Graphic by me

Things settled into a routinely cycle after that first shocking day. For the first few nights, Hiraga would come in every two hours or so to check on me and my cyborg monitor, but as days passed, she came less and less, though I hardly noticed. Then again, I couldn't really differentiate days and hours anymore in this monotonous world. Everything felt the same, especially when I floated in drugged waking dreams.

During this time dust accumulated on the window sill and grime clung to the bottom of the panes. I never opened the window, for fear of that grinning, wretched melody. Hiraga had stopped trying after I had furiously slammed it down in front of her face one morning and gave her a harsh glare which I regretted a moment after, though beyond her restricted expression of fear had been a flicker of pity. Pity at me, I knew, for I felt the exact same thing towards myself, but also, frustration. Frustration to be unable to control anything. Frustration to be helpless to the point I accepted my own weakness and forgot what it felt to have control over my own life, to have become so passive that I accepted the mock up eyes they gave me that I see in the mirror every day gazing back defeatedly and realize that I did not remember what I used to look like or who I had been, then to feel nothing about this fact.

They say that the caged bird sings because it long for freedom, but my bird has gone silent.

Some nights I would wake up screaming with no sounds coming out of my mouth from dreams of being buried alive. "You're a corpse," the faceless men would chant with condescending voices as I begged them to stop and the air became much harder to breath, "Dead little girls belong in the grave."

It got a little better when they introduced me to a new medication. My world shifted from blindness in the black and dancing nightmares to hopeless, bleak gray skies. I no longer felt frustrated at my own vulnerability, though I couldn't tell whether that was because I had gotten used to the fact that I was incapable or because of the numb escape the pills provided.

I don't remember what life used to feel like. I don't remember anything anymore.

Hiraga and Gouenji-sensei tried to help, but to no avail for I rejected all their aids. I didn't want help; I wanted to drown. I begged God to stuff it down my throat and pour it into my nose and ears, to clog my brain and choke me. I implored him to fill my lungs and pull me under, to reap my soul and let my body sink into the cool dark waters.

Please let me die, or at the very least, let me cry.

But no tears ever came.

Just like that weeks passed, or had those merely been days? I could only count how much time had passed from the flowers that Hiraga brought in every day. A single water lily would always be added to the giant bowl of identical white lilies on my bedside table without fail each day. A strange gift from an anonymous, Hiraga always said with a wink as if it had came from a secret admirer, but I knew that she too was clueless of the sender's identity. Perhaps they too pitied me, for they only ever sent gifts without notes as if they didn't want to be caught associating themselves with me, but I never had the heart to tell Hiraga to throw the flowers out. Of course the pan was soon filled to the brim, but we found other places to set up trays of water. The doctors and nurses became worried as my room became cluttered with white blooms and thick fragrance, especially since I refused to throw out the old, disintegrating flowers. But amongst the new blossoms every day were petals of the old, dead and stained brown in the water, and they reminded me that every morning was a fresh new day. Bathed in the soothing scent of promise, things gradually got better.

Hiraga almost dropped my meal tray when she saw the open window one day at sunset. I guess I had just forgot why I feared the world outside that day, and frankly, the room had gotten quite stuffy with all those flowers. When I thought about it rationally, it wasn't like they were going to play that song every time I opened the window anyway.

With my room being on the third floor, I could easily cast the entire town within a single scene. The sights it offered were quite different from the Fukuoka neighborhood I was used to, but Inazuma Town emitted a happy, welcoming presence that Fukuoka's busy city life lacked. Admiring it had a calming effect that made me feel a small, homely warmth inside. In the distance I could see the Inazuma Steel Tower and the silhouette of a school with a lightning bolt mounted on top and often, I would also see a brown haired boy around my age at the tower swinging a tire around. Most of the time he ended up falling on his butt, but for some reason unbeknownst to me he always got up and came back. Watching him gave me a tingling feeling like I was remembering something, though I could never grasp what it was. The lotuses reassured me that I would realize it one day, and I noticed that for the first time in my life, I was patient about waiting.

As my mental health improved, so did my recovery rate. Originally I had been told that I was recuperating slower than the doctors predicted, but all of a sudden my physical capabilities took a turn and starting to climb up at a shocking speed. Now they predicted I would be fully functional after six months compared to the original prediction of ten months and the adjusted prediction of twelve. I didn't feel any different than before, but before I knew it, two month had passed and I was able to walk shakily with crutches. The fact that I could get out of bed without any help nearly made me cry tears of happiness.

But with this development, I also started to grow tired of waiting. Now that I had expectations, I wouldn't settle for simple progress anymore.

When I was young, I was often told that I worked too hard, pushed myself too much. Whether it was a field day game or mastering double pirouettes on pointe, just your best is enough, they always said. But trying your best isn't enough, not for me. No, it always needed to be all or nothing, every time, no matter what. My dignity would take nothing less. Even now, if they thought I would be able to walk independently after four months, I would strive for three, and you bet I'll make myself capable of running by then too. But in order to do that, I would need to train my body more. If I wanted to practice outside the allotted times the hospital scheduled, I'd have to make it down the hall to the rehabilitation room on my own and sneak by any nurses that might know I should be in my room at the moment. That was fine with me, for it was just another opportunity to exercise, but it was only when I had already made my way some distance down the hall did I realize just how much harder it may be to actually carry out my plan then I had originally thought.

For one, I had chosen the wheelchair I was unfamiliar with using. Usually I had Hiraga to push me, and turning the wheels myself turned out to be much more excruciating than I had expected, especially with undeveloped arms. Crutches would have been more efficient, but the wheelchair was much more reliable. While I could indeed walk ten meters with crutches, I didn't have complete trust in my limbs yet. If they were to suddenly fail me and turn into jelly, I would be left in the hall until a nurse or doctor passes, who will then no doubt ask me questions and discover my flee which I definitely did not want. Luckily, the hallway remained deserted throughout the entire duration of my struggle, sparing me from excessive effort.

Rolling my wheelchair into the rehabilitation center, I saw that there was only one other person inside. I thanked God again for my good luck that it was a patient I was not acquainted with, which would guarantee that my ploy would not be exposed. Strangely enough, there were usually four or five seniors and occasionally a toddler accompanied by a nurse, but today it was only an attractive young boy who looked around nine or ten with dark indigo hair and an accentuating mole underneath his lips.

He carried an air of maturity and refinement and a face that would've made me guess his age as twelve or thirteen should he have been a little taller and his body a bit more developed. The boy turned his head to meet my eyes with striking amber ones and greeted me demurely with a smile, "Ah, hello."

This action caught me by surprise, for the usual patients who came in here always minded their own businesses and ignored everyone else or mingled in tight knit groups. The best you could've expected if you were someone like me was a nod of acknowledgement or a polite but reserved smile that seemed to stem more from social obligation than friendliness.

I realized that I had taken far too long to form a reply. "Um...yeah," I stammered awkwardly. It was far from the pleasant greeting I had in mind, but it would have to suffice.

"Cat got your tongue?" the boy asked cheekily.

I felt my face grow warm. "Technical difficulties," I lied as I took my place on the parallel bars, but hey, when the vast majority of your body consists of prosthetics, it is a valid excuse. He laughed, but it wasn't a mean one, so I decided that he was probably a nice person.

Somehow, we ended up starting a conversation. "So, you new here?" he offered.

"Kinda. Been two months."

"Really," he flashed me a dazzling, coquettish half smile, "That's funny. I come here every day and I haven't seen you before."

I shrugged. "When did you come in?"

"Six months ago."

"What happened?" The question had popped out naturally, but it must've been a touchy subject for the boy grew somber and silent. I instantly felt bad. While he might've spoken in a friendly manner, we were still strangers. After all, I didn't even know his name. I understood the pain, burden, and loss that everyone in the hospital carries all too well; I too, would not want to tell a person that I just met five minutes ago that I was a revived cyborg.

"Sorry," I blurted, mentally slapping myself for spewing out yet another horribly constructed declaration.

His demeanor did not change upon the deliverance of my apology, but a second later, he lifted his head and smiled purely in a complete shift of character. "No, no, it's fine," he dismissed airily, but I noticed he had became reluctant to look at me in the eyes.

"Well, let's just say that I had bad luck that day. But I'm glad it was me instead of my brother."

"Brother?" I asked instinctively, then realized just how inconsiderate I had been once again. But unexpectedly, his face lit up at the subject matter. "Oh yes, his name is Kyousuke. He loves soccer and we're both big fans of Kidokawa Seishuu, especially Gouenji Shuuya and Inoue Shizuro. Do you play?"

I absentmindedly shook my head. I didn't want to ask him for clarification of those unfamiliar names for fear of accidentally breaking the fragile atmosphere that had finally reverted back to a comfortable zone, but Gouenji Shuuya...as in Gouenji Katsuya? Gouenji wasn't a common last name, and I knew that it was probably just a coincidence, but I found myself unable to dismiss the far fetched correlation. Maybe I really was too desperate.

He broke my train of thoughts before my speculations could run any further. "Your turn, tell me a bit about yourself."

"Oh- Um..." I stammered. He made the go-on gesture with a patient expression. In the end, I resorted to the lamest line I could've came up with.

"I guess you can say that I had bad luck that day too..."

"How about your family?" he cut in in an attempt to change the subject, no doubt thinking that he had also accidentally crossed the line when that was in fact not the case at all, but rather this question which really hit me raw.

"...Sorry..." he muttered after a long silence to which my eyes remained fixed on the floor.

Another awkward silence followed.

Because none of us picked up the conversation, he turned to leave, most likely to escape the uncomfortable situation. I was thankful he acted first, for I did not think I had enough grace to initiate abandoning our positions without coming off as rude. I sensed a slight, masked strain from him as he limped back to his wheelchair which was was parked a mere step away from where he held himself at the bar. "I'll be going then...Miss Technical Difficulties," he said cheerily with another grin, though this one was a lot more obviously faked.

"Suishou Hakuchou," I offered. I wasn't sure why, but the words just slipped from my mouth. I guess we knew a little too much about each other now to remain nameless acquaintances. Or maybe I just wanted someone I could hold more attachment to in this small dreary world.

His eyes warmed and his smile softened. "Tsurugi Yuuichi," he replied sincerely for the first time since we started talking, "See you later, Suishou-san. Perhaps you'd like to come over sometime? I can introduce you to my brother too, he visits every afternoon."

A feeling I forgotten ever since I entered the hospital swelled up inside my heart, and I finally realized what it was that the brown haired boy with the tire had so subtly reminded me of. Perhaps we were all just poor souls desperately trying to patch our cracks and hide them from the world, but became too blinded to realize that the only glue we needed were the people right in front of us.

"Definitely." I smiled back, realizing only afterward that for the first time in the hospital, I had smiled genuinely.