The battle of tears and rain fell down upon her pale, cold cheeks, making dark streams down past limp arms and onto the concrete. Puddling around her legs that stretched outward, while leaning against the metal fence. The world was quiet and still, distant thunder rang out through the town. Her head was faced upward to the sky and hands clenched together numbly in her lap.

The grey blue eyes of a once lively rose were dull and empty. No street lamps to warm them, only the white moonlight that reflected with such coldness off them. Her short red hair was soaked, in a fray that draped towards the ground. She seemed distant, in an enveloped world that took all sense of “being” away, as if a lifeless shell had been discarded, a corpse. Horrible shaky tremors, accompanied by risen bumps on the bare skin were the only present things to be seen. A blank expression while drops pounded harshly upon her. The clothes she wore, was a pair of ripped jeans and a off the shoulder crop top, black around her chest and black and white stripped down her right arm. The other arm, bare to cloth, had a colored, rose sleeve tattoo. It seemed to frame a carving that had scarred. The carving spelled out the word worthless. However, over this scar black ink crossed out the ending “less” and the word “it,” came after the scar. All together it spelled out Worthless it. An art piece that had been warped over time from the various stages of pain and triumph that had been so wareing on the soul.

To her sides were various trash cans and furniture left for dead. As well as right below her arched back, where the red hair reached downward, a journal opened to a roughly written page and a snapped pen in the spine where it had been pressed too hard and broken. The words were not so terribly written that it could not be read, but not to the usual standard of the clean writing from the pages before. This journal looked to have been just recently acquired for the writing was not far into it. The amount of journals she’d already filled was staggering, the amount of words and feelings she’d written and the despicable acts committed against her. How she reacted to them, and now how much sorrow and regret had built upon a mind fawled, far into her childhood years. Solely because of the people she’d hurt and the people who hurt her. All of this done for a purpose she was no longer sure was just.

Thinking all the broken hearts and broken bones were for those she loved the most. But realizing, try as she might, not only were those who protested against her injured, but the loved ones she'd vowed to defend. Yet so easily was this promise broken it seemed insincere above all else. The way each promise had been broken, betraying so many people’s trust, which painted true pain across their once bright faces.

Her head moved back and forth, it being striked against the fence. Like someone might do, when frustrated with themselves so much they’d resort to hurting their bodies to ease the ever growing pains. Knowing how foolish you had to be to assume you were the good person, the main character, in this story. Only to find the real world doesn’t justify wrongs for some greater good. Even the rights do not mean everything in the world will be restored to a peace everyone is satisfied with. So truly there will never be a right act everyone considers so. We are all villains to each other at one time or another.

The head banging against the fence was not violent but a desperate attempt to feel anything but regret and sorrow. As she wiped backward too hard, it forced the empty state that had locked her down for the past hour to break. She looked around for a moment before realizing she was sitting in an alley, of all nights a storm ridden one. It was, from what she could recall, not far from where the apartment was, a refuge of sorts for this worn out person she’d become. Suppose if anyone was stretched and rattled enough times they too would become something less than human.

She placed her right hand on her head and felt around through frozen red locks till she found the black bow that had almost slipped off her head. With a quick adjustment, the bow sat upright atop the head.

A sudden toon rang through her head and she hummed it quietly for a bit. The cold became increasingly hard to deal with, without the daze, her once dammended senses had returned. The girl then moved on to her cheeks still fresh with tears and running makeup. She brought the left arm across the entirety of her face and in one sweep, wiped it into a smear on the arm. Missing a bit as it was done, but not really caring at this point, it was left there. She stood to her feet and moseyed away, leaving the journal as the thought it was there withered away like all the thoughts that had been thunk while in the world of not “being.”

The wind was still, in the alley, as the fence blocked it, so the journal stayed open, the rain seeped into the pages making the ink bleed black and smudge. Suppose the words were never meant to be seen by anyone but the author.

Well that was until a few days after it had been left behind. A man, with quite long white hair, and impossibly golden yellow eyes stumbled through the alley. When he came across the now crinkled and chrisp journal. Any normal person would have walked past it, thinking it some kind of trash or otherwise. But the fact it was open, the fact he himself was out of the ordinary drew him to it. The man wore clean blue hospital scrubs and white rimmed, round, reading glasses. He studied it for a good moment, seeing if there was any time to stop and take a look. When no thoughts of dire attention came to him, almost a push feeling pressed him as he took a step forward and bent down. The journal was drawn up to his wandering eyes, scanning the ruined paper for any chance of understanding the words written. The ink was spotted around and ran a bit down the paper, however most of the original letters were still legible. So figuring he’d be able to fill in the completely smeared words, he began to decipher what was left of the journal.

“Roses, beautiful when they bloom and when they wither, a symbol nothing beautiful lasts forever. However I feel, I myself am neither a rose nor a withered one. There is no beauty and there is no important meaning. I am now what I’d describe as shattered glass. I am not colorful, but clear and unseen. I am only felt when you step all on me, I am rigid and painful to those around me. When you step on me, you bleed, you curse me and pull me out and throw me in the trash. Or you leave me for someone else to clean up the mess because you can’t bother to. And if that's the case, they step on me and leave, little bits of myself going along with them. Until I am scattered and you can no longer see a shape, only bits and pieces of what I used to be. I am shattered and scattered and the only color left is the red pain and the clear bitter emptiness of what little I have become. I wish I could even consider myself even the most withered rose, but there is no meaning to the beauty I have lost. Because it was never there to begin with. As I ponder if my life even amounded to one thing, I find I’ve lost it all in the end, just as fate intended. So I’ll keep being broken into smaller and smaller pieces. Till there really is nothing left but specks that only sparkle for a brief moment in the sun. Catching the eyes of those hoping for something valuable, disappointing those who come to discover I’m nothing more than broken glass. Sorry I made you bleed, but rest easy knowing I paid my due in the end. For there is no feeling as draining, as sickening as being shattered glass. One day, it’ll rain and I'll wash away for good. Funny how, it only takes a little bit to sweep me away, though if it had before I’d become pieces, I would have cracked just the same. I am fragile, I guess that's why every person who stepped on me left such a profound crack. I mean that in the literal and non literal sense. I want to be a sheet of steel not glass, I acted like metal but broke so easily, I am done pretending, I am done. Don’t take that as I don’t wanna live, I tried that approach already. All it left me was feeling more frustrated than I was before. So, I suppose I’ll be those bits and pieces and accept the fact I’ll wash away. That's all glass can do. Perhaps if I had been made stronger in the beginning of this life, not strong from pain like I was but strong from others. I could have been a window, protecting others from the rain. Maybe steel wasn’t what I wanted to be but what I wanted others to see so I didn’t seem as easy to shatter. But being a window, to show others what lay beyond if they go outside, would have made my life more beautiful. Sure I would have still been clear, but on rainy days I would have been appreciated and on sunny ones I would have reminded them of the beauty of the world, from sunlight that reaches the corner of their vision. They would turn and smile at it. To think I would have helped to create a smile. But I can no longer be a window, from the first cracks of my father I barely had a change anyway. Try as I might, there is no bit of salvageable pane to protect, don’t dig through the wreckage hoping to find something beautiful, something useful. All you’ll end up with is a bloody mess you endured. Endured for someone who hasn’t the willpower nor heart to pay it back. Avoid me if you can, but if you do step on me, take the pain and go, don’t stand around hoping to find what I once was. I was always shattered glass. Tread lightly, glass scatters far and breaks so easily. You know, I try to steal your pain, make you happy. But the blood left behind compares little to the jagged slice of glass. So, in the end, I am nothing more than the glass abandoned, be it from a car, or a house that once served someone. This glass is no good to anyone. I pity the fool who tries to fix wounded souls like myself. It drags them down and soon enough, they’ll just become one of us.”

Once he had read the last line, he flipped through the pages to the front of the journal to find written nicely was the author's full name. Okemia Rene Kuroki. His mouth unhinged, slightly agape before a worried expression crossed the calm demeanor of the man. He had to look once more and then another three before finally accepting the author of the words was her. Upon future inspection of his nametag from the doctors office, in bold black text it spelled Oosaka I. Saito. His shoulders lowered in a huff of worry, while gripping the journal tightly around the spine. Before Oosaka closed it, speedily hurrying the same direction Okemia had gone days previous, the journal close to his chest. Leaving the alley quiet once more, other than the occasional breeze that brought life into it for a brief moment before the cold darkness swallowed it whole.

The woodpecker voices drilled and drilled and drilled, she couldn’t muster a scream. Like the thoughts were being scribbled down so fast inside her little head they were no longer legible. Just something that would be erased. She struggled, until she muttered through tears that streamed down her disbelieving face, a quivering request “one last favor, my love… pull the trigger.” He turned to a figure next to him, who she’d all but forgotten about, the figure nodded. The cold round pressure moved from her right ribs to the side of her head, just a few centimeters from her ear.

A sudden fear broke through the jumble of messy thoughts, but this wasn’t a fight she could keep fighting. It had been a struggle since her first moments, the rose was finally being plucked of its last thorn, or was it the last petal? Any beauty, but the weedy steem had all but withered. She dimmed the light, her eyes closing. She heard his fingers grace the trigger and thought to herself, if this was it, she wished she could manage one last smile. Because of all the regrets, the genuine smile had always been that fruit she couldn’t reach at the top of that tree. And she knew this would be the last time, because even if there was somewhere beyond this, she didn’t deserve it. She’d only ever wanted what we all do, what we all search for, what often people settle with less to feel even an ounce of, Love.

The moment before you die it’s said the memories of your life flash before your eyes, but I like to think so do your wishes of what could never be. Her eyes relaxed, her body going numb, ready for the sudden nothing that would follow. BANG. It rang clearly, like a bell?

She jolted awake, as the church bell ceased. The independence blue eyes flooded open amongst her crimson hair. She spun around to find, she had been laid against a large figure, with a white mask, UWU. She’d jumped upward out of his grasp, tears streaming down her face as she tripped onto her back, scrambling a bit further away. The figure jumped back as well, in surprise. The once quiet heartbeat that had surrendered itself was now thumbing with life. The man held out his hands towards her, as if to exclaim through the silence a WAIT. “Mia-” The figure slowly cupped his hand around the mask, moving it to the side of his face. Revealing a warm, yet worried, gaze. The comfortable look was accompanied by one eye and the scruffiest brown hair. Okemia stared at him for a moment before she muttered “Fuji?” He nodded, and she’d forgotten what she’d been dreaming about. Placing her hand against her head, she rubbed her face, trying to wake from whatever daze had overcome the moment. Her shoulders lowered relaxly as she moved to curl up once again next to him. The setting sun shone into the gazebo, high above the forest, the scent of cherry blossoms filling the air. Okemia smiled, the setting sun covered the monastery in faying light, she nestled into him, she always liked to joke if this was a dream she never wanted to wake up from it.

The wave of grief was no longer a thought. Only the warm sun and the even warmer god sent Fuji. There was a haze that closed in everything but them. This haze was not a fog but a humid dandelion meadow. That scent soaked into the skin, a blanket of bright happiness, it was contagious. She looked up at his beautiful hickory eyes and couldn’t help but feel the gentle yet rapid butterfly wings tickling at her heart. Okemia stared for an instant before she couldn't help but utter “I love you Fuji.” He seemed unsure of what to say so he replied in his typical fashion “I love you to.”

STORY EXPLANATION: After Okemia is killed by her lover, her guardian angel takes her on her way to the afterlife. Fuji is a representation of the angel leading her to the peaceful rest of the dead.

INSPIRED BY: Chamber of Reflection by Mac Demarco & idark98 mentioning the idea Fuji was like Mia’s guardian angel.

Okemia's Poems

Left Behind in Dandelion Fields

(2 of 2)

Written for Mrs. Lahtinen's Class

My soul resides where it died that spring, Lying in those dandelion fields we promised to see. Under the wood, under the rain, we made promises to keep me sane. But our souls are there, together as one. I visited our place this spring as well, hoping for our fields, flowers and all. I loved you... I love you forever more. And I wish those fields could have happened for real. You were my light, your eyes how they gleamed. And I'll keep writing poems until I can say- I'm finally over you they say I should be, as soon as you'd left me. But these poems keep coming, they won't reach an end. I wish to see flowers with you once again.

WIP: More Chronicles Coming Soon