Obsession was a morbid leash to be led around, and it was guiding Kurei to a cliff.
Stillness is often equated with silence; yet, noise can still exist within it. Within stillness lies a faint buzz of static that lingers like faded yet remembered bruises. It's a doll donning the skin of a child to plead for your affection. It exists within whispers, promises spoken by the devil–of salvation, of an autonomy she lacks.
The floors thrummed in a low echo as deliberate footsteps walked through the halls. The steps were light, dull like a cog in a machine. And Kurei felt as if she were floating in uncharted waters; the mattress was soft like the sea submerging her in its depths. Those steps were committed to her memory like ink to skin.
She cannot undo the carved brand of the rhythms.
She couldn't tame the noise.
She could only listen.
To live was to hear.
And silence was the most treasured currency in this house.
Everyone knew how to silence their steps. They mask it with the creaks of the walls, the beat of the clock, and the hum of machinery. All to hide from the wrath of the devil. Kurei recalled the steps that passed her door. It was precise and confident, as if it never needed to veil its presence.
The weight of the powerful authority was exuded, yet Kurei felt that it was inferior.
A camouflage.
A fake.
She lived far longer with the devil to be fooled by a copy.
Kurei bit her lip.
She hated those steps.
She dreaded those strides more than his.
It was the noise that lurked and kept her up at night.
It did more than linger; the doll invaded her space, leaving traces of its presence.
It was an intentional, perverse attachment.
It walked in her shoes, mimicking her role. Like a changeling, it convinced the rest that it was her and that Kurei was merely an illusion.
That she was the copy.
Kurei's knuckles turned white. The hatred for the footsteps pulsed in her veins, a familiar, bitter rhythm. She opened her eyes, and the colors blurred in her peripheral vision. Her body ached, and fatigue seeped into her bones like rust invading metal. Kurei turned her head to her right, eyes dazed yet searching. The faint glimmer of silver drew her gaze to a round metallic clock.
Kurei felt her lips curve into a smile. The clock ticked with its familiar steady beat, and with each pulse, Kurei felt her fatigue wane.
Time was merciful like that.
Time is unfeeling, flowing like water. It marched forward in a constant, cyclic rhythm–like the tides resurfacing the shore, indifferent to the wreckage it left behind. It's a balm that carries weight to Kurei's mornings. The waves would bury the echoes of the words, like they cover the sand. Kurei doubted she could forget it; it was a routine carved into her mind. But this moment of peace, she'd treasure forever.
Kurei closed her eyes, letting out small giggles as the beat coalesced into a melody only she could enjoy.
As time moved forward, Kurei could feel the warmth of the sun slip through her windows, inching towards her like a teasing lover. The heat that surrounded her was a blanket that pulled her out of the ocean; it enveloped her as if wiping away the events of the past night.
Slowly, Kurei raised her head, feeling the faint pull of the mattress like hands clinging to her skin. Her long, umber hair cascaded past her shoulders. Her hand ran through the crown of her head, moving down her scalp. Her fingers felt the silky strands of her hair twist into bumps.
Kurei's eyes widened, and she felt like something was clogging her throat.
The braids were woven with delicate precision; she could almost feel the touch of its fingers combing through her head to lull her to sleep. Kurei could hear the buzz of static like an old television, growing louder as it overlapped with suffocating devotion that looped like a broken record.
[ Love me ]
Kurei rammed a hand through her hair, pulling her scalp desperately.
[ Cherish me ]
Her hands clawed through her hair with a manic fervor; she grit her teeth and her breath sharpened.
[ Don't leave me, Mama ]
She didn't care how much it hurt.
[ I'm better –perfect ]
Kurei slammed her head.
[ I'm different from Kazutora. ]
All she wanted was to take it away.
[ I'll be good ]
Strands of hair wrapped around her fingers like a hook, refusing to budge.
[ Look at me, Mama, aren't you proud? ]
If she could erase it, she would.
[ I'll change. ]
She'd cut her hair.
[ I love you, mama ]
Destroy the braid.
[ Never leave me. ]
Yet, like a mantra, it refused to leave.
No matter how many times she unravelled the knots, it kept coming back, unyielding, continuous, and permanent. Every word of affection was a poison corroding her sanity. Kurei felt as if she were a rat trapped in a maze. However, unlike rats, she has no exit.
There was only a price, not a prize.
No freedom.
Illusion–
Everything was an illusion.
Kurei felt her legs grow limp as if the ground were draining her of her strength. Her legs buckled as she fell to the ground, and her hands reached for her cabinet for support. Her hand slipped, pushing the metallic alarm clock off the ledge. The clock bounced off the wooden floor, scraping as it screeched a loud, jarring note.
Ting!
Kurei's eyes darted towards the fallen metal; the sharp noise was a pull that grounded her to reality. Her body tensed, and she could feel her shirt sticking to her back. She quickly crawled towards the door, listening for a danger signal. Kurei closed her eyes, pushing distractions away as she exhaled.
Loud sauntering footsteps echoed through the hall.
The steps were lively yet small.
Kazutora?
Then, like a string pulled taut, the steps halted, turning into a subdued march to the kitchen.
The faint clatter of utensils paused, and the stove clicked off.
Kurei frowned.
Kurei felt the rough texture of the door as she pressed her palms carefully and slid it open. She moved closer, fitting half her head to peek out of the hallway.
Kurei felt her hair stick up its ends as her lips quivered.
Kazutora's head was pressed against Miyuki's back. He was trembling, and his back moved in an unsteady rhythm like a ship tussled by the waves.
Miyuki lowered her head, leaning towards Kazutora as she cupped his cheeks. Her mouth opened, curving as syllables escaped her tongue. Low and soft, whispers that Kurei is not privy to. Miyuki's fingers brushed Kazutora's skin as she wiped the stray tears that filled his eyes.
The chill seeped deep in Kurei's bones, and the noise buzzed louder in her ears.
The doll's movements were precise, rehearsed. Kurei watched as a smile stretched and brittle creased its face. The doll's eyes watched like a coiled serpent, tightening its hold.
Her hands moved upward, combing through Kazutora's hair.
Then, piece by piece, she began to braid it.
It was too familiar. The act was a mimicry of care turned hollow
3 strands.
One over the other.
Again and again.
With each motion, Kurei could feel the doll's limbs constrict Kazutora.
And Kazutora, the unwitting prey, leaned closer.
Kurei slid her door shut.
She let out a shaky exhale as she kneeled on the floor. Her hands slipped as they trembled in disgust. Kurei felt her stomach twist with such intensity as if her organs were being rearranged. The nausea crawled up her throat like a stampede breaking past barriers.
Kurei bent over, excreting the liquid that bubbled in her stomach.
Her breath came raggedly. Her hair was unruly, cascading past her shoulders and shifting with her movement. She could feel her strength sapped with each inhale. Kurei's hands covered her face; the darkness pervaded her vision like a sanctuary after the storm. The pungent odor clung to her, seeping through her clothes like ink.
===========
Kurei leaned against the corner of her door. She had buried her head under her arms, and her legs stuck close to her chest like a child trying not to take up space. The taste of bile coated her tongue like ash, and the putrid smell hovered like smoke.
She didn't know how long it'd been.
She shouldn't have closed the door.
She should've defended him. Should've stood. Should've walked. Should've–anything..!
But she couldn't.
Didn't.
Kurei clenched her ankles.
Why was she afraid of her own child?
Kurei raised her head, her eyes scrunched as it landed on a faded hair tie. It was blue, worn with a few threads sticking out like scrambled wires.
A memory slipped in her mind as the sun's rays caressed her skin.
When the house grew loud, Kurei would comb Miyuki's hair.
She'd take 3 sections.
Line one over the other.
She'd hum a tune.
It didn't matter what.
She'd do it until peace settled like sunflowers bathing in the sun.
Over and over.
She remembered the texture of Miyuki's hair.
Glossy. Umber--like hers.
Her fingers glided through Miyuki's hair with ease. and with each stroke, Miyuki would sit straighter.
But her little fortune had changed.
Miyuki didn't always take Kurei's side.
Miyuki took his side.
And she grew to be a twisted viper that heeded the devil's calls.
Kurei glanced at her door.
Her children had left long ago. She caught pieces of their conversation as it echoed through the hallway.
Laces. Mother. Promise. Trip.
The words were cryptic, yet it felt deliberate.
A threat.
The doll was feeding her son ideas to harm her.
Kurei grit her teeth, her molars grinding like stone. Then slowly the curve in her brows ceased and her jaw loosened.
Kurei shifted slightly, feeling her strength leave like a dimming flame wrestling with a storm she can't avoid. Hatred grows. Thrives. It infested her thoughts like the unchanging static.