Little White Pills
When Rei was in the hospital that first time--with snowy-white bandages
around her wrist and a snowy-cold ache beneath her ribs--they gave her
little white pills. The cotton-white clouds that filled her head dulled
the healing ache at her wrist and made her forget the pain of betrayal in
her chest.
Fukiko watched from her bedside, blue eyes cold and chilly. Rei saw
reflected back at her the leaden sky, the dull grey sea, and the silent
drift of falling snow.
Once, when they were alone together, the ice broke and all was hot and
scarlet like a spreading stain on the frozen snow, and Fukiko spoke with
careful, angry words that cut like knives. Rei pleaded with her as the
tears welled up, hot and scalding. Fukiko's turned back wavered and
blurred, and when Rei ran out of pieces of herself to offer, Fukiko's hand
had rested warm on her unmarked wrist, and her lips had been soft against
Rei's cheek.
Another time, when Rei lingered in the no man's land between sleep and
waking, she thought she heard Fukiko whispering to her. "I'm so sorry,"
she had said. But it couldn't have been Fukiko, not with the broken
little-girl voice Rei had heard.
When she went home, they gave her little bottles of pills that rattled
when you shook them. The neat white bandage at her wrist had been replaced
with the broad silver links of Fukiko's bracelet. Under the cold metal was
a puckered white scar. It didn't hurt any more, but the pain in her chest
was still there. Some days it was worse than others. Some nights it kept
her awake. Sometimes the pills helped. Sometimes they didn't.
She filled her empty rooms with mirrors. The glass gleamed slick and
smooth like ice, and the twisting chain of images gave her somewhere to
lose herself. She lined up the bottles of pills across the bathroom
counter, and filled her pockets with them when she left the house.
They sent her back to school--to Fukiko's school. Fukiko was
vice-president of the sorority, the youngest in Seiran's history. She held
herself as straight and tall and proud as ever, and what she suggested in
cultured, quiet tones, this year's president took up immediately. There
was no question that Fukiko would step up to fill her shoes the following
year.
Sometimes Fukiko would call Rei to her side and give her an armload of
flowers to help her carry to the sorority house. Rei breathed the perfume
of the sweet, soft petals. The thorns left angry welts on her exposed
hands and wrists.
Sometimes Rei would play for the sorority teas at her request, fingers
caressing the ivory keys by instinct, eyes on Fukiko instead of the steady
march of black notes on even lines. The buttery tea-biscuits and
spun-sugar cakes crumbled dry in her mouth; she craved the crumbs of
praise Fukiko dropped her even more than the pills in her pocket.
Sometimes Fukiko would pass her in the halls and let her eyes slide over
her without the slightest hint of recognition. Rei learned to watch for
the warning that flickered like heat lightening behind her serene eyes.
Once, she called helplessly after that straight, regal figure, strong as
iron, spun fine and delicate as glass with just as many sharp edges.
Fukiko had continued down the hall without a word to Rei, but after class,
had been waiting for her in the music room. Rei's apologies crumbled and
died in her mouth, tasting of ash and dust.
Fukiko slapped her across the face, sharp and sudden. Before the echoes
has died from her ears, Fukiko had pulled Rei to her, polished nails sharp
like knives at the tender nape of her neck. She kissed her full on the
lips, hot enough to burn, full of anger and hunger, punishment and need.
When she pulled away, she had turned once again to flawless ice. Rei
tasted blood in her mouth and on her lips, scalding coppery-sweet. "This
will not happen again." Fukiko's voice rang cold and final. She turned and
left the room in measured, quick steps.
Rei sank to her knees, needing to feel the floor solid and unmoving
beneath her splayed fingers, and cursed herself for forgetting that ice
burns to the touch.
The next morning, Fukiko smiled distantly, and sweetly asked Rei to help
with setting up the tea ceremony for sorority seniors. There was no
question that she would obey. The thin porcelain tea cups were smooth and
flawless against her fingertips, just like Fukiko's smile.
Rei watched with abstract interest as the bones at her wrists grew more
prominent. Her schoolbooks sat in a neat pile on the corner of her desk at
home. Dust gathered over them in a fine, grey veil. She spent her free
time looking for quiet places, looking through thin volumes of verse for
something to fill her head and put words to the pain in her chest.
Sometimes it was a dull, persistent ache, sometimes a sharp blade that
left her bleeding and breathless. The white pills left bitter powder on
her lips and in her mouth.
Fukiko stopped her in the hall one day. "You look ill," she said,
compassion and concern in her voice, thick like honey and poison. Her warm
palm rested against Rei's pale forehead. "Have you been getting enough
rest?" Rei shook her head mutely. "You should see a doctor," Fukiko said
gently.
So she went to the doctor, and obediently told him she was having trouble
sleeping. He gave her more pills. She took them two and three at a time,
and drifted through the days safe in her blank white-cotton clouds.
Fukiko smiling with polite disinterest.
Fukiko's eyes sliding scornfully past her.
Fukiko's hands leaving harsh and angry marks with sweet words.
Rei went to the drugstore and picked out some more pills. She takes them
all, still likes the little white ones the best. She takes them when the
ache in her chest lingers for days. Or when the sharp pain threatens to
drown her. Or when she remembers darker colours staining the cold, white
snow.
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