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A Grudge's Decision
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Bleach › General
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Adult +
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Category:
Bleach › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
9
Views:
6,164
Reviews:
17
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Bleach, its fandom, or any of its characters. I make no profit from writing this story.
Consequences / Afterwards
「恨みの決断」A Grudge's Decision
A/N: It seems I am continuing this. It’s not leaving me alone.
Narrated sigh. Y’know, I gave this thing timestamps (it’s not in order), but it’s still pretty disjointed. I’ll just say this: accounts closer to the incident tend to be the most garbled—‘frenetic thinking, frenetic passages.’ (My reasoning was something like that at the time.)
Well… Okay now: I’m going to warn for “emotional explicitness,” if that makes sense. Because sometimes, even well intentioned people can’t curb their reactions.
Normal!Ichigo is already hard to take care of, so Traumatized!Ichigo is going to be a right pain in the ass. He probably has no idea what to do with that fuckton of hatred and fear, and the people around him are going to end up getting hurt by that. And even though the people close to him want the best for him, they do have their own feelings, tempers, stress-thresholds, etc. Not everyone is going to be nice and sensitive to Ichigo the whole time, especially not in the face of a new, corrosive attitude. In short, there’s a lot of stepping on toes in this chapter. And, personally, I find that a little hard to read, especially when someone is hurting as badly he is.
…Stuff like this is just awful for everyone—it’s a crime with more than one victim.
(02)「結果・後で」Consequences / Afterwards
.
.
.
.
(little less than three weeks, probably.) :: FRIEND, a friend, kindness
“…Excuse me?”
“The face, you’re doing the face again. It pisses me off.”
“Well… this is my face?”
“Ishida, you KNOW what I’m talking about. Would it kill you to act normally?”
“…”
“…”
“ ‘Normally’? Kurosaki, how would I—”
“How ‘bout acting like Ishida? That’s a novel concept.”
“That’s not—I am acting like me. It’s just… around you, I—”
“And here it goes, again. ‘Kurosaki’s traumatized, Kurosaki’s fragile—so let’s tiptoe around him to make him feel THAT MUCH MORE NORMAL!’ Jesus CHRIST, I’m not glass!”
“…”
“…”
“We’re not–… I’m not treating you like glass.”
“Don’t try to—ugh! You give me the same kind of look you’d give an abandoned pet—I’m so SICK OF THIS! …Why is every goddamned person treating me like I’m gonna lose it? I’M FINE!”
“…”
“…”
“We both know that’s not true.”
“…”
“You’re not fine—no, you can’t be fine.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I appreciate your overwhelming faith in me.”
“No, it’s—Kurosaki, what he did to you… even you understand how serious that is.”
“…”
“…”
“Ishida, why… Why are you even here? How is this any of your business?”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…That’s really, really insulting. And arrogant.”
“…”
“Whether you like it or not, it so happens that we are friends. And friends—I don’t know—HELP EACH OTHER!”
“Yeah, and you’re doing a great job of that. You pussyfooting around me makes me feel just swell—”
“I cannot BELIEVE you! …I don’t know if you were always like this or if the PTSD is making you a complete bastard, but if you’re going to refuse psychotherapy, the least you can do is let the people who care about you care about you!”
“…”
“The reason I’m here—spending my time—is because I’m trying to figure out how to get you out of your own way, because you obviously don’t want to take care of yourself! Even if you’re being a bull-headed, hypocritical—I’m trying to help, Kurosaki. And don’t you dare tell me this is not my business.”
“…”
“…”
“…How?”
“…”
“How in the hell could you help me? What the fuck could you—could any of you—do? ’Cause I don’t see how anything could make this go away.”
“…”
“…”
“Kurosaki—”
“What, do you expect me to cry on your shoulder like a little girl—”
“Would it help you?”
“…”
“Would it make you feel any better?”
“…”
“…”
“Don’t–… ask me stuff like that. Just—I don’t…”
“…”
.
.
.
.
(the day of. (because time doesn’t stop for anybody.)) :: ICHIGO
The hospital, three in the morning—nearby, there’s an odd-hour train arriving at Honchou station. He remembers it for some reason. (The sound.)
He doesn’t want anyone to take from him again.
“Do you want to press charges?”
Sedatives are nice, and one of the paramedics has curly hair.
There’s a broken ceiling light in one of the hallways, and it’s bothering him.
“Don’t fucking touch me!”
Crying doesn’t do much for Urahara’s complexion—makes the man look pasty.
He wants Urahara to leave. (When did he get there, anyway?) It’s embarrassing; he feels embarrassed.
And scared.
(It doesn’t make sense—it’s over, but the fear is making him nauseous.)
What is he supposed to do?
What do you do if it’s your dad?
What do you do?
What do you do?
What do you do?
“Evidence rarely lasts more than 72 hours. If you’d like to collect evidence, we’ll need your consent within…”
“Shh… It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” (Staff probably doesn’t appreciate his screaming.)
“…That’s right—like that. Take a deep breath; listen to my voice… You are at the hospital. The hospital, alright?”
(No, it’s not, but that’s not the point.)
That doctor’s hands are too big. He isn’t seriously going to touch him, is he?
(Why is his father everywhere?)
“I won’t let you do it again… I won’t let you!”
Have the painkillers made him say anything weird yet? (Not the painkillers.)
The couch in the corner of the room by the rubber plant—Karin has her face in her hands.
(She’ll call Yuzu once it’s light out.)
(She likes to think her shoulders aren’t shaking.)
“Breathe through your nose and out through your mouth—concentrate, Kurosaki-kun.”
The casts are really uncomfortable. He wants to shift, but won’t—he’s hyper-conscious of the IV needle in the crook of his arm.
‘Please don’t walk toward me. Please stay out of reach length.’
(Does he still have the title to his own body?)
He feels really bad. (His head hurts and his skin is crawling with something—not itchy, but it feels like a funny bone.)
“If you shower, it’s possible nothing will turn up on the kit.”
(They say it’s his choice, but he’s starting to have doubts.)
For some strange reason, looking at the hospital breakfast cereal makes him burst into tears. The first word that comes to mind is ‘help.’
What is he supposed to do? (It’s over, but it’s been ‘not-over’ three times already since then.)
‘Dad had sex with me.’
(Can’t bring himself to say ‘rape,’ ‘abuse,’ or even ‘assault’ within the privacy of his mind.)
“We’re holding him in custody.” (What does that even mean?)
“It’s my fault, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not, Ichi-nii.” (He disagrees.)
What is he supposed to do?
.
.
.
.
(third day, morning, eleven-ish.) :: enough guilt to go around
It tries his composure. (A rare thing—the last time it happened was his undeserved exile.)
“I hope you get a long sentence.”
He stands outside Isshin’s holding cell, trembling.
It’s the kind of anger that makes the skin crawl—an odd sensation of feeling stiff, yet not being able to tense enough. His fists can’t be clenched any tighter, but his body doesn’t seem to catch on.
Really, the only thing Urahara wants to do is inflict pain on this man on Ichigo’s behalf. (Seeing plucky, surly Ichigo like that is a stab in the gut—it feeds the protective, uncharacteristically unreasonable monster buried within him.) But he has the calm of mind to know that isn’t a (good) choice.
Instead, he tries to limit himself to a more civil way of destroying a person.
“You are unbelievable…”
He screws up his face, creases on the bridge of his nose, a flicker of white as he grits his teeth. From a sitting perspective, Isshin can see the entirety of his visitor’s countenance, unobstructed by the trademark hat.
He’s never seen Kisuke that unhinged.
“But why am I surprised? It’s not like you were ever there for him.”
(Isshin winces because it’s true.)
“There were—” Urahara swallows. “—so many times he would have needed a father—needed you—and you? …You picked your selfish, misdirected resentment over him.”
Impulsively: “Says the man who made him a Viz—”
“Says the man who mindfully neglects his son!” Urahara bellows and draws in an ireful breath. “At least I try to help him.”
There’s an unusual venom in his words, and an unusual brightness in his eyes. He looks at his old friend in disgust. Pity.
“Say, Shin-chan—how long did it take to convince the neighbors that you were just ‘encouraging his independence’ with your ‘non-interventionist parenting,’ when you really just wanted to see him flounder? It’s a—motherfucking miracle he is where he is, no thanks to you,” he hisses. Benihime rattles in his cane, glowing a blustery red.
“I know you took her death hard, but you had no right to stop being a good father to him. He was nine, Isshin! And to do THIS—!”
Urahara pauses to contain himself.
“…I trusted you were more mature than this. I should have known—I should have known I’d have to protect Ichigo from YOU. You… don’t deserve to call yourself his father.”
Sober, Isshin has the decency to look away, shamefaced.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” He speaks disdainfully, voice quavering and brittle, knuckles white on the cane. “Do you know what you did? Do you know what you did to him?”
Silence.
“Ichigo is in shock.”
He gives Isshin a few seconds to absorb it.
“…Well, who would believe someone could do something that horrible to another person, let alone their own child?” he says quietly.
Urahara turns away, walks tiredly to the back wall, leans on a hand—it’s tiring to feel so much hatred. It’s hard to look at Isshin. (That terrible wreck of a man, of a father. Of a friend.)
“If… If your children had no love left for you, I would kill you for what you did,” he mutters—dark, soft, but audible.
They both know how serious he is being.
With a guilty conscience—Ichigo had been right; he’d never forgive himself—he assents.
“That’s… fine.”
The words linger in a suspended state. Before he leaves, Urahara gives him a scathing look over his shoulder.
“I’ll take care of your kids, because someone has to man up and do it.”
.
.
.
.
(ten days, or so he was told.) :: ICHIGO
Ichigo’s not fond of hospital jello. Or at least not anymore—it’s so easy to get tired of.
(He’s not hungry anyway. He just ends up poking it.)
It’s been a little over a week, but it doesn’t feel like it. Time has been fluid and a sort of dodgy thing, lately.
It’s not that the first… four days, was it? —weren’t memorable (if anything, they probably should have been the most memorable); he just can’t remember them very well. There are bits and fragments that come to him, but it’s like all those hours had just… disappeared.
Apparently, in that span of AWOL time, he’d already given a statement to the police. Apparently, he’d already consented to having evidence collected—
Ugh. That’s a sick thought.
—Apparently, he’d already had his first session with the crisis counselor lady. (She wears too much makeup, smiles too wide, and speaks too cheerfully, as if her clients haven’t just had the ground taken out from underneath them. He thinks it’s sort of patronizing. He’s tempted not to talk just to spite her.) And apparently, he’d already seen and talked to Urahara and Ishida. (Why them?)
That’s embarrassing. Or would have been embarrassing.
Whatever.
The memory gaps are probably a bad thing, but he’s trying not to think about it. Actually, he’ll just write it off as another one of those “psychological issues” that come with That. (He still doesn’t know how to feel about That.)
The doctors tell him he has posttraumatic stress disorder. It’s so weird, having all these medical terms and diagnoses attached to what he’s thinking and experiencing. Like, the times when he suddenly finds himself… back on the bedroom floor that night, and starts screaming in the middle of the hospital for no goddamned reason (his father’s in custody, right?), they’d say something like, “Oh, you’re having flashbacks.” It’s so… impersonal, having that sort of horror and disturbance stuffed into a single word. But it’s probably a little easier to think about it that way.
Also a little easier when they dope him up. In fact, he has his own prescription now. (Those benzodiazepines are awesome.)
They’re also prescribing him antidepressants, because they say he’s ‘severely depressed.’ He doesn’t know the hell why, because he’s not feeling anything at all, much less sad. (Has he even cried since That? He doesn’t remember.) And it’s a bit annoying that they moved him to the psychiatric ward. Besides the fact he may have unintentionally attacked a doctor (kicked him in the face—they should know by now not to touch his legs), he had told them he wasn’t suicidal.
(“You’re putting me with the crazies because I’m not jumping up and down to be alive? Do YOU do that or something?”)
They didn’t listen.
Hopefully, he’ll get out soon. His body is healing up nicely.
The once-black bruises are now a sallow color (they still hurt, but they don’t need to know that). He can walk without… limping. (‘Don’t think about it.’) His left wrist is still broken—that’ll take a while—but his relocated right wrist is considerably better. (He can take his own shower now, for fuck’s sake. But there’s something wrong with the hospital soap—is it a low budget thing?) And the– …belt marks are actually starting to blend in with the rest of his scars. One of the doctors had queried him about them—whether Isshin had ever… done anything to him before That. He said no—he just gets into a lot of fights.
Vague, but true. He can’t really say he participates in inter-dimensional warfare with spiritual entities—he’d like to stay in the psych ward for the least time possible.
The ward makes him feel sicker. Malaised.
It helps when his friends visit in the afternoons, now. The thought of visiting hours used to make his stomach flip (no one should see him like this), but now he finds it… comforting, mostly. There’s a sort of normalcy about it.
(Even though they know.)
Chad’s still quiet. Inoue’s still very odd, but sometimes she gets this serious look. Ishida’s still a girly bastard (a little nicer and a little more awkward, but still a bastard). Tatsuki’s still like a sister—she acts more like an older sister now, though. He hasn’t seen Rukia or Renji yet—they’re probably busy. (Or does he just not remember?)
He doesn’t know quite how to react to his friends’ new and very protective attitude toward him. It’s a little demeaning, but on some level, it’s nice to take the back seat for once.
(They asked him once if he’d like them to “go take out that son of a bitch.”
They were serious, but it sounded like they were joking.
He’d just said, “Nah, let’s leave it to the electric chair.”
He was joking, but it sounded like he was serious.
Either way, it wasn’t really funny, and it made them all feel a little uncomfortable.)
.
.
.
.
(a little more than a month.) :: annoying, concern validating the shittiness
“Itadakimasu.”
There’s an awkward, semi-collective breath.
Ichigo gives Yuzu a silent thank-you, breaks his chopsticks apart, and promptly starts to cry.
This is so fucking ridiculous.
Here he is, sitting at the table where his comrades routinely discuss fighting operations, having breakfast with his sisters and Urahara, of all people, and he hasn’t been hungry for forever. (He doubts he can even manage okayu.)
And then, of course, nobody knows how to react to this—Kurosaki Ichigo randomly sobbing, that is—which makes it so much better.
He leans over the table and buries his head in his arms, trying to muffle how pathetic he sounds. ‘Shit—at this rate, I’m going to turn into a girl.’ Not a heartening thought.
(Especially not after how his father treated him.)
Can’t he just go back to bed? Everything being stupid should not have to be his business.
“Ichi-nii… Are you… okay?”
He looks up and gives Karin a withering look—or as withering as a look can be when crying bullets.
“Yeah—I’m just peachy.” He dabs at an eye with his ring finger and gets up to leave. “…I think I need more sleep.”
“Ichigo.” He turns around to see Urahara giving him that awful ‘I’m-worried-about-your-welfare-so-take-care-of-yourself’ look.
It makes him want to kick puppies or something.
“What?” He knows it’s unfair for him to be snapping—the man’s just concerned. “I can’t help having no appetite!”
Urahara frowns. He understands the side effects of the medication, but…
“Regardless, you need to eat something. Homeostasis, homeostasis~”
“I know that—but I swear to god, if I force myself to eat, I’m just gonna throw up. And I don’t feel like throwing up.”
“Is there… any taste you can think of that you might be in the mood for?”
“No, because I have no appetite.”
Then Yuzu starts speaking.
“…Did I not make it well enough, Ichi-nii?”
Aw, shit—now that makes him feel awful.
Or at least until he sees her share a conspiratorial look with Urahara. He then points accusingly at his guardian.
“YOU—! You are evil.” He says that, but returns to seiza and picks up his chopsticks.
Urahara shrugs. “It’s probably not the best thing to guilt you into eating, but it’s better than you not eating at all. You, dear boy, have become woefully underweight.”
This is all true. Unfortunately.
“Che.”
He’s half-thankful and half-tempted to castrate him.
.
.
.
.
(day after, four-ish.) :: at least one of them remembers.
He’s not even furrowing his eyebrows.
In any other circumstance, it would be welcomed. But this is just frightening.
The lax facial muscles don’t lend him a look of relaxation—he looks absent.
Ichigo gives him (or the wall behind him) a blank stare, and Ishida thinks it’s almost like looking at a deserted gigai.
Almost.
“Masaki…”
Ichigo blinks and looks in a different direction—he attempts to wrap his arms around himself, but can’t quite maneuver with the bulkiness of casts.
Something inside Ishida’s stomach curdles.
(“…strangled, beaten, incapacitated…”)
(“…charges for sexual assault and battery?”)
(“…must’ve been horrible for his younger sister to…”)
(“…father was inebriated—his BAC…”)
“Masaki… Masaki…”
“…know how much y’look like her?”
“Kurosaki…” It slips out, even though he’s used to burying his concern.
Unexpectedly, he gets Ichigo’s attention. Or at least as much attention as Ichigo can give. (Struggling to maintain eye contact.)
Which puts Ishida in the uncomfortable position of actually acting on that concern.
“Um…” His mouth is dry. “Do you… need anything?”
If Ichigo were in a right state of mind, he would have teased him for his sub-par social attempt. Instead, with great effort, he processes the words and considers the offer.
“Don’ gimme that bull, Isschigo.”
“The, uh… thing.” His voice is low and rocky from lack of use. It’s a little startling.
“…I can’t have her. I can’t HAVE her…”
“YOU’RE SO STUPID!”
“…‘The thing’?” Ishida practices unusual patience. This is the first time he’s personally heard him speak since That happened.
“If it weren’t for you…”
Ichigo coughs a little and his eyes shift unfocusedly. “They have this thing that helps when—I’m, like… hearing… echoey stuff right now; s’freaking me out, and the thing—you know what it is… the benzo-whatsits—”
‘IT MAKES ME CRAZY!’
‘You owe me.’
‘Dumb bitch… Should a’ been you…’
‘Shut th’fuck up.’
Distressed, he attempts to pantomime a syringe to represent a tranquilizer, but the casts aren’t particularly accommodating. When he sees Ishida’s perplexed face, he groans, frustrated and starting to panic. “Never mind. Jus’ go get the person—somewhere around here.”
“Can’t you just use the call button?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as curt as it does.
“WHO’RE YOU TO TELL ME WHO I CAN’T AND CAN’T FORGIVE!”
“EVERY FUCKING DAY, you remind me of ‘er, and it makes me craaazy.”
“Dumb bitch… Should a’ been you... Yeah, should a’ been you…”
He covers his ears, but the sounds gain imagery.
The sounds gain mass.
“Stop…”
“…What?” Ishida is confused. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know Ichigo’s now back on his bedroom floor, trying to battle Isshin without the use of his arms.
to pry his legs apart—he resists
“STOP!” Ichigo roars, not knowing to keep his voice down. “FUCKING STOP! STOP IT!”
Ishida is taken aback. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know how to handle this.
Shuddering, Ichigo gives off a pitching, earsplitting whine. “Daaaaaad?”
Then it clicks. Ishida runs to the bedside and scrambles to find the call button. He presses it, shaking.
Ichigo is viciously kicking a non-existent offender. A mindless chant of “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I—”
“KUROSAKI! You’re in the hospital!” Alarmed, Ishida makes the ill-informed choice of trying to shake him out of the hallucination, hands on his shoulders.
“Don’t…” No recognition.
floor doesn’t provide enough
horrified and relieved when his father orgasms
Ichigo starts to curl up. “I won’t let you do it again… Don’t you touch me… Don’t you dare touch me…”
He looks up, where he perceives Isshin to be (over Ishida’s shoulder), eyes murderous and terrified. Tears trickling down without him noticing.
It’s disturbing. It’s so disturbing to him. Ishida has never seen him cry—it’s something that has always exceeded his capacity to imagine.
But it’s happening, and he doesn’t know how to react. (‘It’s worse than seeing Inoue-san cry.’)
It’s in that moment (heart in his throat—he feels sick) Ishida decides he’s a lesser man.
He berates himself for his cowardice and selfishly leaves the room. Nurses enter on his way out—he’s glad he hasn’t left Ichigo (hurting that badly) alone, but he doesn’t feel any less guilty.
He feels like a bad person (friend), sitting on the hallway floor outside of the room, listening while the keening dies down.
Ichigo doesn’t remember it.
.
.
.
.
A/N: It seems I am continuing this. It’s not leaving me alone.
Narrated sigh. Y’know, I gave this thing timestamps (it’s not in order), but it’s still pretty disjointed. I’ll just say this: accounts closer to the incident tend to be the most garbled—‘frenetic thinking, frenetic passages.’ (My reasoning was something like that at the time.)
Well… Okay now: I’m going to warn for “emotional explicitness,” if that makes sense. Because sometimes, even well intentioned people can’t curb their reactions.
Normal!Ichigo is already hard to take care of, so Traumatized!Ichigo is going to be a right pain in the ass. He probably has no idea what to do with that fuckton of hatred and fear, and the people around him are going to end up getting hurt by that. And even though the people close to him want the best for him, they do have their own feelings, tempers, stress-thresholds, etc. Not everyone is going to be nice and sensitive to Ichigo the whole time, especially not in the face of a new, corrosive attitude. In short, there’s a lot of stepping on toes in this chapter. And, personally, I find that a little hard to read, especially when someone is hurting as badly he is.
…Stuff like this is just awful for everyone—it’s a crime with more than one victim.
(02)「結果・後で」Consequences / Afterwards
.
.
.
“…Excuse me?”
“The face, you’re doing the face again. It pisses me off.”
“Well… this is my face?”
“Ishida, you KNOW what I’m talking about. Would it kill you to act normally?”
“…”
“…”
“ ‘Normally’? Kurosaki, how would I—”
“How ‘bout acting like Ishida? That’s a novel concept.”
“That’s not—I am acting like me. It’s just… around you, I—”
“And here it goes, again. ‘Kurosaki’s traumatized, Kurosaki’s fragile—so let’s tiptoe around him to make him feel THAT MUCH MORE NORMAL!’ Jesus CHRIST, I’m not glass!”
“…”
“…”
“We’re not–… I’m not treating you like glass.”
“Don’t try to—ugh! You give me the same kind of look you’d give an abandoned pet—I’m so SICK OF THIS! …Why is every goddamned person treating me like I’m gonna lose it? I’M FINE!”
“…”
“…”
“We both know that’s not true.”
“…”
“You’re not fine—no, you can’t be fine.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I appreciate your overwhelming faith in me.”
“No, it’s—Kurosaki, what he did to you… even you understand how serious that is.”
“…”
“…”
“Ishida, why… Why are you even here? How is this any of your business?”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…That’s really, really insulting. And arrogant.”
“…”
“Whether you like it or not, it so happens that we are friends. And friends—I don’t know—HELP EACH OTHER!”
“Yeah, and you’re doing a great job of that. You pussyfooting around me makes me feel just swell—”
“I cannot BELIEVE you! …I don’t know if you were always like this or if the PTSD is making you a complete bastard, but if you’re going to refuse psychotherapy, the least you can do is let the people who care about you care about you!”
“…”
“The reason I’m here—spending my time—is because I’m trying to figure out how to get you out of your own way, because you obviously don’t want to take care of yourself! Even if you’re being a bull-headed, hypocritical—I’m trying to help, Kurosaki. And don’t you dare tell me this is not my business.”
“…”
“…”
“…How?”
“…”
“How in the hell could you help me? What the fuck could you—could any of you—do? ’Cause I don’t see how anything could make this go away.”
“…”
“…”
“Kurosaki—”
“What, do you expect me to cry on your shoulder like a little girl—”
“Would it help you?”
“…”
“Would it make you feel any better?”
“…”
“…”
“Don’t–… ask me stuff like that. Just—I don’t…”
“…”
.
.
.
.
The hospital, three in the morning—nearby, there’s an odd-hour train arriving at Honchou station. He remembers it for some reason. (The sound.)
He doesn’t want anyone to take from him again.
“Do you want to press charges?”
Sedatives are nice, and one of the paramedics has curly hair.
There’s a broken ceiling light in one of the hallways, and it’s bothering him.
“Don’t fucking touch me!”
Crying doesn’t do much for Urahara’s complexion—makes the man look pasty.
He wants Urahara to leave. (When did he get there, anyway?) It’s embarrassing; he feels embarrassed.
And scared.
(It doesn’t make sense—it’s over, but the fear is making him nauseous.)
What is he supposed to do?
What do you do if it’s your dad?
What do you do?
What do you do?
What do you do?
“Evidence rarely lasts more than 72 hours. If you’d like to collect evidence, we’ll need your consent within…”
“Shh… It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” (Staff probably doesn’t appreciate his screaming.)
“…That’s right—like that. Take a deep breath; listen to my voice… You are at the hospital. The hospital, alright?”
(No, it’s not, but that’s not the point.)
That doctor’s hands are too big. He isn’t seriously going to touch him, is he?
(Why is his father everywhere?)
“I won’t let you do it again… I won’t let you!”
Have the painkillers made him say anything weird yet? (Not the painkillers.)
The couch in the corner of the room by the rubber plant—Karin has her face in her hands.
(She’ll call Yuzu once it’s light out.)
(She likes to think her shoulders aren’t shaking.)
“Breathe through your nose and out through your mouth—concentrate, Kurosaki-kun.”
The casts are really uncomfortable. He wants to shift, but won’t—he’s hyper-conscious of the IV needle in the crook of his arm.
‘Please don’t walk toward me. Please stay out of reach length.’
(Does he still have the title to his own body?)
He feels really bad. (His head hurts and his skin is crawling with something—not itchy, but it feels like a funny bone.)
“If you shower, it’s possible nothing will turn up on the kit.”
(They say it’s his choice, but he’s starting to have doubts.)
For some strange reason, looking at the hospital breakfast cereal makes him burst into tears. The first word that comes to mind is ‘help.’
What is he supposed to do? (It’s over, but it’s been ‘not-over’ three times already since then.)
‘Dad had sex with me.’
(Can’t bring himself to say ‘rape,’ ‘abuse,’ or even ‘assault’ within the privacy of his mind.)
“We’re holding him in custody.” (What does that even mean?)
“It’s my fault, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not, Ichi-nii.” (He disagrees.)
What is he supposed to do?
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It tries his composure. (A rare thing—the last time it happened was his undeserved exile.)
“I hope you get a long sentence.”
He stands outside Isshin’s holding cell, trembling.
It’s the kind of anger that makes the skin crawl—an odd sensation of feeling stiff, yet not being able to tense enough. His fists can’t be clenched any tighter, but his body doesn’t seem to catch on.
Really, the only thing Urahara wants to do is inflict pain on this man on Ichigo’s behalf. (Seeing plucky, surly Ichigo like that is a stab in the gut—it feeds the protective, uncharacteristically unreasonable monster buried within him.) But he has the calm of mind to know that isn’t a (good) choice.
Instead, he tries to limit himself to a more civil way of destroying a person.
“You are unbelievable…”
He screws up his face, creases on the bridge of his nose, a flicker of white as he grits his teeth. From a sitting perspective, Isshin can see the entirety of his visitor’s countenance, unobstructed by the trademark hat.
He’s never seen Kisuke that unhinged.
“But why am I surprised? It’s not like you were ever there for him.”
(Isshin winces because it’s true.)
“There were—” Urahara swallows. “—so many times he would have needed a father—needed you—and you? …You picked your selfish, misdirected resentment over him.”
Impulsively: “Says the man who made him a Viz—”
“Says the man who mindfully neglects his son!” Urahara bellows and draws in an ireful breath. “At least I try to help him.”
There’s an unusual venom in his words, and an unusual brightness in his eyes. He looks at his old friend in disgust. Pity.
“Say, Shin-chan—how long did it take to convince the neighbors that you were just ‘encouraging his independence’ with your ‘non-interventionist parenting,’ when you really just wanted to see him flounder? It’s a—motherfucking miracle he is where he is, no thanks to you,” he hisses. Benihime rattles in his cane, glowing a blustery red.
“I know you took her death hard, but you had no right to stop being a good father to him. He was nine, Isshin! And to do THIS—!”
Urahara pauses to contain himself.
“…I trusted you were more mature than this. I should have known—I should have known I’d have to protect Ichigo from YOU. You… don’t deserve to call yourself his father.”
Sober, Isshin has the decency to look away, shamefaced.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” He speaks disdainfully, voice quavering and brittle, knuckles white on the cane. “Do you know what you did? Do you know what you did to him?”
Silence.
“Ichigo is in shock.”
He gives Isshin a few seconds to absorb it.
“…Well, who would believe someone could do something that horrible to another person, let alone their own child?” he says quietly.
Urahara turns away, walks tiredly to the back wall, leans on a hand—it’s tiring to feel so much hatred. It’s hard to look at Isshin. (That terrible wreck of a man, of a father. Of a friend.)
“If… If your children had no love left for you, I would kill you for what you did,” he mutters—dark, soft, but audible.
They both know how serious he is being.
With a guilty conscience—Ichigo had been right; he’d never forgive himself—he assents.
“That’s… fine.”
The words linger in a suspended state. Before he leaves, Urahara gives him a scathing look over his shoulder.
“I’ll take care of your kids, because someone has to man up and do it.”
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Ichigo’s not fond of hospital jello. Or at least not anymore—it’s so easy to get tired of.
(He’s not hungry anyway. He just ends up poking it.)
It’s been a little over a week, but it doesn’t feel like it. Time has been fluid and a sort of dodgy thing, lately.
It’s not that the first… four days, was it? —weren’t memorable (if anything, they probably should have been the most memorable); he just can’t remember them very well. There are bits and fragments that come to him, but it’s like all those hours had just… disappeared.
Apparently, in that span of AWOL time, he’d already given a statement to the police. Apparently, he’d already consented to having evidence collected—
Ugh. That’s a sick thought.
—Apparently, he’d already had his first session with the crisis counselor lady. (She wears too much makeup, smiles too wide, and speaks too cheerfully, as if her clients haven’t just had the ground taken out from underneath them. He thinks it’s sort of patronizing. He’s tempted not to talk just to spite her.) And apparently, he’d already seen and talked to Urahara and Ishida. (Why them?)
That’s embarrassing. Or would have been embarrassing.
Whatever.
The memory gaps are probably a bad thing, but he’s trying not to think about it. Actually, he’ll just write it off as another one of those “psychological issues” that come with That. (He still doesn’t know how to feel about That.)
The doctors tell him he has posttraumatic stress disorder. It’s so weird, having all these medical terms and diagnoses attached to what he’s thinking and experiencing. Like, the times when he suddenly finds himself… back on the bedroom floor that night, and starts screaming in the middle of the hospital for no goddamned reason (his father’s in custody, right?), they’d say something like, “Oh, you’re having flashbacks.” It’s so… impersonal, having that sort of horror and disturbance stuffed into a single word. But it’s probably a little easier to think about it that way.
Also a little easier when they dope him up. In fact, he has his own prescription now. (Those benzodiazepines are awesome.)
They’re also prescribing him antidepressants, because they say he’s ‘severely depressed.’ He doesn’t know the hell why, because he’s not feeling anything at all, much less sad. (Has he even cried since That? He doesn’t remember.) And it’s a bit annoying that they moved him to the psychiatric ward. Besides the fact he may have unintentionally attacked a doctor (kicked him in the face—they should know by now not to touch his legs), he had told them he wasn’t suicidal.
(“You’re putting me with the crazies because I’m not jumping up and down to be alive? Do YOU do that or something?”)
They didn’t listen.
Hopefully, he’ll get out soon. His body is healing up nicely.
The once-black bruises are now a sallow color (they still hurt, but they don’t need to know that). He can walk without… limping. (‘Don’t think about it.’) His left wrist is still broken—that’ll take a while—but his relocated right wrist is considerably better. (He can take his own shower now, for fuck’s sake. But there’s something wrong with the hospital soap—is it a low budget thing?) And the– …belt marks are actually starting to blend in with the rest of his scars. One of the doctors had queried him about them—whether Isshin had ever… done anything to him before That. He said no—he just gets into a lot of fights.
Vague, but true. He can’t really say he participates in inter-dimensional warfare with spiritual entities—he’d like to stay in the psych ward for the least time possible.
The ward makes him feel sicker. Malaised.
It helps when his friends visit in the afternoons, now. The thought of visiting hours used to make his stomach flip (no one should see him like this), but now he finds it… comforting, mostly. There’s a sort of normalcy about it.
(Even though they know.)
Chad’s still quiet. Inoue’s still very odd, but sometimes she gets this serious look. Ishida’s still a girly bastard (a little nicer and a little more awkward, but still a bastard). Tatsuki’s still like a sister—she acts more like an older sister now, though. He hasn’t seen Rukia or Renji yet—they’re probably busy. (Or does he just not remember?)
He doesn’t know quite how to react to his friends’ new and very protective attitude toward him. It’s a little demeaning, but on some level, it’s nice to take the back seat for once.
(They asked him once if he’d like them to “go take out that son of a bitch.”
They were serious, but it sounded like they were joking.
He’d just said, “Nah, let’s leave it to the electric chair.”
He was joking, but it sounded like he was serious.
Either way, it wasn’t really funny, and it made them all feel a little uncomfortable.)
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“Itadakimasu.”
There’s an awkward, semi-collective breath.
Ichigo gives Yuzu a silent thank-you, breaks his chopsticks apart, and promptly starts to cry.
This is so fucking ridiculous.
Here he is, sitting at the table where his comrades routinely discuss fighting operations, having breakfast with his sisters and Urahara, of all people, and he hasn’t been hungry for forever. (He doubts he can even manage okayu.)
And then, of course, nobody knows how to react to this—Kurosaki Ichigo randomly sobbing, that is—which makes it so much better.
He leans over the table and buries his head in his arms, trying to muffle how pathetic he sounds. ‘Shit—at this rate, I’m going to turn into a girl.’ Not a heartening thought.
Can’t he just go back to bed? Everything being stupid should not have to be his business.
“Ichi-nii… Are you… okay?”
He looks up and gives Karin a withering look—or as withering as a look can be when crying bullets.
“Yeah—I’m just peachy.” He dabs at an eye with his ring finger and gets up to leave. “…I think I need more sleep.”
“Ichigo.” He turns around to see Urahara giving him that awful ‘I’m-worried-about-your-welfare-so-take-care-of-yourself’ look.
It makes him want to kick puppies or something.
“What?” He knows it’s unfair for him to be snapping—the man’s just concerned. “I can’t help having no appetite!”
Urahara frowns. He understands the side effects of the medication, but…
“Regardless, you need to eat something. Homeostasis, homeostasis~”
“I know that—but I swear to god, if I force myself to eat, I’m just gonna throw up. And I don’t feel like throwing up.”
“Is there… any taste you can think of that you might be in the mood for?”
“No, because I have no appetite.”
Then Yuzu starts speaking.
“…Did I not make it well enough, Ichi-nii?”
Aw, shit—now that makes him feel awful.
Or at least until he sees her share a conspiratorial look with Urahara. He then points accusingly at his guardian.
“YOU—! You are evil.” He says that, but returns to seiza and picks up his chopsticks.
Urahara shrugs. “It’s probably not the best thing to guilt you into eating, but it’s better than you not eating at all. You, dear boy, have become woefully underweight.”
This is all true. Unfortunately.
“Che.”
He’s half-thankful and half-tempted to castrate him.
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.
He’s not even furrowing his eyebrows.
In any other circumstance, it would be welcomed. But this is just frightening.
The lax facial muscles don’t lend him a look of relaxation—he looks absent.
Ichigo gives him (or the wall behind him) a blank stare, and Ishida thinks it’s almost like looking at a deserted gigai.
Almost.
Ichigo blinks and looks in a different direction—he attempts to wrap his arms around himself, but can’t quite maneuver with the bulkiness of casts.
Something inside Ishida’s stomach curdles.
(“…strangled, beaten, incapacitated…”)
(“…charges for sexual assault and battery?”)
(“…must’ve been horrible for his younger sister to…”)
(“…father was inebriated—his BAC…”)
“…know how much y’look like her?”
“Kurosaki…” It slips out, even though he’s used to burying his concern.
Unexpectedly, he gets Ichigo’s attention. Or at least as much attention as Ichigo can give. (Struggling to maintain eye contact.)
Which puts Ishida in the uncomfortable position of actually acting on that concern.
“Um…” His mouth is dry. “Do you… need anything?”
If Ichigo were in a right state of mind, he would have teased him for his sub-par social attempt. Instead, with great effort, he processes the words and considers the offer.
“The, uh… thing.” His voice is low and rocky from lack of use. It’s a little startling.
“YOU’RE SO STUPID!”
“…‘The thing’?” Ishida practices unusual patience. This is the first time he’s personally heard him speak since That happened.
Ichigo coughs a little and his eyes shift unfocusedly. “They have this thing that helps when—I’m, like… hearing… echoey stuff right now; s’freaking me out, and the thing—you know what it is… the benzo-whatsits—”
‘You owe me.’
‘Dumb bitch… Should a’ been you…’
‘Shut th’fuck up.’
Distressed, he attempts to pantomime a syringe to represent a tranquilizer, but the casts aren’t particularly accommodating. When he sees Ishida’s perplexed face, he groans, frustrated and starting to panic. “Never mind. Jus’ go get the person—somewhere around here.”
“Can’t you just use the call button?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as curt as it does.
“EVERY FUCKING DAY, you remind me of ‘er, and it makes me craaazy.”
“Dumb bitch… Should a’ been you... Yeah, should a’ been you…”
He covers his ears, but the sounds gain imagery.
The sounds gain mass.
“Stop…”
“…What?” Ishida is confused. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know Ichigo’s now back on his bedroom floor, trying to battle Isshin without the use of his arms.
“STOP!” Ichigo roars, not knowing to keep his voice down. “FUCKING STOP! STOP IT!”
Ishida is taken aback. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know how to handle this.
Shuddering, Ichigo gives off a pitching, earsplitting whine. “Daaaaaad?”
Then it clicks. Ishida runs to the bedside and scrambles to find the call button. He presses it, shaking.
Ichigo is viciously kicking a non-existent offender. A mindless chant of “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I—”
“KUROSAKI! You’re in the hospital!” Alarmed, Ishida makes the ill-informed choice of trying to shake him out of the hallucination, hands on his shoulders.
“Don’t…” No recognition.
floor doesn’t provide enough
Ichigo starts to curl up. “I won’t let you do it again… Don’t you touch me… Don’t you dare touch me…”
He looks up, where he perceives Isshin to be (over Ishida’s shoulder), eyes murderous and terrified. Tears trickling down without him noticing.
It’s disturbing. It’s so disturbing to him. Ishida has never seen him cry—it’s something that has always exceeded his capacity to imagine.
But it’s happening, and he doesn’t know how to react. (‘It’s worse than seeing Inoue-san cry.’)
It’s in that moment (heart in his throat—he feels sick) Ishida decides he’s a lesser man.
He berates himself for his cowardice and selfishly leaves the room. Nurses enter on his way out—he’s glad he hasn’t left Ichigo (hurting that badly) alone, but he doesn’t feel any less guilty.
He feels like a bad person (friend), sitting on the hallway floor outside of the room, listening while the keening dies down.
Ichigo doesn’t remember it.
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