rin. Itoshi Rin. Itoshi Rin. Itoshi Rin. Itoshi Rin.
Itoshi Rin.
When the final call rings blaringly into the dark and silence falls over the walls again, Bachira stands so still, withholding his breath as to not scare the spirits away, it’s as if he was dead himself.
He waits. He waits. Waits.
Nothing happens.
Disappointment slowly fills his insides with lead when he realizes three things : one, there’s probably no such thing as an evil spirit haunting the halls of the Itoshi house. Two, it means ghosts probably aren’t real, because ghosts are made of energy left behind by traumatic events, and angry ghosts are usually the source of this trauma. And third, whoever carved their names into the wall were probably a liar and a fraud.
He should have predicted this outcome, in retrospect ; if making contact with ghosts was as easy as mumbling some words into the dark, there would be a lot more recorded proof of it. But Bachira was an optimist, and more than optimism he needed monsters to be real, only so he could stop feeling so fucking lonely all the time.
He slowly blinks, ready to turn around and leave, not quite prepared to face Chigiri’s ill-disguised I-told-you-so’s and Isagi’s gentle eyes and even gentler hands ; when he stares at the mirror for one final time - something about closure - piercing green eyes with long bottom eyelashes are staring at him, too.
Itoshi Rin is taller than him by several inches, and he has pale, glowy skin, beautiful eyes and a gaunt look on his face he probably inherited from his father. His mature traits - especially for a fifteen year old, at the time of his death - are framed by short, black hair with soft strands falling over his forehead. He looks so much alive, except for the fact he isn’t there, in the room, with Bachira ; he reaches out for the mirror, and when he touches it, the mirror is pulsating under his fingers, almost maddeningly so, as if maintained alive by a heartbeat of its own.
“ Holy shit, “ Bachira whispers incredulously, unable to break eye contact with Rin. ” You’re real. You’re actually real. “
Rin only stares at him for a while, as if deciding if Bachira was worth talking to ; it only makes Bachira crave him more, and he starts mindlessly tracing prayers over the surface of the mirror.
” What do you want ? “ His tone is curt, rough, to the point.
“ To talk to you. “
Rin scoffs at him, his dark hair obscuring his eyes for a moment when he shakes his head in disapproval ; Bachira is inexplicably distressed when he suddenly can’t see where Rin is looking, as if losing eye contact with the spirit would suddenly make him vanish, and Bachira’s fingers turn to a fist - his heartbeat rises, then falls back when the spirit resumes his staring.
“ Did you really summon me for such an insignificant reason ? “ The room grows significantly colder with Rin’s words, responding to his anger. Bachira’s breath forms a pale cloud whenever he exhales, frost garnishing the mirror’s rim in intricate lace motifs. “ Tell me why I shouldn’t rip you to shreds right here, and now, for bothering me in my unrest. “
“ You can do that, if you want, “ Bachira replies quite matter-of-factly. “ I don’t really care if I live or die tonight, because nothing is ever gonna come close to this. “
His smile is wide, and genuine, and adoring when Bachira professes those words - they have the same weight of a confession, and perhaps it is one, in an unconventional sort of way. Rin seems taken aback.
“ You’re an odd one, “ Rin lets out after a moment - he looks bored as ever, eyes mean, and piercing, and enthralling ; but there’s a small glimmer in his eyes, as if his curiosity was piqued. “ I suppose we could talk for a bit. But the second I grow tired of you, you die. “
Bachira sits on the decrepit floor, figuring they could be having this conversation for a while - or not at all, but dying while already on the ground seemed slightly more comfortable than falling from standing up. Rin mimics him, and Bachira glances behind him, at the emptiness where Rin should be ; he’s there, in the mirror, but he isn’t there. It feels so exhilarating.
” Come on, “ Rin coaxes him, already irritated. “ What do you want to know? “
There’s a million questions Bachira could be asking him ; why did you do it ? Why a knife ? How long did you plan for it ? Did you really eat your brother’s liver ? Why did you kill yourself ? Is the afterlife fun ? Is it lonely, to be stuck in a mirror and condemned to slowly fade away until you’re barely there, energy stretched thin as the days pass ? Did you feel like something was missing from your life ? Are you like me ?
” What’s your favourite movie ? “ Is what comes out of Bachira’s mouth instead.
Rin blinks, once, twice ; seems to be at a loss for words. Kind of funny for the spirit of a vicious murderer.
” … Seriously ? “ He scoffs, something visible displayed on his face, a mix of disbelief and pity. Bachira only smiles more. “ You wanna talk about movies with me. “
“ It’s a good ice breaker, don’t you think ? “ Bachira absentmindedly starts cleaning one of his ears, and rubs the little bullet of ear-wax in between his thumb and index, only to fling it into the room, to Rin’s visible disgust. “ Mine is Crayon Shin-chan. “
Rin stares at him for a moment, and eventually circles his knees with his arms, assuming a more comfortable position.
(Strange, Bachira thinks ; can a spirit be uncomfortable if they don’t possess a physical form ? Maybe it was a remnant of old reflexes, from when he was alive. Or a desire to mimic the living.)
“ The Shining, “ Rin replies curtly, staring still at Bachira. “ What’s next on your list? “
Bachira asks him all sorts of things : if he spoke any language besides Japanese, if he’s good at calligraphy. What dishes he missed the most. If he cried a lot. He learns that Rin never cried, that he likes owls, especially their piercing eyes, and that he used to watch a lot of horror movies and play a lot of horror video games. He had a strained relationship with his parents and his brother, because they seemed afraid of what was festering inside of him. He also learns that Rin had a deep sadness and rage inside of him that made it hard to be alive, and that none of these things factored in his decision to kill his entire family.
“ What would you do if it was your last day on earth ? “
Bachira is lying on the floor, the back of his head resting on the mirror, hands folded over his stomach while he gazes at the ceiling. He might not be seeing Rin since he couldn’t see his reflection in the mirror, but he knows he’s still there, because it’s cold as hell - his breath exits from his mouth in puffs of white clouds still.
” I’d kill someone, “ Rin casually replies without missing a single beat. “ More than one person if I could get away with it. “
“ How did it feel ? Killing. “ Bachira asks, curious ; he had always been a bit of a weird kid, and he kept looking at corpses and decay ever since he was a child - but he never had the urge to snuff the life out of someone. To test if the monster inside was real.
It’s not that he hadn’t thought about it ; when he stared at strangers in the streets and imagined his hands wrapped around their necks and pressing hard on their throats, he was calm and collected, and it didn’t really bother his conscience at all. But then he thought about killing Isagi, and it made him sad - and quickly figured that killing a stranger would be killing someone else’s Isagi, and decided that murder wasn’t for him.
“ It’s indescribable, “ Rin says after a while. “ I don’t think anyone can understand until they do it themselves. “
Bachira gets up on his knees, and faces the mirror again ; Rin is still sitting on the ground, eyes as indecipherable as ever, and Bachira would think Rin was just unable to feel anything for anyone, if it wasn't for his left hand twitching, as if still holding the knife he used to murder his family, and the drool pooling at the corner of his mouth.
” Can you still try ? “
Rin gazes beyond Bachira’s head, brow furrowed, as if trying to recollect memories long gone. Bachira wonders if your memory gets spotty, when you become incorporeal, and days stop having any significance over your life.
“ It’s like - when you have an itch somewhere, on your arm, your leg, I don’t know ; and so you scratch, but the itch is still there, and it worsens. “ As if compelled by the words, Rin grazes involuntarily at his knee, a phantom gesture, trying to get rid of something. “ So you scratch and you keep scratching, and sometimes it hurts you - but it’s like the hurt is making it worthwhile, and you can’t stop until you’ve scratched yourself open raw and there’s blood all over your fingers. “ His eyes focus on Bachira’s face again, and they’ve never been more intense, more alive. “ I think that’s how it feels. “
Bachira looks at Rin, really looks at him, and he smiles fondly - he feels the tears pool at the corner of his eyes, because he never wanted to kill anyone but he still understands what Rin means, about the itch. He’s been itching all of his life, and he doesn’t know how to relieve himself from the pain.
“ That’s beautiful, “ he simply replies, cheeks flushed red - one of his hands is clenched upon the fabric of his coat, and his fingers burn right through his heart.
“ You’re so weird, “ Rin lets out with a scoff ; it’s not exactly mean, not like everyone else says the word hushed behind his back. It’s just a statement - and Bachira embraces it. He is weird. “ Why are you here, really ? “
He asked that question before ; Bachira had answered him, but maybe Rin was right to ask again. Maybe the real reason he was here, tonight, still hadn’t come out of his mouth yet. There’s something on Rin’s face that wasn’t there when they started this whole conversation - genuine curiosity piercing through the boredom. Like he’s really seeing Bachira, too.
” I think I just like monsters, “ Bachira gathers his legs under him and scoots away closer to the mirror, until his face is only an inch or two away from it. “ I’ve always been a weird guy, and people have told me many times I’m not human, because I have fringe interests and I maybe like to stare at dead animals a little too much. “
He babbles away, and Rin simply listens.
“ Fixating on monsters and creepy stuff is off putting for most people. Sure, I have friends, but I don’t think they get me, really. So I get lonely sometimes. “
Isagi was the closest he’s ever had to a true friend - and Isagi was wonderful at being his friend. He was gentle, and loving, and he listened to Bachira talk about the latest odd subject that had captivated his mind for the week without judgment, lazing around in the sun with his head over his lap while Bachira wove his hands into his soft hair. Bachira would always love Isagi the most ; but if Isagi listened to him, and accepted him, he didn’t understand him. No one did. Hence the reason Bachira kept chasing monsters out of closets in hopes he would gain more than a friend - a companion.
“ People, they don’t get monsters. It scares them, but I think monsters are far more interesting than scary. “ Bachira smiles gently at Rin - at his favourite monster. “ The world could be a wonderful place if people just accepted that we are all born with something wrong inside of us - but instead of embracing it, they chase them away. They become dulled, boring monsters. “
He lifts his arm slowly, extends his fingers towards the mirror, and Rin does the same.
” But you … “
Their fingers touch through the reflecting surface, and it’s like an electric current fizzling from his fingertips all the way to his heart.
” You’re the most splendid of them all. “
Something dark obfuscates Rin’s eyes, a thinly-veiled layer of wickedness that spills right to the corner of his lips. His mouth stretches into a thin smile as he gets closer to his side of the mirror, inviting Bachira to close in too.
“ Do you want me to become your monster ? “
Bachira’s entire body almost convulses with the words ; the goosebumps prickle at his skin, his insides twist in a disgusting, rotten way. Bile rises up to his throat and he almost heaves, but his fingers are still stuck to the mirror, and his legs refuse to move from under him, paralyzed. He thinks this is what an adrenaline rush feels like - how mammals are supposed to sense danger and react accordingly when an elevated heartbeat threatens to demolish their fragile rib cage, because a brush with death may be exhilarating but it is also final.
To Bachira, it strangely feels like love.
” Yes, “ he exhales, still trembling but for entirely different reasons than fear.
” Close your eyes, and come to me, “ Rin whispers ; Bachira complies.
He feels the cold of the mirror pulsate through his forehead, fingertips sprawled on the surface desperately trying to reach out to Rin, and when he kisses the mirror something is kissing him back ; it’s so intense the ice burns him, and it spreads on his tongue, spills into his throat.
His body shakes uncontrollably, violently at the intrusion - he’s clawing at his throat, choking on what feels like a solid mass scratching all the way down his esophagus, but there’s nothing to dig out of his trachea ; there was never anything to begin with.
There is acrid smoke filling up his lungs, a hand squeezes his heart so tight it’s about to explode ; something makes the bones crack and the vertebrates snap, his body bending in ways it shouldn’t be able to. His insides are rising and boiling, cooking him alive in an agonizing scorch, and he can taste the charring on his tongue but all that comes out of his mouth are grey ashes. He’s warm, he’s cold - he’s alive, he’s dying. When blood starts pouring from his eyes, he sees the fibers of the universe woven delicately all around him and he swears he can touch them for an instant ; his hand reaches out to the madness and when he pulls on a strand, it’s him who’s unraveling like a carpet being unmade from its filament and it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts so bad … but something reaches out from the void and needles are knitting him back together except he’s not himself anymore.
He’s something far, far greater.
__
When Bachira comes back to life it’s with a gasp of breath so intense and raspy it instantly brings metal to his tongue, his throat raw and bleeding, sore. He’s laying on the ground in a pool of his own vomit, something black and foul and otherworldly, and when he painfully gets up on his knees his arms and legs are feeble, quivering, threatening to give up under him like he’s a newborn fawn. His body feels weird ; smaller, light and graceful compared to the first time he was alive - when he was tall and strong and quick on his feet. He drags himself to the mirror to gaze at his reflection : it’s him, with the heart-shaped face and the brown bangs, yellow highlights hidden under a hand-knit beanie, dressed in overalls and a puffy red coat. It’s him, it’s truly him, except for his eyes - the boy’s were yellow and bright and gentle, and his are now a malevolent green, burning in cold hatred. The person who coined the saying that eyes were the mirror to the soul probably knew what they were talking about.
He uses the bulky frame of the mirror to hoist himself up on his feet, and his legs tremble still. It frustrates him how he’s not used to this body - how he has to remember how to walk, after being held captive inside of his own house for two excruciating years, unable to leave this cursed bedroom. A part of him didn’t want to let go, and he had slit his wrists too deeply when he came to this realization, staring at his own frightened reflection from his brother’s standing mirror ; how he had only started scratching at the surface, at the itch.
How his life had found meaning with the killing.
That was perhaps why he was still persistently holding on, tethered to an object - but no more.
Bachira staggers as he tries to take several steps, and has to fall back to the wall unless he sprawls all over the ground ; he grunts in frustration, lips stretched thin over his scornful grin as the drool pools in the corner of his mouth. He sees something shiny, abandoned on the floor - a thin pocket knife planted into the wood, used to carve initials by all of the stupid teenagers that came inside of his house in search of a good fright. How he wished he could have siphoned their blood. He bows down awkwardly, hand all stiff gripping at the handle, and his grin expands upward with the familiar touch of sharp metal against his palm.
His steps are slow and deliberate as he stumbles across the room, one foot at a time in a disjointed effort to learn how to be human again. His joints are stiff, and his movements mechanical - legs bowing in ways that probably looked odd, eyes not quite blinking at the same time as he drags his carcass over the walls of the corridor.
He grows accustomed to his body with every painful step down the stairs, and by the time Bachira reaches the front door his hands have stopped twitching and cramping.
The fresh air feels like a slap to the face when he opens the door to thunder rumbling high up in the skies ; the trees are dying all around him, their molted coats of leaves rotting on the pavement in front of the yellow police tape tied to their trunks. There’s death and atrophy all around him as he smiles wickedly, breathing in the decay right through his lungs, and the first step he takes outside of his desolate home is one of a beauty queen on the night of homecoming.
He’s surprised to see people seemingly waiting for something, when he bends over the police tape to escape to his new life. The look on their faces tells him they know him ; he does not.
” Fucking finally ! “ The red haired stranger with a pretty face - and prettier skin - exclaims as he spots him, shivering through his wooden coat and thick scarf. “ We thought you were dead. Wasn’t looking forward to stepping into this damn house to drag your body to the curb. “
Bachira says nothing ; he remembers to blink calmly and finds the lack of eyelashes grazing at his skin strange. Another thing he’d have to get used to.
” Did you see something ? “ The other boy asks, this one dark haired with two little tufts of hair sprouting from his scalp, looking at him with curious but apprehensive blue eyes.
The mere sight of him was aggravating, for reasons Bachira couldn’t fathom ; he felt a faint warmth nested at the bottom of his stomach, like the remnants of something that used to be there - maybe affection. Bachira’s mouth only tastes of rust.
” No. “ The lie slips off his tongue like second nature.
They both look at him with visible concern - something flashes in front of his eyes, his parents’ faces rotting and melting with the same disgusting worry plastered on their flesh. Oh, how he hated to be pitied by people, because he was abnormal and he wanted to hear the skin sing under a butcher’s knife. His brother’s concern was the worst of all, since his darling nee-chan said he understood Bachira and that he would protect him from the world, but Sae lied to him like the rest of them did, and only saw a monster when he looked at his brother’s eyes. The only difference was that he carved Sae out of grief instead of contempt.
” Are you okay ? “ the brunette boy asks him, reaching out for his shoulder and putting a gentle hand on him.
Bachira’s instinct is to recoil from the touch, but he remembers the boy’s reflection in the mirror : how he seemed a bubbly and affectionate person who smiled a lot, a stark contrast with his own stoic, unloving self. He forces a smile and it stretches perhaps a little too wide, a grimace more than a grin.
” Yeah, don’t worry about it ! “ The chirp rings false to his ears - everything about his new self, his new body, his new face, made him feel like the impostor he was, but his smile must have been convincing enough because his friend relaxes, and lets go of his shoulder.
After all, Bachira had a real reason to smile - these fools still hadn’t noticed the blade in his hand.
” Can we go now ? “ The pretty redhead whines, visibly annoyed they weren’t moving someplace warm. “ There’s a rerun of Carrie on cable television, if we hurry we can probably catch the end. It’s the best part anyway. “
He turns to walk away from him, the idiot, but at the last moment his sharp gaze is on Bachira’s face, eyes slightly squinted and brow furrowed, like he’s spotted something strange. Finally, things were getting interesting.
” Uh, Bachira ? “ The redhead ponders slowly, and confusion laces his words when he speaks them next. “ Why are your eyes green … ? “
The sharp wail that leaves his empty lungs when Bachira grabs him by the neck and plunges his knife in his stomach, twists the handle so it sings beautifully, almost makes him moan. A warm liquid pours over his naked hands - blood. The redhead tries to fight Bachira’s otherworldly grip, but he easily keeps him in place, blade slipping from the punctured flesh and finding a home back many, many times. He probably stabs him in twenty different places in the stomach and has to stop when the strength leaves his friend’s body, and he collapses to the ground.
Bachira looms over his body and looks at his friend’s beautiful face, contorted with a mixture of pain and terror. Tears are pooling in his fading eyes, leaving searing hot streaks on his pale skin, and when he opens his mouth to speak only blood gurgles out of it, some of it ejected in a small jet over Bachira’s face.
He cups the boy’s chin into his hand and slowly lifts it, turns his head around to lick a big stripe of blood from his cheek. Everything had tasted like ashes for years, but more than biting into grilled eel or ice cream bought by his brother, he found that he missed the taste of blood the most ; it was rich, rolling thick on his tongue, tasting of corroding metal. He keeps lapping at the liquid until he feels something staring him down ; when he slowly lifts his head, the other boy, the brunette, is silently looking at the artful scene. Paralyzed in his steps, thick tears fall in a pour from his distressed eyes, a delectable agony.
Bachira’s grin widens leisurely, and that’s when the brunette starts running.
He thanks his newfound body for being blessed with quick legs and swift reflexes, and if the other boy is fast, Bachira is faster. It’s not long before he grabs the brunette by the collar of his coat and stabs him in succession in the back. He pushes him to the ground, revels in watching his victim gasp for air from his pierced lungs. He lets him crawl on the ground, blood pooling quickly from his wound and staining his coat in beautiful angel wings.
“ Ch-ch-ch, ah-ah-ah, “ He mumbles to himself and smiles, as he walks slowly towards the groveling body on the floor.
He steps mercilessly on the brunette’s back ; he screams back in a wet gargle, so Bachira steps harder. The boy also screams louder. He then flips him around, because he always liked to see their faces, especially as life rapidly escaped them and the realization of their own fragility settled into their eyes. He had to be quick and savor it, because it lasted for a mere instant only.
There’s a why, somewhere in the eyes of the boy. There’s also betrayal, confusion, anger. There’s love.
Something wet falls on the brunette’s cheek, and Bachira freezes for a second, has to touch his own cheek to realize he’s crying. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, because Bachira never cried and yet he was crying, and Bachira remembers that he used to cry a lot in another life and that this was probably the last time he would. All for a boy he didn’t know but loved. Like a brother.
He gently brushes the strands of hair from his friend’s face, slowly brings his lips to his forehead and delivers one final act of kindness, the red trace of his lips smeared over flesh in fresh blood.
Bachira stabs him fifteen times in the chest.
Fortunately for the boy, he dies right before Bachira starts ripping his belly open, shoving his hand in the warmth of his insides in search of the holy grail, eyeballs rolling in their sockets from the bloodlust, spit adorning his chin in disgusting trails.
When he finds the liver, he tears it apart in a horrific, wet noise, and sinks his teeth deeply into the organ, puncturing it akin to a rabid animal. He bites at the membrane and savours the fatty tissues, squeezes into it with his fingers, licks the blood from his palm when he’s done eating.
It tasted good - almost as good as his nee-chan’s.
Bachirs gets up, and takes a look at himself - he’s drenched with blood, his clothes stained with a constellation of dark red spots, hand still firmly clasped around the handle of his knife. He’s beautiful.
He starts walking away, and turns back one last time with a bizarre thought - he’s gonna miss Isagi.
He thinks that’s the name of the brunette he just butchered. He can’t be sure. The feeling is already fading away, replaced with a thirst for more blood.
He wonders where they buried his family - if he could find his brother’s grave and dig up his bones just to lay by his side like old time’s sake, before the sun rose into the sky.
He had a busy night ahead of him.