your bones

It keeps me up at night, these lonely city lights. They glimmer amongst a black blanket, hiding this place from the sad reality of our corrupted hearts. They seep through my window when I lie awake at night, counting the cracks in the roof, my thoughts racing and rising like the tidal surge before a hurricane.

Your bones tell me something different, as we sit across one another at the dinner table, no words coming from each other's mouths. It's no longer warmth and comfort when I'm with you, as there's nothing left but your skin, a personality so futile and unfamiliar; it drives me to near insanity.

I want to tell you again, your worth is something so much more than anything on this planet to me, but your eyes mutter an opposite meaning, as something makes you value yourself lower than the dark and murky ocean depths. It's like your old soul has been murdered, ripped apart and left to rot in the pits of my past and your heart, a purgatory grasping too hard onto your memories.

Our conversations meant something, but now nothing leaves your lips. When you're with others it carries on into a reverie, and your laugh is there but forced out, fake, and when you know I'm watching, you don't make a peep.

The only time your feelings surface is when your fingers stroke the keys of the piano, creating a sad and reflective melody, that's when I truly wonder what goes on in that broken and empty mind of yours.

So that leaves me counting the cracks in the ceilings, wondering if they have any significance, if I have any significance, if I have any meaning at all anymore to you. who are you, who am I, who are we; questions I am not sure will be answered ever.

Coffee helps sometimes, otherwise it gives me anxiety, and I wring my wrists all night and stare into the darkness of the quiet night. I think you know I'm awake sometimes; I hear the door creak and footsteps pace towards the stairs, but pause to listen to the silence of a person's mind cracking open as the caffeine sinks into my veins.

I will not tell anyone though, that this bothers me, because I'm afraid it's becoming more of an obsession rather than a concern. If I happen to be able to unconsciously know your presence and your constant brooding behaviours, isn't that something to be more afraid of, than amazed of?

"Rin Kagamine," a teacher calls for the fourth time in the last two periods. It's becoming a routine now; I'll drift away like a ghost and think I've blended into the backgrounds of an animated classroom, but be yanked back into reality with a melancholic truth, to see your eyes gazing over your shoulder at me, along with another thirty-something, and a person barking at me from being absent mentally.

I'm sorry the trees and the sky and the grass and everything but this has become more intriguing than the formulas of quantum mechanics and black holes, as an urge to soar is something that has been tugging at the edges of my fraying sanity.

They call my parents after the thirtieth call-out in a time period of four days, asking about my mental state and whether I am actually stable enough to be attending school after the second incident that recently happened two months ago, and they deny all suspicion and insist I was tired and still getting into the routine of life, i.e. the worst thing to deal with ever.

After that they sit me down at home in the periwinkle blue kitchen and chorus together the words, "Call out if you get lonely."

"Talk right when you're sad."

But they just blend into my whirring thoughts and I still go to sleep by counting the cracks in the ceiling, looking tainted like the cracks in my heart, his eyes burning into my dreams as he watched from the hallway to the left.

They were all just dreams of the past, or hopes for the future, useless things that would break open the wounds which were barely close to healing. I wake up wishing to die, which is a normal routine in the torment of a Rin Kagamine, and it's normally followed by a cup of coffee (now becoming my staple diet) and blank scan of the first few pages of the tragic newspaper.

"Shouldn't you eat more?" he then asks, when he stops by the kitchen to make cereal, and stares at me from across the room, his cerulean eyes too bright in contrast with the fading walls. Maybe it was the first time he had uttered something at all to me in a few months, and it was so stunning I couldn't find a reply.

But he did not wait and then left me in the kitchen, staring at my clammy palms and having answers flow into my mouth but being unable to decipher a decent enough response for such a shallow question.

Does he hate me or something?

I bet you and I are different.

What?

"And I bet you and I are different."

I simply went back to bed on that day and did not bother anything productive as this depression seemed too sad and my rushing thoughts were beginning to become too bad.

That afternoon while my mother tries to prod an excuse from my lips, my father shoots disappointed looks, all the while they attempt to be sympathetic with something they cannot probably ever relate to.

I just murmur measly apologies and try to force them away so I can be left alone to dwell in my own darkness, but they continue to pester, to poke at my mask and question my motives that not even I can properly understand in the decaying state that I am.

Eventually I tell them I want to die, and they go, "What?" like it's something out of the blue, new and surprising, when it's just a returning image of the past that they've dealt with continuously in this battle of hatred for myself, and so I repeat it again very slowly so they get the message, but not probably understand it:

"I want to die."

And then it goes silent like a class in an exam, and my parents just suddenly look so energy-drained and lost, like all this effort was getting them nowhere—in truth, it was, because this isn't something that can just go away—and I feel the revisit of guilt, as I question the point of myself even being born.

They both leave quietly, and I know they're making calls to the woman who thinks she can help me but is really doing nothing at all, and he slips in with a cold face like he's about to shout, but instead he just looks so weak and inferior when he stops to stand in front of me.

"Dying isn't all that, you know," he murmurs.

I can't say anything, another frequently-met issue. I stare at the bedcovers I'm sitting on, ashamed almost, wondering why things weren't different, why anything wasn't different, why it was all this way and not something else so much more logical and meaningful and I just don't understand it myself.

"Because if you die, you have to take me with you." I look at him and his eyes are wandering in places other than my face. His hands are balled into fists so tightly his skin is turning white and they're starting to look deformed and inhuman.

What?

I barely even whisper it, but then his eyes lock onto mine. My breath starts to shorten, and I want to look away, but they're so not him, they're so not Len, so dark and swirling with hurt and confusion, I feel myself drowning in his emotions.

"I don't… want to… live," he mutters, rolling the words off his tongue. "I don't want to live without you, with the constant agony people go through when someone—someone they love—has… d-died." His voice trembles, dying off into a whimper, and he once again looks so small in front of me.

Len takes a step towards me, but stops because the bed forbids him to do so. He looks frightened when he realises that, and then this façade breaks and he reaches forward to grasp the front of my t-shirt with shaky hands, drawing in unsteady breaths, before he slips onto the bed and closes the space between us, pressing my backside into the wall.

Even that I've been

stepping up towards the end when I was born

and today too that isn't supposed to ever change—

And I bet you and I are different.

I bet you and I are different.

oh look. do you see that. a rare form of lazy motivation.

deeply inspired by Rin's 'Cleaning of a Pandemic' and Len's remix of that song too. but not a song fic, because I have no idea what the song is actually about so slap me everyone, please.

the english translation wasn't done by me, but were borrowed from berrysubs. sorry. I'm a stealer. so rude. much lazy. very bad.

typed within like, idk forty-five minutes so if there are mistakes you can rage all you want

I doubt anyone would read this because this writing style is so wow confusing I didn't even mistake-check it do you see that? do you see it?

I might delete it later but it depends.