You Remember
You remember standing in the schoolyard and watching the other girls
walk by. You remember seeing the younger children running around in
the playground. You wondered if you will ever have friends. You
wondered if you will ever know anything but loneliness.
You remember that time in front of the university library, the bright
sky and the warm sun on your face. You remember the couple sitting on
the bench, sharing a quiet moment together. You wondered what it was
like to be in love. You wondered what it was like to have any love at
all.
How naïve you were then.
You found love. Or what you thought was love. And it was beautiful.
For a long while, there was nothing but pleasure, nothing but beauty.
Nothing but quiet walks in the moonlit streets of Paris, followed by
tender nights of sleeplessness.
Where did it all go wrong? When did the silence become unbearable?
When did Mireille ever need so much more? She wanted so much that you
couldn’t give her, simply because of who you were. It’s not your
fault. She never stopped reminding you of that, but it didn’t change
the fact that you still loved her.
You still miss her.
~[]~
Kirika runs her hand over the smooth cool metal of the doorknob, her
fingertips dancing, searching. She does not know what she is looking
for. There is no lingering warmth on the brass-coloured ball. The
door to the apartment she once shared with her partner stands
resolutely in front of her, denying her passage.
It’s been nearly a year since she left. A year she spent back in
school, in Japan. A year spent learning. A year wasted on longing.
She still didn’t fit in. Despite everything Mireille had taught her,
she still wasn’t the equal of the other girls in her school. In some
respects she was better, she excelled in areas they couldn’t dream of.
Socially though, she was wreck. No friends, no family, no loved
ones... except for... But it hurt so much to think of Mireille.
Kirika sighs. She doesn’t know what she’s doing back in Paris. It is
the holiday season, and the streets are filled with decorations, with
smiling people, with the Christmas spirit, yet her soul feels so very
empty. Her heart feels as cold as the slippery doorknob she is
hopelessly clutching.
For a moment, she loses her resolve, her hand falls away. Her back
slumps against the door, head angled high, as if pleading to a greater
power. Her body slides down the length of the door, finally coming to
rest when she is sitting on the floor. It is frigid. She can feel
the cold seeping through her pants. No carpeting in the halls of this
apartment building. Beside her, the gift she bought Mireille sits
peacefully in its sparkly red wrapping paper. Its ribbons’ perfect
silvery-white curls mock Kirika in her weakness.
With her head against he door, she can hear water running inside the
apartment. Mireille is in the shower. For a few minutes, Kirika just
sits there. Despite the cold floor and the tightness in her legs, she
spends a long time listening to the soothing sound of splashing water.
She buries her hands in her coat pockets, closes her eyes.
~[]~
You remember how much Mireille cared for you that time you got shot.
You remember the agony when simply standing up was too painful. But
that pain was only physical. Most of all, you remember Mireille
washing you gently while you sat in the tub half-unconscious, lost in
the drugged daze of painkillers. You wonder what she made of it then.
Probably nothing at all. But it meant so much to you. It meant so
much to you that she cared at all.
You remember the first time Mireille kissed you. You were so scared,
so nervous... so hopelessly in love. You remember the feel of holding
something alive. The warmth, the movements, all of it was so
beautiful, the way Mireille squirmed whenever you held her tightly.
You never knew any other way of holding her. You were clinging to the
brief happiness you found.
You still are clinging.
~[]~
Kirika’s eyes flutter open, wetness visible around the edges. She
blinks several times, vainly trying to be rid of the threatening
tears. Her hands rummage around her pockets, looking for the key as
she stands up slowly.
She finds the old apartment key in her back pocket, slips it
unceremoniously into the keyhole. Hesitation. She’s not supposed to
be doing this. Not anymore. It bothers her somewhat, but not enough
to stop her. Kirika gathers up her gift, composes herself, turns the
key.
The apartment hasn’t changed. The pool table still dominates most of
the space, Mireille’s computer resting atop the velvet surface. A few
balls are also littered over the tabletop. The yellow scooter leans
in its customary position by the window. The same window Kirika used
to spend endless hours in front of, staring blankly into space. The
table by the window, however, is conspicuously empty. The potted
plant that once resided there gone.
Kirika closes the door softly, keenly aware that the shower is still
running. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, steam from the interior
wafting out into the apartment. Mireille is humming a tune as she
washes. A melody that Kirika does not recognize, yet the sound is
very pleasing to her ears.
She walks over to the pool table, her assassin’s instincts keeping her
footsteps eerily quiet. Shedding her heavy winter coat, she drapes it
over Mireille’s desk. Beneath her dark coat, the clothes she wears
are black as well. She doesn’t remember when she had taken to
exclusively wearing this colour -- the colour of mourning. Noir, the
colour of her hands.
~[]~
You remember running in the forest with gunfire at your heels. You
remember popcorn in a dark hotel casino. You remember slitting a
man’s throat with a plastic card. You remember climbing an endless
flight of stairs towards dozens of armed men. You remember lashing
out with the wheel axle of a toy truck. You remember the pathetic
ease with which all those enemies died.
Killing was so... effortless. Murder was something you did on reflex.
You were better than Chloe even. When all she had was hate, you had
love. How could someone so strong, be so weak? Is it any wonder at
all, that someone who dealt in death was so inept at love?
You remember the first time Mireille held you. You were so afraid.
You didn’t know what to do, what to say. But it felt so good. It
felt so right. It felt like you had been waiting your entire life for
that moment.
You still are waiting.
~[]~
Feeling guilty for snooping, but unable to help herself, Kirika
wanders around the apartment, still clutching the small red package in
her hands. The smell of tea permeates the kitchen, but the kettle is
empty. A quick glance shows a mug in the sink, teabag still sitting
in it. A pity. She would have liked to have some. She slips back
out.
Kirika stands on her toes, leans over the wall to look at the unmade
bed. New clothes are strewn all over it, price tags still hanging on
some of them. Numerous shopping bags are next to the bed, some empty,
some still quite full. Mireille obviously indulged herself.
Kirika’s tour is short-lived, as the small apartment takes only a few
minutes go through. Unwillingly, she finds herself drawn towards the
bathroom, where Mireille is still engaged in one of her long showers.
At first, Kirika thinks only of closing the door properly. Perhaps
she should just leave her gift, and go before the blonde finds her
here.
Mireille is still humming when Kirika comes to the doorway, the hand
reaching out to close the door inadvertently knocking it further open.
The blonde doesn’t notice, she is too busy rinsing out her hair.
Kirika steps just inside the bathroom, finally gets her hand on the
doorknob. The sight of Mireille stops her.
Despite the intervening shower curtain, and the haze of steam, Kirika
still finds her former partner overwhelming. Unconsciously, she holds
her breath, afraid that Mireille will somehow sense her presence. The
blurred figure behind the shower curtain goes about its business
obliviously. The soft patter of water striking the bottom of the
bathtub is drowned out by Mireille’s humming. Such a beautiful sound.
Kirika wallows in the heavy moist air, the muggy sauna-like sensation
reminiscent of being in love. With the warm steam surrounding her,
she loses herself once again in nostalgia.
~[]~
You remember sitting awake in bed, shrouded in the deepest night.
Beside you, Mireille was pretending to be asleep. You could tell.
You could always tell. You wondered why. You wondered why you were
so attuned to her.
You remember turning away, so that your legs dangled off the side of
the bed. You remember looking back at her resting form and yearning.
She was so beautiful. There were so many things you wanted to tell
her that you could never bring yourself to say. There were so many
things you wished you could do, things you wished you hadn’t done.
You remember crying that night. You cried so very softly, but she
must have heard you. You remember the bed creaking as she shifted her
weight, put her arms around you. You remember her breath on your neck
as she whispered your name, asked you what was wrong. You wondered
why she cared about this little slip of a girl. You wondered why it
mattered to her when you were unhappy.
And you dared to hope.
~[]~
Kirika lets out her breath, makes a small, almost imperceptible noise.
She backs out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The
sounds from the shower become muted. She is tired, all of a sudden,
and she doesn’t know why. Absently, she runs a hand through her mop
of dark hair. She pulls at the sleeves of her sweater, rolls them up
to her elbows. The steam has made her all damp and clammy.
Glancing down at her gift, she sees that the once proud curls of
ribbon have also wilted in the humidity. Dejectedly, she hurls the
small box across the apartment. It strikes the far wall, ricochets
off, lands on the bed. The muffled thud of it hitting the mattress is
singularly unsatisfying.
Out of habit, Kirika wanders over to the window, rests her arms on the
sill, cups her chin in her hands. Snow is falling on the streets of
Paris. Overcast skies sprinkle large white flakes liberally over he
city. The sight entrances her. She watches individual snowflakes
flutter up to the window and drift across on unseen currents before
continuing their dreamy descent.
Like a child outside a toy store, she presses her face against the
frosty glass. The snow is so white, so pure... so unlike her. Its
untainted form scorns her innocent facade. But like her, the snow is
cold. So very cold.
Gripped by a sudden indescribable urge, Kirika opens the window.
Freezing blasts of air buffet her unkempt locks, raising goose bumps
on her exposed forearms. Wintry gusts of wind blow into the
apartment, carrying with them the precious snowflakes. Little white
flecks swirl around, melting as they stray too far from the window.
Kirika stands up straight, throws her arms out, surrenders herself
fully to the cleansing icy wind.
~[]~
You remember sitting underneath a tree, with Mireille’s arms draped
languidly over your shoulders. You remember telling her that you
should go, pointing to the storm clouds that were building up
overhead. She ignored you. Grabbed your hand instead, pulled you
close.
You remember the first few raindrops filtering through the leaves and
landing on your back. You remember the wind howling around you as
Mireille caressed your face. You remember smiling in the rain as you
ran your fingers through her dripping blonde hair. You remember
thunder sounding in your ears as she kissed you. You remember
lightning flashing brightly in the sky as she pressed her drenched
body firmly against yours. You remember falling backwards, onto the
damp ground, with Mireille crawling over you, her hands pinning your
wrists in what was fast becoming mud. Despite the rain, despite the
storm, despite the sopping clothes clinging to her form, she still
radiated some rugged beauty.
You remember Mireille shaking her head to clear the wet hair from her
face, leaning down to kiss to your neck. You remember squeezing your
eyes shut when she touched that perfect spot.
You never wanted that storm to end.
~[]~
“I’ll catch cold if you don’t close that window.”
Kirika obeys the voice instinctively, her quick hands already closing
the latches before she realizes who is speaking to her.
Mireille stands casually, arms crossed and head cocked to one side,
despite the fact that she is wearing nothing more than a towel.
Another towel is wrapped around the top of her head, concealing her
hair.
“I... I’m sorry.” Kirika stutters, out of surprise and nervousness
rather than embarrassment.
“I see you let yourself in.” No accusation in Mireille’s voice.
“I wanted to see you again.” And it was true. It hurt so much to
look at her, but it was true.
“Can you give me a minute to get dressed?”
“Mmm.” Kirika gives a slight nod, averts her eyes as Mireille makes
her to the bed and gathers up some clothes. A year ago, she would
have thought nothing of watching Mireille dress, but now... It was as
though she needed permission. But then again, what had she expected?
That Mireille would jump into her arms?
The blonde dresses quickly, efficiently, picking out new clothes at
random. She spots the red package on her bed, not one of hers. The
box is dented, damaged. She thinks better than to speak of it.
Kirika, meanwhile, had turned her attention back to the window.
Mireille had never known what the girl saw out there. Always the same
street, the same buildings, the same melancholic sky.
Yuumura Kirika. There was so much Mireille didn’t know about the
Japanese girl. How long had they been together? A year? More. And
still, Kirika remained a mystery. There were so many things she never
told Mireille. Yes, she was shy. And yes, she was naturally quiet.
But at some point, the silence had just been too much. The lack of
words between them haunted Mireille in ways she never thought
possible. She never tired of Kirika’s voice. She needed it. Needed
to hear it just to remind herself that the girl she spent her time
with wasn’t the same one that killed her parents. Mireille needed to
know that Kirika had changed, that Kirika cared. And it wasn’t enough
just to know, she needed a constant reminder.
So insecure. Despite all her talents as world-renowned assassin,
Mireille was deeply insecure when it came to love. Perhaps as scared
as Kirika herself was. But now, with Kirika in her apartment again,
she finds herself remembering the happy times they had shared here.
She finds her gaze drawn to Kirika’s back
The dark-haired girl listens to Mireille’s shuffling behind her,
counting the blonde’s movements. She knows that Mireille has finished
dressing, knows that she is being observed. Mireille takes a few
steps towards her, standing close. Too close? Closer than she should
be, but not close enough, not for Kirika.
“That colour doesn’t suit you.” The blonde says.
“If only that were true.” Kirika retorts, spinning to face the
critic. Despite the edge in her voice, her eyes are soft.
Pause. There is a long moment where they simply stare at each other,
as if waiting for the other to make the first move, the first mistake.
Mireille has chosen to wear white, the colour of purity. To Kirika,
that is already a lie, already a mistake. She tries to distance
herself her from Mireille, hardening her features, but to no avail.
It seems to her that whenever she looks upon her partner, it is with
pleading eyes. Always asking for something, always waiting for
something. Kirika looks away, unable to bear the sight of Mireille so
close to her.
“I brought you something.” She mumbles at the floor.
“I saw. Thank you.”
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Christmas isn’t for another two days.”
“Oh.” Kirika’s eyes begin to wander around again.
“I didn’t get you anything since I didn’t know you were coming, so let
me buy you dinner instead.” Mireille suggests.
“Mmm.”
They grab their coats.
* * * * *
The cab ride goes by in utter silence. The restaurant is a mere ten
minutes away, and Kirika spends every second watching the snow fall on
the landscape outside. Several times, she thinks of saying something,
starting a conversation, but she can’t bring her mouth to form the
words. Mireille had always been the talkative one. Mireille had
always been the one to speak first. Kirika finds herself unable to do
something as simple as asking a question.
~[]~
You remember a train ride through the French countryside. You were
just as quiet, just as withdrawn. But somehow, the silence then had
been less strained. The air hadn’t hung heavy and pregnant.
You remember sitting next to Mireille and having her hand clasped in
your lap. She had given you the window seat. She had wanted to point
out all the sights for you. You were so disinterested. That time, it
was Mireille that kept her eyes glued to the scenery. You just kept
looking at her, staring at her so intently that you broke her
concentration, forced her to consider you.
You were so flattered when you won out, so thrilled that Mireille
found you more fascinating than whatever panoramic “paysage” lay
outside. You remember spending half the ride in complete stillness,
lost in Mireille’s eyes. She seemed so gentle, so soft. You remember
desperately wanting to touch her face, but being morbidly afraid to do
so. You wondered what it was she saw in you. You wondered what it
was that made her care. You didn’t know. You couldn’t ask her. You
never found out.
But you never stopped wanting her attention.
~[]~
Mireille regrets picking this restaurant the instant they step through
the door. They used to eat here all the time. It was one of her
favourite places, but she didn’t come here often anymore. All of it
was too familiar, too filled with memories. At Mireille’s request,
the waiter leads them to a table in the corner, far from their usual
spot by the window.
He returns a few minutes later, notepad in hand, ready to take their
order. Kirika waits, expecting Mireille to order for her, like
always. The blonde doesn’t. She lets Kirika decide on her own.
Caught by surprise, the younger girl ends up ordering the same thing
as her partner.
Dinner progresses slowly, both of them picking at their seafood meals
and trying unsuccessfully to lighten the mood. After the requisite
“how have you been?”, “where are you staying?”, and “how long?”,
Mireille ran out of things to say. She didn’t know what to else to
ask. She recalls a time when she could talk easily to Kirika. A time
when she would ramble on enthusiastically about whatever happened to
strike her at the moment. Where did that carefree spirit go?
Mireille looks down despondently at her half empty plate and sighs.
The reaction is not lost on the girl facing her.
“Are you finished?” She asks suddenly.
“Yes.” Kirika answers, even though she’s not. But she’s not hungry
anyway.
Mireille lifts her glass of wine and downs the remaining liquid in one
gulp. “Let’s go.”
“What about dessert?” Kirika doesn’t want to leave. Even if the
alternative is sitting here in silence. Having dinner with Mireille
was almost like a dream. She just wanted to spend some time with the
woman, just wanted to see her.
Mireille pauses, glances across at Kirika. She finds herself feeling
sorry for this downcast girl, this teenager forced into an adult world
without first getting the chance to be a child. In that instant, she
wants nothing more than to buy this girl a balloon and some ice cream,
she wants to spoil the girl, she wants her to have fun. “We’ll go
back to the apartment, I have some chocolate cake left.”
* * * * *
Mireille stands on the curb, looking out onto the street. She’s about
to wave down another cab when Kirika touches her elbow.
“Can we walk instead? The snow is so pretty.”
“If you like. It’s not that far.” The blonde pulls her coat tighter
around herself, starts off after Kirika.
How strange it was, that Kirika should be the one to lead. Mireille
can’t remember the last time the girl had actually walked ahead of
her. She was always one step behind, as if deferring to a higher
authority. Kirika always asked for permission before doing anything.
Her little spurts of initiative were rare, to say the least, yet
Mireille found them particularly endearing.
As she follows Kirika through the snow, Mireille finds herself
thinking of another time, a long time ago. There had been snow then
also. But that had been towards the end of it, the ugly part.
Mostly, she remembers Kirika coming home with a paper bag in her arms,
and a small cat hidden in the bag. The girl had known that Mireille
wouldn’t approve, so she thought she could hide the animal. Mireille
still remembers the look on Kirika’s face when the cat popped out.
The expression innocent, helpless, so incredibly cute.
Mireille catches herself watching Kirika. The Japanese girl is right
beside her, eyes darting from side to side as she watches the
snowflakes drift to the ground. She seems strangely out of place, her
black hair and clothes against the stark white snow. It isn’t the
first time she witnesses a snowfall, but it still seems like the
experience is magical to her. Mireille envies her, marvelling at
Kirika’s ability to appreciate even the most mundane aspects of life.
Simple little things meant so much to her. Mireille sighs, wondering
if she had been wrong to drive away Kirika.
Kirika turns at the sound of Mireille’s exhalation. The blonde hadn’t
noticed, but Kirika’s arm had somehow linked through hers. Similarly,
Kirika’s hand had also somehow managed to worm its way into Mireille’s
coat pocket, and her fingers were absently stroking Mireille’s.
Embarrassed, the dark-haired girl withdraws her hand, quickly stuffing
it back into her own pocket. Her cheeks are ruddy from the cold, and
she is obviously flushed. “I... sorry... I’m sorry... I...” She
looks away, down at the ground where her shoes are digging into the
snow.
“Don’t be.”
Kirika doesn’t meet Mireille’s eyes, only picks up her pace, moving
ahead. The apartment is less than two blocks away.
“Kirika, don’t be sorry, not for that. If anything, I should be
sorry.” Mireille’s voice sounds on the verge of breaking, and Kirika
can’t bring herself to look back. She just pushes herself to walk
faster, feeling the tears start to fill her eyes.
~[]~
You remember the day you left Paris. You remember that perfect day.
The sun was shining, the sky clear, the breeze gentle, even the
temperature had been unseasonably warm. It was as though fate had
decided to pull one more obscene prank on you.
In truth, things had not been right for some time, but you could never
point it out. You could never admit to yourself that this wasn’t how
it was supposed to be. Until that day. What had been different that
day? Nothing really, but somehow, over the course of time, Mireille
had drifted away from you. She didn’t talk as much anymore, she
didn’t seem to be sleeping well, she didn’t seem to eat much either.
It had gone on for a long time, but that day, you finally summoned up
the courage to speak to her.
“Mireille, what’s wrong?”
So simple, those three words. But that was all it took. You remember
the agonizing look she gave you as she lifted her eyes from the
computer screen. You remember the endless stream of tears as she
proceeded to tell you what was wrong. These days, you only wonder
what would have happened if you had never asked. You wonder if you
would be any happier.
“You never talk to me, Kirika. You never tell me what you like and
what you don’t. You never tell me how you feel. You always say you
don’t care or it doesn’t matter. Sometimes... Sometimes all I can
hear you say is, ‘I don’t care’. Sometimes I ask myself if you care
about anything at all.”
“I care about you.”
“It’s so hard for me tell.”
You remember how much she cried when she said that. You remember how
much it hurt you just to stand there and listen to her go on. But you
stood there, stoically, fighting the urge to cry yourself. You stood
there, strong, because at that moment, she wasn’t. You listened to
everything she said, everything about the two of you, about yourself,
and you saw that she was right, She was right about everything.
“Maybe you shouldn’t stay here anymore. Just for a while. I need
some time.”
You remember running out of the apartment when she finally finished.
You remember standing on the edge of the riverbank and thinking how
easy it would be to end it all right here. Just one jump, into the
river, and let yourself go. But you were scared, weren’t you? The
greatest assassin in all the world was afraid.
You ran away.
~[]~
Kirika leans her forehead against the door of Mireille’s apartment.
The blonde’s footsteps sound clearly on the stairs. Kirika wants to
get inside badly, to get away from Mireille, but her key is nowhere to
be found. She must have dropped it, or left it inside.
Mireille comes up at a sluggish pace. She is nervous, scared even, of
what she wants to tell Kirika. The girl is propped up, immobile
against her door, crying in that silent way of hers. Despite the fact
that Mireille knows better, Kirika seems so very frail and vulnerable.
Of their own accord, her hands land on the girl’s shoulders.
Kirika tenses as Mireille touches her. She knows she should twist
away, get loose, but part of her desperately wants to be here, next to
Mireille.
“Do you remember the day you went away?” The words are whispered into
Kirika’s ear. She doesn’t answer, only shuts her eyes in a vain
attempt to stop to the tears.
“I’m sorry.” Mireille goes on. “I’m sorry for telling you things I
shouldn’t have. I’m sorry for not seeing how much you cared for me.
I’m sorry for not realizing just how much I needed you. I’m sorry for
letting you run away without telling you I loved you.” She too,
closes her eyes, lets her arms slide around Kirika’s neck as she
presses closer. “Please don’t hate me, Kirika.”
The pleading in Mireille’s voice causes Kirika to shudder. She turns
around to face Mireille, locking her arms around the blonde’s waist.
Kirika struggles to speak, knowing that any words will be inadequate.
“I don’t hate you, Mireille.”
For a long moment, they are silent, wrapped around each other.
Kirika, with her back against the door, pushes up on her toes so that
her chin rests on Mireille’s shoulder. “I love you.” She whispers,
her lips almost touching Mireille’s ear.
~[]~
You remember once wanting to ask Mireille why all the love stories you
saw were between men and women. Why did all the women’s magazines
only have tips for dating men? Why did all the television shows only
have romance between men and women?
You never found the courage to ask her. You thought maybe you could
find out on your own. Eventually, you did learn. You learned that
the world looked upon love in a such a horrible hypocritical way. You
learned that maybe... maybe it was wrong for you to be in love...
But you couldn’t deny it.
~[]~
“I love you, Kirika.” Mireille squeezes tightly as she says it, her
fingers lacing their way into curls of dark hair. “I never told you
that did I?”
“Not in those words.”
Mireille pulls away so that she can look into Kirika’s reddish-brown
eyes. There was a time she had found those strange impassive orbs
unsettling. But now, with wetness ringing her soft eyes, Kirika seems
so much more human, so much more needy.
“I love you, Mireille. I never said it quite that way either.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Kirika embraces Mireille again, burying her face into the taller
woman’s neck. Of it’s own volition, her tongue darts out to tease
Mireille’s skin. Suddenly, there are hands on Kirika’s face, pulling
her up into a deep kiss. She tightens her thin arms even more,
refusing to let go of her partner.
~[]~
You remember standing in this very same spot, with Mireille kissing
you fiercely while fumbling to open the door with one hand. You
remember the wonderful squishy feeling you had in your belly. You
remember the warmth that shot through you every time her scintillating
blue eyes drifted to yours, every time her skin brushed yours, every
time your lips found each other. You wondered if this was what is
what like to be in love. You wondered if Mireille felt the same way.
Now you know.
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