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The sparrow was already dead when she found it in the garden.
Its neck is crooked at an odd, sharp angle, hanging limp when she picks it up, like the baby chick she bought from the old man in front of her school that died in a night. (They’re not meant to last long, Himiko, don’t cry.)
Glassy eyes, staring at nothing. She closes them gently, cradling the small, soft thing in her palms. It’s warm to the touch, but cooling quickly.
The feathers are soft, tickling her nose when she lifts it to her mouth. They scratch her throat when she swallows them, along with the stream of sweet red.
—
Her parents have all the trees in the garden cut down, and there aren’t any sparrows after that.
—
There's a cold room with a hard plastic chair, and the woman sits across from her and reads her questions from a list.
I want to, she says, and they nip it in the bud. She bites her fingers until they bleed instead, red-flushed marks all over.
(Her mother sees her hands and cries in the bathroom. Her father pushes her to the ground and screams like a madman.)
Keep your mouth closed when you smile , the lady says. It's scary for other kids.
(She waits in the room with the plastic chairs and the posters and the smiling lady at the desk who gives her candy. Waits and waits until the lady finally calls her mother and that's when she turns up.)
You smile like a fucking delinquent, her father says, and jerks her around by her hair while she laughs with tears streaming and her mother screams at both of them. I have no daughter-
Reaches out, nails bitten down to the skin. Her mother's face distorts at the sight of her. Doesn't meet her eyes.
The vein in her wrist pulses, running thick with blood.
—
The girls at school say I love you and don't mean it, don't mean it like Himiko means it, don't think about blood or teeth or even kissing, say it, repeat until the words lose all meaning.
They smile and laugh when it feels out of place, smile though their eyes are lying, pretend they don't notice.
She tries. She tries and tries and tries to be like them, to be carefree while hiding poison behind their hearts, to pretend.
Borrowed makeup is hidden in her school bag. She practices in the bathroom mirror when no one else is home, draws on a perfect smile and perfect eyes and a perfect face that doesn't look creepy. Just a cute, normal girl.
It doesn't work. The cases shatter. The mask breaks.
(The boy lies on the floor in a pool of blood and the other girls shriek like a chorus of angry birds and she runs, and they don't catch her because she's always been good at hiding.)
—
They’re not meant to last long.
Kids disappear every day, bleeding out alone in the dark, shattered on unforgiving concrete, dragged away by cruel hands never to be seen again. More show up to fill the empty spaces. They don’t talk about it.
She blends in easily. It's not easy, not really, but easier than back in school. Here, she can be a little wild, a little unhinged, smile as wide as she wants to and no one will look at her twice.
The world is a little kinder to high school girls. She's not a high school girl, not anymore, but she has her old school uniform and her sweater and she blends in easily enough. Put a little skip in her step, a touch of false cheeriness to her voice, and the illusion is almost perfect.
There are many words for kids like her. She doesn't care to learn, because none of them are kind.
—
Suzume had brown hair, cut short. (The kids at school cut it off, she tells her.) She had shoes that were badly spray-painted, the black peeling off to reveal the red underneath.
They were together for a while, stealing cheap blades from convenience stores and sharing over-the-counter pills. They slept in places they weren't supposed to and ran when the police show up, snuck into cheap motel rooms with fake IDs, spent nights watching crappy reality TV shows and eating junk food, escaped through the window when morning came.
Suzume had (had) pale, pretty skin, and soft hands. When she laughed, the blood rushed into her cheeks, leaving them tinged pretty pink.
Himiko would try not to stare, try not to think about how it would feel to sink her teeth into her perfect round face.
She'd disappear sometimes, returning with dark bruises around her wrists and neck, crumpled cash stuffed into her pockets. Himiko didn't ask any questions, just like Suzume didn't ask about the red-brown stains on her clothes and where she got the money to splurge on makeup or clothes. They didn't talk about it, and they never did.
—
Bandages on wrists, stark, clean white against skin.
Himiko tries not to stare, tries not to think why didn't you let me, you could’ve asked me, I could've done better-
It's wrong. It's wrong, and the woman in the suit from the small room with the clipboards and questions leans in close to tell her that, cold, cold hands wrapping around her face. She shouldn't want this, you pushed her, didn't you-
But she didn't hurt anyone, she was trying to make it better, kiss the blood away and make it not hurt anymore, she isn't like that, she just wants-
And wants, and wants.
—
Doesn't it hurt?
Reaching out, but not touching, never touching.
She watches the red lines turn into pink slivers, faded white.
Let me-
Doesn't ask. Doesn't, ever.
—
It was one night in one of those rooms, a cheap motel in the shifty part of town. She'd been smoking out the window, a pack of cigarettes taken from the body she'd left bleeding out in an alley.
Suzume was sitting on the bed, shoes kicked off onto the dirty carpet. The black paint had flaked off significantly, but none of them brought it up. Red is a curse in this world. In all worlds.
“You really shouldn't, you know,” She'd said, all of a sudden, her voice soft and sad. “It'll only kill you faster.”
Himiko paused, smoke still rising from her lips, her hands. She'll die fast anyway, both of them will, but she doesn't say.
“I won't die,” Is what she says instead. “Not from this.”
It's a half-truth, at least. The police or the heroes, the streets or the razors or the pills will get to her faster than this slow-acting poison.
“That's how my mom died. Her lungs got real bad and she couldn't breathe right.”
The cigarette slips from between her fingers. It sputters out on the cold floor of the alley two stories below, dead as ashes.
“I'm sorry,” and it comes out like a lie.
“Don't be.” Suzume slips off the bed, the mattress springs creaking. Her bare feet pad silently over the floor as she makes her way next to Himiko. “All of these are from her.” ‘These’ as in the crescent-shaped scars on her arms, faded pink and white.
Her throat goes numb. Her mother used to do that too, sharp nails digging into soft skin, clawing at her hair, anywhere she could reach. She'd bite back in turn, nothing out of love, just vitriol and acid. Bite the hand that feeds you and all that. Or don't, let it fester.
Do you miss her? Is what she means to ask.
“Are you glad?” comes out instead.
Shock ripples out from the impact, then smoothes over almost instantly.
“I guess so.” She tucks back a lock of hair, even though it's so short that it barely gets in her face. “But she always made my favorite food on my birthday.”
Was there anything like that for her? Anything else besides the plastic smiles, hands running through hair to brush it back into tidy locks, the tight hugs as her mother cried into her hair while she just laughed hollowly, why can't you just be normal, why-
So it was like that, then. Nothing more.
The pack of cigarettes is empty. A sign, maybe, that this isn't working out.
“I won't do it anymore.” For you.
Suzume smiles. Leans in close, even though Himiko still reeks of smoke, and kisses her on the cheek with those soft lips.
“You gotta live longer than me, alright?”
—
The shoes are found on a rooftop one night. Himiko burns them along with a handful of dandelions from the sidewalk.
The smoke rises into the night sky, dark and acrid.
They're not meant to last long.
—
The sidewalk tilts below her feet.
She speeds up her step to catch up, swaying slightly. The world spins in front of her eyes, making it all look funny, and she laughs.
She shouldn't have burned the shoes. Shouldn't have breathed in the smoke. It's because of the smoke, isn't it? That's what's making the world tilt and spin, leaving her floating in between the cracks. Just the smoke, nothing else.
Blood drips down her wrist, and she pauses to raise it to her mouth, sucking at it. It's not enough. It's never enough.
She should've asked her for blood. Suzume was so nice, after all, she would've let her, right?
But you can't ask permission of dead bodies, so she couldn't. A pity, her blood was so sweet, so fresh.
Her face had been cracked open like broken ceramic. Her hand still warm.
Teeth through skin, flesh ripping, the crack of bones in her jaws.
Brown hair sways at the edge of her vision.
Suzume's feet hurt in her own shoes . (Extra toe joint, she remembers her saying, one night in the park when they were both on one too many pills to be safe.) Once again, she regrets having burned them.
But she had to. Isn't that how it always goes in stories? Clothes are burned, the girl is freed, gets wings and flies away to a place where it isn't so ugly and dark.
Blood across her lips, sweet and sharp.
Inside, she knows this isn't safe. She's not in her head right now (the smoke, she tells herself), and as much as the world is kinder to high school girls, it's crueler as well. She needs to calm down, get somewhere hidden to spend the night, but her heart is full and singing and she can't get it to stop.
She laughs out loud once more, just to hear Suzume's sweet voice again.
Footsteps.
They're quiet, but Himiko knows enough to be alert.
Too late, though, because if someone is close enough to be heard that means they're close enough to catch you, and if you get caught you're done for.
A voice, a threat, maybe, and the box cutter slips into her hands.
The blade slides out, just in time as she comes face-to-face with the man.
He immediately tenses when he sees the blade. She doesn't relent, though, because the world is not as kind to high school girls as people may think and she is not getting caught now. Not when Suzume's blood is still thrumming through her veins.
There's a coil of something white around his neck, like a half-assed noose or a bed of snakes. She sees it and thinks weapon, and run.
That won't do.
“Hello,” She says, breathy and light, using Suzume's sweet voice. She lowers the blade; he's not attacking her yet, so he must be a hero or just stupid. “You scared me,” forcing out a laugh, girly, innocent, “I thought you were a villain, mister.”
The man has long, dark hair, tangled around his neck along with the white scarf-thing. He eyes her cautiously, because innocent girls do not carry knives and Himiko is not innocent. So she pretends instead.
“Sorry about that.” He must've noticed the blood on her lips, because his eyes narrow in that concerned way, the way teachers used to notice the marks on her arms and then walk away. “Are you hurt, kid?”
“Yeah,” she says, laughing again in that casual, light way, like a real girl would, “I bit my lip on accident, it got everywhere.”
He doesn't look convinced.
“It's late. Aren't your parents worried?”
Only because they though she'd be out hurting people.
“I'm on my way home,” She says. “It's really close by, I'll be fine.”
Time is running out. She doesn't know how long, but she can feel it slipping away; the last shreds of her only friend.
“I'm a hero,” The man says, showing her his hero license to confirm it. “You can trust me, kid.”
All the more reason to get the fuck out of this place. She's been successful at evading the police for months, to get captured by a hero now of all times would be pathetic.
Fight? Practically a death wish, against a hero. Running is equally impossible. She wishes she could fly, but she's not a bird. She's not Suzume.
She lifts a hand to her eyes, pretending to rub them, forcing out tears easy as day.
“I don't want to go home,” She sobs out, letting her body tremble for good measure. Drawing her shoulders in, making herself small. Just a child, can't you see?
It's wrong. She wouldn't do this. She's using her voice, her face; it's wrong. No good.
The man, the hero, seems to soften at that. Easier to deal with a scared kid than a
fight-or-flight risk.
“I won't make you go back,” He reassures her. “It's okay, kid.”
It's working. No good.
She sniffles, nods, keeping her eyes on her shoes, because time is running out and her face isn't staying intact.
No good.
“I-”
“Do you want to come with me?” The hero asks, crouching down to her level. “I have a foster care license; you can stay as long as you need.”
Lie. The woman in that office, school teachers, girls.
Suzume's body shakes violently, as if rejecting her. She grips her arms, forcing it to stay still.
“Are you okay?”
What was the name of that tone of voice? She can't place it, not anymore, tangled in with things called ‘love’ and written down as ‘hate’, ‘obsession’, - Himiko kissed me, disgusting - disgusting, the way human beings warp their way around each other, inseparable yet causing endless pain, - nails biting into flesh, torn skin and drops of blood - twisted so far it can't be fixed, - me destroying you, you destroying me-
A hand on her shoulder. The disguise falls away.
The hero lurches back, his eyes flashing red.
Toga Himiko smiles.
“Sorry,” She says, breathless. Flesh melts off her skin like water, leaving her in Suzume's slightly-too-big school uniform. She skips a step back, a precarious dance. “It's disgusting, isn’t it?.”
He stares at her, his eyes flickering red again.
“What is?”
that family, that house, that town, the whispers, the people, neat hair and a just-right smile, closed lips. dresses worn in secret, makeup smeared over her mouth, smashed on the floor, the perfect daughter. the blood that flowed from that boy's face, his neck, pooling on wooden slats. how sweet it was. how-
She smiles, showing off her canines, the ones that her father stuck a knife into her mouth to try and dull them down. It bled for days.
“The thing called me.”
Before he can answer, she turns on her heel and runs. Not getting caught.
Her shoes feel just right on her feet now.
—
The fires blaze blue in the sky as she pins the other girl to the ground.
Why would you do this? She says, her cheeks flushed with blood, and she wants, wants, wants- That isn't love.
She has brown hair like Suzume, a round, pretty face like Suzume, but eyes that blaze with defiant life instead of those defeated ashes that Suzume had in hers.
Eyes that burn into her own, searing into her memory. She can barely remember her mother's, or her father's. Nothing but empty holes punched into shadows of flesh, circling, circling like sharks at the slightest scent of blood.
We're the same , she says, laughing. This is what love is.
As she runs away, she carves that name on the inside of her ribs.
—
Please look at me.
She sees a monster reflected in your eyes, society's creation, a twisted thing.
Reaching out, never touching. Reaching, just to be pushed away once again.
Always alone, pointing fingers, that girl from your preschool who called you scary, laughing, laughing as your father hits you and your mother weeps for the child that never was, bruised hands, bleeding, raw fingers.
How did you become this?
Your heart is full of love; you feel like you could love everyone.
You choose to love her instead, and power floods through your veins, coursing from your fingertips.
Bodies float and fall from the sky, bursting on impact like water balloons. Guts and bones and blood splatter over the pavement, like the remains of a child's birthday party. You run from it all, because you don't get caught, you don't get caught, don't get caught.
The last of her soul burns away in your veins, and you're left empty again, craving that same love.
—
Falling, again.
Her hands are warm against yours, warm with life.
Spilling. There's a hole in your throat that connects to your heart, and everything, everything buried for years and years is coming out in a disgusting mess. It's filthy, sticking to the inside of your mouth like tar. It burns like nothing else.
Your eyes are on fire and so are hers, and you reach out, tentative, and finally, finally, someone takes your hand.
—
She cries on the top of the hill, her body hunched over from the pain of it all.
The tears are not all for you, but you imagine they are anyway.
And maybe you were supposed to run away, disappear into the leftover chaos never to be seen again, but you've always been a romantic.
Leaves and twigs break under your bare feet, careless, but she doesn't hear at all.
The city looks nicer from up here, as everything does when you look at it from far enough. Just like your childhood; far enough and maybe it could be a comedy, as the parents scream as one and the girl smiles as she cries forever. But not anymore.
You reach out a final time, leaning forward until her back fits against the curve of your chest. Your hands move up to cover her eyes, and as you hear her breath hitch in disbelief, you laugh and bring your mouth right next to her ear.
“Missed me?”