Guess who found a ten-year-old copy of MS Office and spell-checked everything he's ever written in his life and almost died from the sheer number of awful typos? THIS GUY. 
It took me a minute, but art kind of imitated life here. It's funny, just as I'm inspired to write a cripple soap opera story loosely based on a friendship I had once, that friendship decides to pop back into my life in the weirdest way and in the weirdest circumstance. So yeah, I kinda scrapped what I was working on, and am really glad I did, as it made a much stronger story.
I also went back and made SEVERAL changes based upon your input to the last one, well, two parts, and it's much, MUCH better, in my opinion, so check it out, tell me I'm doing it wrong, or tell me I'm kickin' ass and can play this fanfiction game like I can play Super Turbo. (Which means I pick Hawk, go for the command grab all the time, and get my ass beaten because of it, but when I do connect, it's game.)
Shitty fighting game references aside, here you are, and there I am. Comments, criticisms, and whatnot greatly appreciated. Like, seriously. Writing for an audience that cuts me down to the core is the greatest thing, regardless of how niche this audience is. You all are excellent.
***
Prologue:
Turn to Stone
Chapter One:
Touchdown Breakdown
Chapter Two:
Evil Speaks
Chapter Three:
Down There With You
***
"Walking through the broken glass, you know that your feet will bleed
Holding all your secrets back, you know that the evil speaks."
-Leæther Strip, "Evil Speaks"
One of those days. I'm pissed off. Seeing red.
Anyone who's ever said that they've been mad enough to see red is a liar or lives in a cartoon. Real anger is a whole bunch of different colors. Real anger is a mixture of puke green and rust brown, with plaster white and rebar grey thrown in. Then you apply heat and pressure until it turns into a frothy mess of yellow and blue with chunky bits of copper and iron mixed in. Then you seal it in a glass jar forever until it eats away at itself and turns into a highly corrosive acid, fizzing and popping like some soft drink from hell. Then you throw it on the ground, letting all those purple and orange vapors fill the air with an awful smell of piss and terror, and only after taking someone's face and shoving it right into your caustic mess of bile and broken glass, do you get to see red. And that red rots into a mixture of green and brown and white and grey, and the whole process starts again.
Once. Twice. Again and again and again. It's getting to the point where I'm not sure whose bones are being broken right now, but I don't really care right now. All I know is that I'm scared, I'm angry, and that whatever it is that I'm doing to hurt this guy and myself is making me less of those, and that's a good thing.
Seeing red. I'm seeing an awful lot right now. Not just in the metaphorical sense, either. Bright, sweeping flashes of red flicker rapidly on and off, almost like a police siren. Wait, that is a police siren, isn't it. Makes sense. Look at the mess I've made. I think I killed the guy. I think I'm killing me, too. It's just pouring out. Oh, God. Won't stop. Hurts so bad. I think I'm gonna pass out. Who are you. Get the fuck away from me. Out of my way get your hands off me why won't it oh God there's nothing there there isn't a damned thing there why does it HURT -
I awake with a start. Bright, vivid splashes of color and terrible, terrible memories from a million years ago barely fade from vision and give way to utter blackness and a realization that it's too Goddamn early in the morning for me to even acknowledge my own existence just yet. My alarm clock beams a number too absurd for me to consider acceptable, and I debate tossing it across the room, when right on cue, my hand is being ripped up and severed off yet again.
I'm annoyed because I saw this coming, what with all of yesterday' excitement still fresh in my mind. I'm scared because this really fucking hurts and when it happens, I can't do anything except ride it out because my hand is fucking gone but there it is and I can feel the bones cutting their way through my flesh and Goddammit here comes the CRUNCH. And I'm relieved because I really didn't feel like doing anything productive today anyway.
I look longingly at the bottle of downers resting on the nightstand, right next to a flashing display of what's still too early to function, and I almost do it, I almost give in, but I shake it off and decide to grin and bear it. The only two things I'm really good at, I guess. For emergencies only, it says. This isn't a big deal. Hell, I've been through worse; I've had it actually happen. This? Piece of cake. I turn over, go fetal, and clutch at my wrist, counting down the seconds until I inevitably black out.
Today is not a good day at all.
***
I reluctantly come to my senses a while later and realize that it's sometime early morning. Either that was the fastest recovery I've ever had from one of those stupid, nightmare-filled phantom limb episodes, or I literally scared myself unconscious for a whole day. Regardless, it feels like someone beat the shit out of me in my sleep. Well, that more or less did happen, I guess, but whatever.
I slowly crawl out of bed, trying to physically shake the fatigue from my sore bones and tender muscles. Slept in my running clothes. Hmmm. Why not put 'em to use? Why not go for a run? Yeah, that's good. Get the hell out of my head for a bit. Put some distance between me and terrible things. Get some endorphins that I probably could use really bad right now.
As I make my way toward the track, I think long and hard about what the hell I'm supposed to do.
Face it, Miki. The news already spread through campus like, I dunno, something that spreads quickly. A virus, maybe. Everyone knows what you did, even though Hisao probably kept quiet and the nurse worked whatever the hell magic he did. It's your old high school, hell, your old life, all over again. Just like old times. They'll call you something equal parts vicious and cheesy like Mad Dog Miura or something, cowering in the halls and breezeways as they fork over money, cheap cigarettes, and completed homework. You'd rule this school, Miki. Even easier, 'cause it's a Goddamned cripple academy.
Holy shit, I could. I think I might be one of the least disabled people here. Hell, maybe THE least disabled.
I shove away those ugly thoughts back into the past where they belong. Nah. Not my thing anymore. I plan on keeping it that way. I like what I'm doing here. I like running. I like having honest-to-God friends instead of suck-ups and hanger-ons. I like not being a royal bitch for the principle of it. I just hope I can still have all these things by the end of the day.
I arrive at the track, and my heart plummets into my gut, which in turn violently clenches and rips itself apart in guilt. Shit. He's there. Running. Looking pretty ragged, from what I can make out. Makes sense. He did say he was pretty out of shape, and I guess it is pretty good to see him showing some get-up-and-go about it, but fuckfuckFUCK Ibarazaki is right there, running with him.
She knows. Dammit, she's gotta know. She probably had to go and ask about Hisao's busted face and she and the nurse probably cooked up this training program for him together and she's going to give me absolute hell and the whole school is going to give me absolute hell and I'm never going to see the end of this shitty, shitty day.
I could turn around back the way I came and haul ass back to the dorms, but what good would that do? I'm doomed. It'd be pointless to try to dodge everyone. Cowardly, too. Then I'd get nailed for truancy, given a legit reason to get kicked outta Yamaku, and there you are, right back at square fucking one. Yeesh. Better to just take it as it comes, I guess. I'm strong, or so I've been told. Can't be any worse than... Other things.
Besides, it's too late. The dumb bastard already saw me. He's waving.
As I will my suddenly lead-filled legs into motion and continue walking to the track, I become aware of two really weird things. One, Hisao's awfully happy to see someone that split his head in half over something that didn't even really concern them. Well, it does. It does an awful lot, but that's beside the point. The other thing that bugs me is that Ibarazaki isn't laying me to the pavement and kicking my chest in with those weird... Stilts? ... of hers. She doesn't even seem terribly mad at me. As they meet me at the track's entrance, though, I almost wish she were. She's got that look, that smile that she usually reserves for a good sprint or a particularly cute guy. It's predatory. Friendly, charming, I'm sure, but hungry and out for blood.
Yikes.
"Hi, Miki." Hisao does something with his face that I can only assume is a smile. "Didn't see you in class yesterday."
Jeez. I guess I was out for a whole day. Dammit. One more thing I gotta worry about. People adding two and two together, on top of playing even more catch-up on schoolwork. And for God's sake, Hisao, you're giving me the absolute creeps. Maybe I did hit you a little too hard.
"Yeah," is all I can respond, realizing I'm rubbing my wrist with my hand about halfway through the act. Dammit, Miki. I'm not sure if Hisao notices, but Ibarazaki sure would. On any other day, she'd probably do something like wildly proclaim that her two phantom limbs didn't stop her from being faster than me, once again putting me in my place that I never really asked for or even had a problem with, and normally I'd get a little spirited competition going. No problem. All the more fun. But today's not any other day. Today's a day where I have to deal with the fact that I've admitted more weakness to myself than I'm comfortable with, and I really don't need another reminder of that right now. Especially from Emi Goddamn Ibarazaki.
"Hey, are you okay? You look pretty strung out. What happened?"
Stop it, stop it, stop it, you moron. I don't want to even look at you right now, and I sure as hell don't want to clock you again. Just shut up shut up shut up and get the hell out of my way ,I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm just so Goddamned sorry already.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just something I gotta deal with now and again. No worries." Changing the damned subject right now. "Are you, you know, cool?"
He chuckles again. I think I'm going to hate that sound more than I hate the sound of nails on a chalkboard or the sound of marrow being exposed to open air. "Yeah. Sore, but good. Emi and I were just finishing up here. Guess I'll see you later today?"
"Sure." I don't know how much of that was truth or Hisao noticing that I'm extremely uncomfortable right now, but it doesn't matter. All I want to do is to get right the hell away from anything with a pulse and just run till I can't feel or think anymore, then take a nice, long shower before I have to deal with the rest of the world.
God give me the strength.
"Alright. See ya. Emi?"
"Actually, Hisao, I've got to get some more sprints in. I'll catch up with you later. Tell the nurse I'll be by in a bit."
God. Damn. It.
At this, I must have visibly flinched or something, because Hisao is just standing there looking at me with something like concern, but shrugs it off. No, you idiot. Don't you dare go away and leave me with HER. Look at her. She's ready to pounce. She's gonna grill me, then kill me. Please, you fucker. I'm begging you. Come back here.
It's hopeless. He's gone. Like, halfway to the nurse's office now. And Ibarazaki is just sitting there doing stretches, like she actually plans on running and isn't just waiting till he's outta earshot so she can give me the third degree and then maybe give me a spinning back kick to the head that would probably sever it clean off. Yep, that's how I'm going out, world. Here lies Miki Miura, slain over a petty scrap by a legless ninja. Well, dammit.
"Hey, Miki? You should probably do some stretches. You do have hamstrings to stretch out, don't you?"
Oh, fuck you. Have it your way. I start stretching, maybe a bit too overzealously, but whatever. Two can play at this game, of actually running and pretending that nothing's wrong. Fine by me. Anything to just get me through the day and on with my probably ruined life. This really sucks.
A few minutes later, after I feel like I'm sufficiently loosened up, I hit the track and get into a comfortable six-minute mile pace. Just enough to get my feet into a groove and let my mind wander. Just me, the blacktop, my thoughts, and the satisfying "sproing-sproing-sproing" of my feet to keep a nice, steady, wait. What the hell. My feet don't sproing. I look to my left and almost stumble.
Emi's keeping pace with me. This is madness.
"I thought you had sprints to do," I ask as neutrally as I can manage. She shrugs and smiles that damned man-eater smile at me.
"I do. In a bit, though."
Sproing. Sproing. Sproing.
I decide to kick it up a notch and shift gear into my five-minute mile pace, making something of a futile attempt to get some distance between us. I know what she's doing, and I don't very well like it at all. Another lap down, and she's still right beside me. Dammit, dammit, dammit.
I start going a little faster. Maybe a bit too fast. My breath is getting heavier, but it's steady. I'm covering ground a lot faster, and the third lap is done before I know it.
Sproing-sproing-sproing-sproing-sproing.
Okay, I've had enough of your bullshit, Ibarazaki. I've let you toy with me for almost a mile now. Fuck off and die in a hole. I hiss and go into a flat sprint, and wouldn't you know it, she's hauling ass right there with me, and that damned little smirk of hers looks all the more girly and all the more vicious.
Sproingsproingsproingsproingsproingsproingsproingsproingsproing.
Two laps, then three, then four. My legs are burning, my heart is racing, my ears are pounding, and a bit of sweat stings my eyes. My breaths are coming a little more ragged, too, but I take no small satisfaction that hers are, too. Suck on it, Ibarazaki. I went toe-to-toe, balls-out, and no-fucks-given with you for a straight mile. Now fuck off and leave me alone.
I come to a gradual stop, then put my hands behind my head and begin my cool down lap. I can't help but keep the tiniest swagger from sneaking in my step, and I think I'm actually smiling. I hazard a glance to my left and she's doing the same thing. Less swagger, way more smile. Yeah, I'm screwed.
"You know, I should just beat the crap out of you."
"Figured as much."
"But," she says, exhaling something that might be a frustrated sigh, "He explained everything to me yesterday. I guess I can see why you did what you did. But you could have really hurt him."
A few minutes pass, and we both come to a stop. I'm pretty well cooled down, so I elect to walking over to the grass and simply flopping down spread eagled. Ibarazaki stands above me, in perfect head stomp range, I grimly notice, but she smiles, this one a genuine one.
"It's all good, though. I finally have a running partner. So... I guess I gotta thank you for that one."
"I guess."
Silence. A few chirping birds. A nice, gentle breeze.
"He actually showed up again today. That surprised me, especially after yesterday's run. He's pushing himself really hard. Maybe too hard." Here she looks almost... Dammit. There's a word for that, a specific word. It's when people are looking way off into the distance at something that's not even there and are all melancholy about it. I dunno. That.
"I'm sure he'll figure it out."
She hesitates, then shrugs. "Guess so. It is what it is."
"Yeah."
More awkward silence. I couldn't care less. I'm just glad I'm not getting beaten up, be it physically or verbally.
"Well, I better go meet up with the nurse. It's getting pretty late. Can't afford missing class or skipping a shower, thanks to you."
"Don't mention it."
She starts sproinging away, when a thought occurs to me. She's relatively popular, and she sticks out like a sore thumb with fake plastic legs. I wonder...
"Hey, Ibarazaki." I get to my feet and she turns to regard me. "Has any word gotten around about, you know, the other day?"
She stops to think. As in I can physically see every muscle on her body stop and transfer all power to that weird, hyperactive brain of hers.
"I'm. I'm sure your homeroom teacher got something from the nurse about it, and probably about your absence, too, and what don't the Student Council know about..." I inwardly cringe, but I figured I'd have to answer to those two sooner or later.
"But I haven't heard any of the other students saying anything. Sure, I hear Hisao get questions about that shiner all the time, but he's kept pretty quiet. Unless he's told anyone, I'd say it's pretty much nil."
Well, that's a relief. Guess I can put my delusions of an iron-fisted, leather-jacketed dictatorship to rest, I hope. as well as any fears of getting the boot from Yamaku any time soon. Still won't make this day go by any faster, but whatever. It's a start.
"Good. Thanks."
"No problem. See ya, Miki!" And there she goes, all smiles and cybernetically-enhanced springy steps. That's gotta be why she's so damned fast, the cheating bitch.
I make my way back to the dorms feeling like a weight's been lifted off my chest and placed directly on my eyelids. I'm so Goddamned tired I don't even know what to do about it, but what's gotta be done's gotta be done.
What doesn't kill me, doesn't kill me.
The rest of the day goes by surprisingly without incident. I'm too brain-dead to keep up with most of it, but I'm alert enough to gather that I didn't miss too much of my studies, and more importantly, that I'm not getting any dirty looks or any ridiculous names like Murderin' Miki or Iron Maiden Miura or Tombstone, which is almost a shame because I think that last one is kinda clever. You know, Miki Miura? M.M.? Two of 'em? 2-M-Stone. Sound it out. I'm a genius. Or a rapper
Last period rolls around, and by this point, I'm having a hell of a time trying to keep myself awake. I'm literally missing huge chunks of time each time I close my eyes, and beats me what Mutou's lecturing about, so I simply decide to screw it and let what happens just happen. God, I'm just as bad as my friend Suzu today, but without that whole sleepyhead thing being perpetual and sometimes life-threatening.
Right as my head comes to rest upon my desk that feels way too comfortable than it ought, the final bell rings and I'm jerked back into reality, only to discover the very last person I'd expect to be nervously standing in front of my desk, shaking like a Goddamned leaf.
"Hanako."
Yeah, it's her all right. And she's trying very hard to keep her composure and maintain eye contact with me, God help her, but she's failing pretty badly. She's tugging on her sleeve so hard I'm afraid it'll rip right off, but then just elects to shove a folded piece of paper out in front of her. I stare at it for a few seconds before I realize she's giving me a note, and right as I have it in my grasp, she releases it, gathers her things, and high-tails it right the hell out of class and into parts unknown.
Dammit.
I carefully unfold it, and am honestly a little dumbfounded at what I'm reading.
Miki,
I know it's been a very long time since we talked. I feel, and have felt, very bad about this and about what I did. Some things have happened recently to make me question some things about that and of myself, and I would really like to talk to you about them. If you would like to, I will be at the Shanghai at six o'clock. If you decide to not meet me there, I completely understand.
- Hanako
Aw, dammit. Dammit, dammit, double dammit. This is the best, sweetest, most Godawfully frightening thing that could have happened today. And much as I'd like to tell the world to eat a dick and shut down for the remainder of the day, I've got some work to do. And dammit, I miss my friend. No rest for the weary.
It's been one of those days.
... Danger.
