(you can pm me here or on plurk if you'd like to beforehand, but also if you'd just like to drop something at my doorstep with no preamble please do!!)
Her mind snaps back, a band stretched to its limit when stark white breaks her line of sight, a cluster of doves flying away. The birds don't belong here. She knows that. The trickle of feathers that fall from them is unnatural. She knows that.
The barren town road should be full of people, lights. Storefronts should be forced into every tiny space, towering apartments should rise above it all. She should be walking to 2-7-2 Marunouchi, Chiyoda-ku and not an unnumbered home on the outskirts of a small town left years ago.
A flutter of doves -
Nauseous. Aching. Head pounding, heart wrenching agony crushing her bones, tearing her ribs apart, filling her mind with red and it's red and her parents are red and they can't be red because they died in a manner unknown to her, too full of grief to investigate beyond her grandparents words.
It's red.
Then it isn't.
The doves are gathered at the ground - they never flew away.
They don't belong here. She doesn't belong here. She does belong here because she should be here. The doves
fly
and she grips the strap of her purse tight. As if it's her singular latch to reality. As if it will keep her steps forward stable and -
They're clustered under a tree she doesn't recognize, clumped up and grouped together across a vast expanse of green.
More than she's ever seen - her grandparents will never believe her. A photo could easily prove it, but-
She can't move.
So she doesn't.
The doves fly away. Another step forward down a path that becomes more unfamiliar by the second. She isn't afraid - doesn't feel afraid. Wonders why she's afraid when she's never felt even an inkling of fear. Goosebumps flare over her arms, the back of her neck and when she blinks -
The doves gather by her feet, splattered in brilliant red. Paint, maybe. Her grandparents are working on the house - want to paint over shades of r̶̙͔̩̦͐͜ę̷̛̭͎͔̘͍͖̲͖̈́̉̾͆̄̔͆̓̕͠d̴̨̨̧̗̫͖̟͇̜̭̼͈̲̯̫̹̔͋͆͆̌̐̈́̽̄͊̀ streaking down the walls, blood and brain scattered across -
Nothing.
Her grandparents discuss the weather with her - they argue over her love life, work, a desire to go to Tokyo to make a name for herself. It's a short lived discussion that ends with her cleaning up the kitchen with playful, dramatic sighs. She brings up the birds -
Birds no one had seen. Not native to the area. Not known. Rumi must be tired, they claim, because flock after flock of doves would have made its way through normal gossip circles. Gone back to them. Her grandfather would have known long before Rumi opened her mouth - she can't disagree.
Even as she sees one come to her window that night, speckled in flecks of red. A tap, tap, tap against the glass to get its attention, get it to move, get it to step to the side because she can toss out some crumbs for it to eat.
It doesn't move. Doesn't waver. Doesn't stop looking into her room and by the time she grabs her family to prove a point -
The bird's gone. Not a feather remains, even as she scours the windowsill for any sign of proof. Rumi's exhausted, everyone decides, before she can get a word in. She's exhausted, she thinks, as she opens her eyes to a barren town road, a flutter of doves breaking her line of sight.]
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Then she isn't.
Her mind snaps back, a band stretched to its limit when stark white breaks her line of sight, a cluster of doves flying away. The birds don't belong here. She knows that. The trickle of feathers that fall from them is unnatural. She knows that.The barren town road should be full of people, lights. Storefronts should be forced into every tiny space, towering apartments should rise above it all. She should be walking to 2-7-2 Marunouchi, Chiyoda-ku and not an unnumbered home on the outskirts of a small town left years ago.
A flutter of doves -
Nauseous. Aching. Head pounding, heart wrenching agony crushing her bones, tearing her ribs apart, filling her mind with red and it's red and her parents are red and they can't be red because they died in a manner unknown to her, too full of grief to investigate beyond her grandparents words.
It's red.Then it isn't.
The doves are gathered at the ground - they never flew away.They don't belong here. She doesn't belong here. She does belong here because she should be here. The doves
fly
and she grips the strap of her purse tight. As if it's her singular latch to reality. As if it will keep her steps forward stable and -They're clustered under a tree she doesn't recognize, clumped up and grouped together across a vast expanse of green.
More than she's ever seen - her grandparents will never believe her. A photo could easily prove it, but-She can't move.
So she doesn't.
The doves fly away. Another step forward down a path that becomes more unfamiliar by the second. She isn't afraid - doesn't feel afraid. Wonders why she's afraid when she's never felt even an inkling of fear. Goosebumps flare over her arms, the back of her neck and when she blinks -The doves gather by her feet, splattered in brilliant red. Paint, maybe. Her grandparents are working on the house - want to paint over shades of r̶̙͔̩̦͐͜ę̷̛̭͎͔̘͍͖̲͖̈́̉̾͆̄̔͆̓̕͠d̴̨̨̧̗̫͖̟͇̜̭̼͈̲̯̫̹̔͋͆͆̌̐̈́̽̄͊̀ streaking down the walls, blood and brain scattered across -
Nothing.
Her grandparents discuss the weather with her - they argue over her love life, work, a desire to go to Tokyo to make a name for herself. It's a short lived discussion that ends with her cleaning up the kitchen with playful, dramatic sighs. She brings up the birds -
Birds no one had seen. Not native to the area. Not known. Rumi must be tired, they claim, because flock after flock of doves would have made its way through normal gossip circles. Gone back to them. Her grandfather would have known long before Rumi opened her mouth - she can't disagree.
Even as she sees one come to her window that night, speckled in flecks of red. A tap, tap, tap against the glass to get its attention, get it to move, get it to step to the side because she can toss out some crumbs for it to eat.
It doesn't move. Doesn't waver. Doesn't stop looking into her room and by the time she grabs her family to prove a point -
The bird's gone. Not a feather remains, even as she scours the windowsill for any sign of proof. Rumi's exhausted, everyone decides, before she can get a word in. She's exhausted, she thinks, as she opens her eyes to a barren town road, a flutter of doves breaking her line of sight.]