Oneshot: Paper Cranes

[andrew_in_drag]

Title: Paper Cranes
Author: andrew_in_drag
Pairing: Kaoru x Toshiya
Warnings: a tad weepy, hints of Alzheimer's Disease, hints of death
Note: so this if my first ever oneshot, actually.
Synopsis: "Every single moment of my stupid life is another footprint on the sand, one after another after another, stretching behind me into infinity. I can stop and turn back to look at them, but it's too late: the sea rushes onto the beach, wipes them all out of sight."

Paper Cranes

When I was a young man, I folded a thousand paper cranes.
I remember it well, even now the disease is catching me, and my memories are failing. The paper cut my fingers. I remember the smell of the air on the afternoon I started; warm air, the way summer air feels when you’re sitting inside a comfortable room. I remember the white walls and the white floors, the beeping machines, the view of the water from the window.
I remember folding and folding those paper cranes. I tucked a prayer into each one.

It’s a funny thing: memory, time. Both catch up with you in the end.
People say that when you die, you see a great white light shining in front of you, and you’re supposed to embrace it and walk towards it with open arms. For us old timers, though, that light has been there for several years, and the shadow of your body casts over your mind – at least, that’s how I see it. My memories are gradually darkening. My sense of self is losing its colour, its smell, its taste.
I’m seventy-eight, or seventy-nine.
Some days I’m five years old.
Before I die, I want to remember why I folded those paper birds. I want to know the bargains I whispered into each of them.
The air was summer air. It smelled like salt.

It’s a funny thing: you always hope your body will go before your mind does, don’t you?
I feel all the whispers and the laughter when I’m walking in the hallways at night. I know it must be funny, even to the nurses, even though they try so hard to be professional: stupid shambling robot, moon-headed, his pyjamas wearing him instead of the other way around. He’s humming songs from fifty years ago or more. He’s spinning around like he’s dancing to them. His arthritic hands creak and crumble: origami motions, folding, smoothing.
They tell him off so often: he’s hoarding food, blankets, flashlights. They say there’re no disasters anymore. It’s all in his head.

It’s a funny thing: the things that happened years ago sometimes feel like they happened yesterday. I remember when I was very small, and my father would come home from work and he would pick me up and swing me up to the ceiling, whirling me around like a fan. He would dance with my mother and me until I could barely keep my eyes open. They’d start doing the more serious steps, looking each other in the eyes, and I would stumble around them until I fell to the floor. It was always softer than it seemed before. My father would carry me to bed.
Now I get to dance with them again. If I want, the song can last all night long, and I don’t ever get sleepy. I dance on my father’s feet and feel the fabric of his suit against my cheek. I dance my way through all the years.

There was a time in my life when I held my true love in my arms. If he was still alive, he wouldn’t be upset to see me in the state I’m in now: he would look at me and know, automatically, that I would be glad to go.
Me and him, we danced on the tables. Fifty years ago or more.

He’s in the blackest, deepest part of my memory. I gather scraps and scrapings: sometimes, in the middle of the night, a laugh startles me awake, and it’s so familiar – and so lovely – and there’s nothing worse than the sight of an old man crying, but I do, I cry until my pillow is wet. Sometimes I think the paper cranes were something to do with him.
Sometimes I think no, that’s silly, probably a classmate of mine got sick.

Sometimes, thinking of him is like picking at my own skin. Sometimes it’s like opening a floodgate; I tug and pull, and suddenly I’m drowning in him.
We had a place together. There was a room where I watched him sleep. I remember the white sheets, the blinds always kept open. I remember the sea gulls crying.
I’d like to see his face just one more time.

Sometimes I like to see my life like one long walk down the beach. It’s sunset, that golden light that makes me think of a lover’s skin. I can hear the waves, and though I walk so much slower now, I know I’ll get to the end soon enough.
And every single moment of my stupid life is another footprint on the sand, one after another after another, stretching behind me into infinity. I can stop and turn back to look at them, but it’s too late: the sea rushes onto the beach, wipes them all out of sight.

His name was Toshiya.

I know he’s not here anymore. It’s alright. It barely even hurts, these days. You think you’ll never stop missing them, but in time, you just start waiting to join them.
Dreaming is death, because in dreams I’m with him. We can dance on the tables and we can lie together, and even if I can’t tell you exactly what he looks like, or exactly what he sounds like, it doesn’t really matter. My hearing is bad anyway; I’m going blind anyway.
But he feels like the real thing. And he tastes like the real thing.

These are my memories, like footprints along the sand: there was a beach. A table. Water. There was a feeling like I never had to be worried about anything ever again.
His name was Toshiya. I remember the ground shaking; the water rising.
The night we kissed, and I really meant it.
The dust and the rubble in the city; the blood, the bruises.
Two sets of footprints along the sand.
A hospital room, a dying room, strung all over with a thousand paper cranes.
And dark hair shining in the blackest parts of my mind.

Comments

[kaiser1103.livejournal.com]

He doesn't remember what Toshiya looks like, and he only remembers very little bit of the time they spent together, but he still loves Toshiya. I believe this is what unconditional love means, you love that person no matter what.
Thank you for this beautiful piece!

[it-killed-you.livejournal.com]

Damn!! First you don't write stories for waaa~y too long! *you're one of my fav. writers, I need your stories!*
And then I decide to read this in the train, and you made me cry!

I love how innovative this story is, I mean super old Kaoru with dementia, and his lost love Toshiya, I love this.
Where did you get your inspiration from??

I'm glad you posted this, I really missed you… <3 <3

[andrew-in-drag.livejournal.com]

Aw, thank you! I'm trying to work on something longer, so I really hope it takes. It just sucks that I'm so busy!

The inspiration for this, er...actually, I saw a Red Cross ad about Hurricane Sandy, and I got to thinking about the Japanese earthquake and tsunami, so I thought about what it would be like to lose somebody in that kind of scenario. Because I wanted a quieter tone, I decided a memory would be more reflective, and then it just kind of filled in from there!

Also, sorry for train-tears. I hope people didn't stare at you :P

[rheakurokawa.livejournal.com]

i liked this ( i have an unexplained fondness for old people and stories about them anyhow) and i liked how the water was ever present part memory, part fantasy, part metaphor and how you can sketch what happened between all the clues, like a detective of sorts. really liked that

[tcharlatan.livejournal.com]

NO COHERENT COMMENT AVAILABLE. Too awesome. Too sad. Emo time is now :[

[canon-yi.livejournal.com]

'Me and him, we danced on the tables. Fifty years ago or more.'

only thing I can say to that: i keep dancing on my own... but what got to me even more was that fantastic description of how he can dance all night on his father's feet, it's an incredible beautiful thought of dancing one's way through the years. breath catching and utterly sad. that's maybe the story of yours I like the most.

[aibashi.livejournal.com]

You think you’ll never stop missing them, but in time, you just start waiting to join them.
this sentence is perfect , this whole piece is.

it was so so beautiful to read, even if it was heartbreakingly sad.