Call Me. [the GazettE--Uruha]

“I don’t understand why I was assigned this job.” You flailed your arms around helplessly as you slammed the pillow down on Uruha’s face. He yelped from underneath, “You’re treating a deathly-ill patient, not some piece of trash!”

“…Says the piece of trash…” You mumbled and exited the room to find the pills the doctor prescribed. Uruha had lung inflammation, along with a throat infection. It wasn’t exactly very comfortable, especially since he still had the low fever brewing.

“Cut class today.” He demanded when you sat down on the chair opposite of his bed to hand him his pills and water.

“What?” You growled, “Are you insane? No, I know the answer to that one, but do you seriously think I am as well?”

“But I’m sick…” He pouted, tugging at your sleeve, “Yes? Yes?”

You huffed, “No.”

“Aw…” He pouted again. You stubbornly resisted the temptation to stay and glanced at your watch. Eight more minutes until you had to go catch the bus. You settled back in your seat with your math textbook. There was a major exam next month.

“I’m bored.” He said out of the blue, “You should go play the piano.”

“What is wrong with you? Did your brain get infected as well?” You snarled, ignoring his request. He didn’t answer. You looked up curiously. He looked absent-mindedly at the piano. Oh. He was serious about getting you to play it. You felt a bit guilty, “But I guess I could play something…”

“You don’t have to.” Uruha suddenly said, a bit gentler, “It was just…I suddenly remember that once…”

“Oh.” You stopped short. The memory that has been plaguing you since the day it happened, suffocating you with billions of “what if’s” endlessly…

…

It was a mildly warm May morning. You had been warming up in the studio with the daily routine—scales, arpeggios, octaves, trills, jump octaves, the works. The day of your life was coming up in two hours. You felt as if your heart was threatening to jump out of your throat. Every time you pictured it—you in a your black satin dress, sitting before the large grand piano in front of the four thousand-people audience, competing for the grand prize—you felt like crying. It was all or nothing: five to eight hours a day for the past nine years of your life on the piano, just for the seven minutes on stage, seven minutes to prove your skills.

“Calm down. Your fingers are shaking.” Ms. Takashima smiled. You flushed, fidgeting with the hand-warmers.

“I know you’ll win. There’s no way someone like you, with all your hard work, talent, musicality, and impeccable technique, cannot.” She put a gentle hand on your shoulder. You nodded, gulping.

“Play that etude again. Listen carefully for the counterpoints in the second measure.” She leaned on the black Steinway; her elegance perforated the air. You let the music slip out of your fingers, like beads of water dripping out—

Bam.

It just happened.

You had to blink several times, the blood rolling down your cheeks, before you realize what had struck.

The ball bounced slowly across the floor, rolling to a stop in the shards of glass the reflected like diamonds in the sun.

You watched people swarm around you, heard their voices, but still didn’t comprehend. You looked down at your hands, and still didn’t comprehend. Your fingers continued slipping on the black notes, moving off on the whites, picking delicately at the staccato’s and dancing to the legato’s. The keyboard was splashed in a color of bright red. You didn’t understand.

You finally understood when your hand simply stopped. It refused to move. Your brain willed it, but the nerves coagulated, as in a car jam, upon the hand which was about split in half. People were ushering you out the room, but you sat still in your little bubble of silence, staring at your hands which were supposed to bring you joy.

What was that red liquid pouring out?

You finally realized, three hours later, after having resigned your place in the finals of the International Young Artist’s Liszt Competition that your hand had been smashed through by pieces of glass the size of your palm. They cut loose the ligaments, shredded the flesh, and even sliced a bone. Your entire left hand was gone, as such.

It didn’t really matter.

What mattered was that your most important chance in your life had simply slipped by.

“We’re so sorry!” Uruha and Reita said the same phrase on different occasions, never stopping, never letting you forget how their play had somehow ended your life. They stayed after in the hospital to watch you make your slow delivery from pain. They understood what they had caused—nine years of your life. Nine years of anti-sociality to practice an instrument that you could not play at the most important moment.

But oh well. What is done is done, as they say. Plus it was only an accident. They never meant the kick the ball that direction. They never meant to crash that particular window.

…

“Welcome to earth.” Uruha waved, grinning when you looked up from the keyboard.

“Loser.” You snorted.

“I’m bored.” He moaned again.

“You should talk less for your own good.”

“Why?”

“One, you have a throat infection. Two, I might snap your neck from pure hate.”

“I see!” He nodded and pretended to zip his lips. You settled back down in your chair and picked up the math textbook again. When you looked back up, Uruha had fallen asleep again. You looked at your watch. It was time to go. You put on your jacket and were about to walk out of the room as Uruha mumbled something quiet loudly.

“I love… you, Yuri. Is it…mm… too late? Please… don’t leave me…mm…”

You dropped your textbook on your foot, staring at him in utter disbelief. He didn’t wake up. Enemies don’t just dream of confessing to each other, right? You didn’t budge, staring at him to see if he would randomly wake up with like: “PSYCHE!” Or something. But he didn’t. He just kept sleeping with a small smile on his face.

You glanced at the clock again. You already missed the bus. Oh well, better never than late. You shrugged and texted a message to Momo for her to send you the homework and notes after class.

You sat back down. Might as well entertain the sleeping idiot, considering there was nothing better to do.

“You stayed!” Uruha grinned, delighted at the sight of you when he woke up.

“I missed my bus and didn’t want to go home.” You shrugged, “Hungry?”

“Yes!” He laughed, “But really, why did you stay?”

“I already told you! I had no where better to go.” You growled, lying unconsciously.