Fan Fiction ❯ Seven Liters Of Cyanide ❯ Chapter 1: Phantom Pain ( Chapter 1 )

Phantom Pain

 

This was inspired by the wonderful fics of Loud-Bass-Woman and many songs by My Chemical Romance. It is also the second story that I have finished that is entirely about characters of my own creation.

 

Phantom Pain

 

Harsh coughs wracked the slender, frail form, while the deep blue eyes were squeezed shut in pain. Blood flew from the parted lips and flecked the cold white hands that trembled in front of the narrow face.

 

Rain poured down around Koji; water ran in narrow rivulets down his bare torso and plastered his long dark hair to his back and shoulders. The coughing stopped abruptly, and the somber teen took advantage of the momentary lull to take a few deep, shuddering breaths. Half-open eyes, glazed with pain and blurred from the rain on his face and the tears that he couldn't hold back, stared out bleakly at passersby from a pallid face. A few shot him nervous, concerned looks; most just continued on their way, ignoring the obviously sick young man sitting half-naked on the steps of the psychiatric institution in the middle of a rain-storm.

 

No one came over to him; no one offered to hold him or comfort him or call for help. They were afraid, he knew. As more bitter tears welled up in his deep blue eyes, he felt an inexplicable longing for the warm comfort of another's arms. He longed to go up to them and explain that his illnesses, mental or physical, weren't contagious, weren't anything they could catch. Maybe then they would accept him, maybe then they would care for him.

 

Instead, he sat alone, cold and sick, hacking up his lungs.

 

Harsh coughing exploded from his slim throat, and a sudden, sharp pain wrenched through his stomach as more red liquid sprayed from between his thin, bloodless lips. Tears of pain welled up in his eyes and joined the water running down his face as the newest coughing-induced spasm shook his scrawny, malnourished body.

 

Moaning softly, barely aware of the noise he was making, Koji wrapped his arms around his middle and rocked back and forth on the hard stone steps and began begging for the coughing to stop, for the fit to pass, as if he could wish the pain away. That was ridiculous, of course; there was no way that this pain would leave him simply if he wished. Indeed, he was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that this particular pain, or at least a part of it, would stay with him his entire life.

 

Sharp, hot pains stabbed at his raw throat, inciting more of those low, pained moans. One slender hand reached up and rubbed at the slim column of his neck, the long fingers gently caressing the pale, aching flesh. Those same fingers ghosted over the scar there, their touch that of the lightest feather, and still that old familiar pain lanced through his neck.

 

It was phantom pain, of course. After all, the actual wound had healed quite a long time ago (but was it really that long if he could still feel it? He could feel it and even see it. He could see that gaping hole in his throat, that place where the knife had been pushed down hard and slid deep into his soft, yielding flesh. That place where the razor edge had punctured his skin and been dragged across his tender young throat, stealing away his voice. So was it gone? Of course not, he still dreamed about it, it was still there, it would always be there…), and all that was left was that thin scar. However, that pain would never leave him, just as the nightmares that accompanied it would never leave him, just as this wretched sickness would never leave him…

 

Another lull in the pain, and he was left gasping for breath. For a long, long while, he just sat there, leaning back on his hands with his head thrown back, with his ravaged throat bared to the cold grey sky. (Grey, the sky was grey, grey like Daddy's eyes and like his own skin after the Accident, after the thing where Daddy had finally gone too far…Grey like the nice lady's eyes, grey like the streaks in Dr. Abbendroth's hair. Dr. Abbendroth shouldn't have grey hair, he had only recently turned twenty-six, but stress and no sleep and poor nutrition and who-knows-what else had turned that raven hair grey, grey like the clouds and like Daddy's eyes.)

 

What was the point of living like this, alone and unwanted and in so, soo much pain? He was plagued constantly by this strange affliction, as well as by less tangible things: depression, paranoia, voices only he could hear, terrible nightmares…Dr. Abbendroth had once said that he “showed several signs of what seems like schizophrenia, but seemed pretty fine otherwise…” Dr. Abbendroth never tried to sugar-coat things for Koji. He always told it like it was.

 

Koji could confide in Dr. Abbendroth, because he knew that the doctor would never judge him or hate him. Dr. Abbendroth, with his narrow blue eyes and his too-thin, too-pale face, with his greying hair that still maintained quite a bit of its beautiful blue-black shine, was one of the only people the young man could talk to. He would talk about his own problems as well as Koji's. He never tried to force Koji into discussions, never tried to wring information out of him. The older man (although he's really young, isn't he? You didn't know how old he was but you thought he was at least in his forties, and then he said one day that he was twenty-six, and you were so shocked. He was only ten years older than you, and just barely…) spoke gently and never pried, and yet Koji found himself spilling his innermost secrets only minutes into the conversation. Every time they talked, there was something else for Koji to talk about, some other shameful skeleton to be dragged out of his closet….

 

(My father did it, you know. He was the one who cut my throat. Mom thought I would die, but I didn't, although sometimes I wish I did…Sometimes I dream that I died, and when I wake up I hope I'm dead, and I cry when I realize I'm alive…I think I have a crush on Kibano, and I know that it's wrong, because he's so much older than me and he's simple, he's touched in the head, that's what Mom would have said. Dad would have called him a retard, but I know that he's just different. But he's so much older, and he's nice, and he's different and special and like a little child, and he's another man, too! But I think I love him…Sometimes I cut myself, but no one ever sees it because of how big my shirts are…No one else wants to look at me or touch me. Kibano and you are the only people who will willingly talk to me. Why don't they like me?...I can't see out of my left eye, you know. That's why I always keep it covered with my hair. Daddy stuck pins into it when I was little because I cheeked him…)

 

Dr. Abbendroth knew nearly all of Koji's secrets, and still he persisted in liking the somber teen. The teen in question couldn't understand why. He wasn't nice, he wasn't pleasant, he wasn't particularly pretty (Has anyone ever told you that you look like a corpse? You do, you little freak, you're not pretty or handsome or anything, you look like something dead. Are you dead? If so, stop moving! I don't want you or like you, so just stop moving. I can't believe you're my son…), he wasn't any fun to talk to. He was hurt and sad and scared and depressing and he looked dead.

 

No coughs, this time, just cruel spasms that shook his tiny little body and made his teeth rattle in his head, small little seizures that made every muscle in his body seize up in turn, until everything was stretched so tight that it felt like it was going to break. Something had to break, and soon, because he couldn't take this for very much longer. The pain was excruciating, like a full-body muscle-cramp. It coiled round his gut and shoved what felt like his liver and both kidneys up into his throat, and then he was on his hands and knees, retching.

 

It wasn't until after he was done heaving that he realized that he had vomited on his hands and that, furthermore, what had come up was partially some weak, acidic, yellow fluid, but was mostly thick, syrupy blood. A few drops of blood dribbled past his lips and a small rivulet ran down his chin to drip onto the concrete with an ominous-sounding `plink'.

 

A low keening noise escaped Koji's damaged throat as he swayed to the side and then fell over, managing by some small miracle to avoid falling in the mess, so that at least he was spared the indignity of collapsing, helpless and unable to move, in a puddle of his own vomit. As he lay there, thin sides heaving with the effort of drawing breath, Koji whimpered and moaned and wondered why he didn't just die and get it over with. He certainly didn't want to continue living like this.

 

Koji didn't believe in God. It seemed unreasonable and illogical for him to assume that there was some sort of omnipotent, omniscient, loving being that watched over the world and noted the fall of even the lowliest insects. If God noted the fall of a sparrow, why wouldn't He notice the brutal abuse and neglect of an innocent child?

 

(Hey, Koji-baby, sing me a song…You're Mommy's pretty little mockingbird, you are. Your voice is so pretty…)

 

Why would a loving God let people like Koji's father be successful and happy for so long and not stop a sweet little mockingbird from losing his voice in so brutal a fashion that not even Dr. Abbendroth could know the whole story? How could anyone ever believe in such an obviously fictitious entity?

 

Tears, hot and bitter, spilled from Koji's eyes and pooled on the wet steps beneath him. There wasn't any reason to continue. There wasn't any reason to live. So many people claimed they lived for God, but Koji had long ago lost his faith in any sort of deity, and instead lived for himself, lived for the sake of living…For a long while, he'd lived for the sake of spiting his father, who had begun trying to extinguish the dim, flickering candle of Koji's life when the boy had been all of three years old.

 

But now the cruel father was gone, and the loving—if rather neglectful—mother was gone as well, and so were his little sister and his older brother, and Koji had no reason to live. There was no one to anger by the very act of breathing, no one who needed his comfort, no one who made his life bearable…

 

“Koji?” The voice was soft and soothing and smoothly deep, and very, very familiar. “Are you okay?”

 

“Ngh?” An incoherent squeak of pain and exhaustion escaped Koji's throat as he raised his head from the steps. He found that he almost missed the feel of the rough, cold stone against his soft cheek.

 

Standing there was Kibano, for once fully clothed and with a look of deep concern on his face. The man's dirty-blonde hair was plastered to his back and shoulders and looked nearly brown.

 

“Are you okay?” he repeated, crouching down next to Koji and placing one large, calloused hand on the teen's pale back. One of the long, tan fingers absently traced over a faded scar, sending shivers up and down Koji's spine, shivers that had less to do with the cold or Kibano than with the contact in and of itself. “Why're you out here without a shirt on? You'll get sick…”

 

Before he could respond, another coughing fit wracked Koji's frail body, sending him into paroxysms of pain and misery. Strong arms closed around him, and he collapsed weakly against Kibano, limp and unresisting as a wet dish-rag.

 

The older man pulled Koji to his feet and guided him into the building and to the narrow white room that the two shared.

 

“Go to sleep, okay?” was the last thing Koji heard, as Kibano laid him gently on one of the twin beds and pulled the warm blankets over him.

 

As his vision faded, Koji thought dreamily that maybe, just maybe, he could learn to live with his phantom pains and his cruel depressions, if only Kibano would continue to be so kind and caring. And finally, finally, he had someone to care for, a friend to help him through all the hard times, like this…

 

Maybe there wasn't a God, but there was Kibano, and there was Koji's love for him, a love that was as pure as an angel's soft, white wings and that burned brightly enough to sustain Koji's flickering candle, love that had nothing at all to do with lust or infatuation or even romance…A love that was indescribable and wonderful and as insubstantial and at the same time there as any phantom pain, a love that was a sort of phantom pain in and of itself…

 

- 5 -

 

 

Copyright © 2005 by BHS