Description: Lost, but not alone, Ayame finds help from a strange source. A mysterious priest shares what he knows about her plight but withholds some rather crucial details...
The news was all over it. Heralding the scene of the apartment as a modern day horror mystery, local and even national news channels have carried the story of the carnage left behind in Ayame's apartment. Gruesome photographs of the apartment are popular in a sort of 'train wreck' way with many people, and with good reason: blood spray on the ceiling, spatters coating all of the furniture, streaks coating most of the walls, and a couple puddles on the floor. Weapons were in evidence, and there was a great deal of destruction inflicted with them on the room itself in the form of a number of slashes, gouges, and a burn mark here and there. The glass, not only in the apartment but the entire level, was simply shattered, and all in all it looked like a scene straight out of a horror movie. But the most mysterious thing of all?
No bodies.
After the fight had ended, with Saint destroying Ayame's mind, at least temporarily, with a touch of his hands, the priest had taken the girl back to his apartment, leaving nothing but bloody shoe prints that lead out of the room and down the hallway, then mysteriously stop. Through the dark streets he'd gone, wounded and covered in blood, but somehow the two of them had made it back to the priest's considerably much nicer (if oddly very plain) apartment unaccosted. There, Saint had done what he had learned to do since he had entered the boarding school his father had placed him in: treated wounds. First his own, since Ayame's wounds - at least her physical ones - were a great deal less severe than his own, and then the girl's wounds were treated. Ayame had mostly been left in peace to lie in Saint's own bed, made quite comfortable, with Saint watching over her as necessary.
Wounds of such severity to the psyche, however, were a great deal harder to treat, and only rest could heal her mind. In this case, several days worth of it.
Into the bedroom comes Saint, still moving lightly due to the wounds Ayame inflicted to him. None of them were in evidence, however, the priest fully dressed in his black shirt, white collar and slacks, even wearing his gloves and shoes in his own home. The only mark evident is the cut on his cheek, over which a long white bandaid is placed over, allowing to heal. Saint brings in a pitcher of cool, clear water and a glass settled on a tray, which has a plate of crackers, cheeses and sliced fruits. Though he wasn't sure Ayame would be waking up today - or indeed ever - there was no reason not to prepare meals for her! And if nothing else, the man could use a snack himself. Settling the tray down on a nightstand next to the bed, the priest sings under his breath while he gets ready to sit in and watch his charge.
She screwed up. She thought she could fight back the loving pain Saint had promised her as she had the first time. She thought she could contend her will against his, use her abnormally powerful grip over her own emotions and thoughts to fight him off. If he thought his mental manipulation was so impressive, let him try his worst. His worst... unfortuantely for her, was far more than she imagined. A life time of agony and not simply of the physical sort. Beneath each experience was pain of another sort - the type that rends the soul and fractures the mind. And for a brief moment she experienced all of it.
She had another solution, or so she thought. Elfa had tried to fry every last synapse in her brain with a simple touch. But Ayame had beat her, after a manner. Willing herself into unconsciousness, flicking a kill switch in her own mind, putting an end to the living nightmare that Shadaloo freak had tried to pull her into. And as she found herself in the same danger with Saint, she tried the same response. Just shut herself off, lock her mind out from his horrific experiences, sheltering herself in a protective shell.
Something went wrong.
And she's been unconscious ever since. The perfect angle, the strawberry-blonde slept from the time he deposited her in his bed, to now, showing no signs of waking from the endless rest. Now and then she would stir, just a little, her eyes moving beneath her eyelids rapidly, trapped in some dark vision only she knows of.
What happens to be different today? Why now, after so many days of death-like slumber, does she wake? Whatever mending was necessary to reach this point must have transpired, because awake she does. And when it happens, it's swift. Brown eyes bat open once, then twice, and in the next instant Ayame is sitting up, a panicked look on her face. One hand comes up, held in front of her face, her eyes staring at it. In her mind's eye, blood drips from her fingers, staining the sheets of the bed. She's been cut, sliced, stabbed, skewered, torn, burned. All those memories come back at once and the girl releases a loud scream.
Clenched hands cover her face, pressed against her forehead as she leans forward, a wracking sob escaping her lips. The girl collapses onto her side, curling up then, as the fragments of the nightmare begin to scatter. She falls quiet, lying on her side, curled up for a moment, before her eyes blink open again.
Her hand and sheets aren't caked in blood. Her body isn't rent and carved. It was just all a dream. A horrifying dream, but harmless in the end. She simply lies there then, breaths coming slower as she calms down. Just a nightmare. It's okay. There's nothing to fear. She need merely relax on this comfortable bed. Her bed. The rest of the day can come in its own due time. For now, she's content to simply not move.
Memories. In the end, Saint's psycho power wasn't really attuned to pain, though many would think that - himself included. His entire life had been spent experiencing pain, having it inflicted on him. It started with the brief awakening of his abilities when his mother had started to choke him, and it peaked when he was being burnt alive. Every touch of his brings with it his strongest memories, those attuned to pain. But that was precisely it. His psycho power was attached less to pain and more to memory, to the past, to rememberence, rather than pain. It was just easier to recall memories that had stronger emotions, sensations and feelings tied to them... and if Saint was right, then pain was the strongest sensation of all.
So rather than frying every synapse in Ayame's head, he'd simply tried to implant his memories within the girl. Not just one or two, like some of his lesser attacks, but rather all of them, at once. Saint had the benefit of having each of these experiences happen to him one at a time, over the course of several years. His mind could keep up with that (if somewhat poorly), but the implanting of all those painful memories in such a short timespan simply isn't something many people can do, if -any-. And if they can, it's likely to have a good deal of repercussions, such as intense pain and lingering night terrors.
In this case, however, they took the girl's own memories.
He doesn't see Ayame waking at first. After setting down the tray and pouring a glass of water, he'd taken a slice of cheese, then turned and went off to the bookcase in the room, nibbling on the cheese as he browsed through books on the shelves. So as she blinks, sits up, then examines herself, he's none the wiser. It's only when she screams (and there's an oddly noticeable lack of him jumping at the sudden loud noise) that he blinks, and then turns himself around to face the bed again. He doesn't move forward immediately, but rather simply watches what the girl intends on doing. After all, if she woke up and saw him, the first thing she might be inclined to do so bolt for the door, and he was nearer to it than she was. Instead of running, however, she flops onto her side and curls up for several moments, holding herself in fear... until, seemingly, the fear begins to subside, evident in her body language as her shaking calms, her breathing leveling off.
Saint is quiet a moment longer, pondering this. The number of occassions he'd actually used his direct touch on someone could be counted on one hand. The times he'd actually been successful had produced a number of responses. One man had been outright killed by sheer mental shock. Another, this one a woman, had become completely still, like in a coma, as though what Ayame had gone through. A third had recovered, but was a complete psychological mess afterwards, their life filled with nightmares and psychosis. Ayame, so far, presented a new reaction. Not death, not a coma, nor delving deep into psychosis... but something else. Was she still... Ayame? Only one way to find out.
Quietly stepping forward, the priest says, in as gentle a voice he knows how, "You're awake... that's good, I'd feared you never would."
It doesn't happen all at once. That nagging sensation that slowly settles in that something isn't quite right. At first it occurs to her that she isn't sure what's on the agenda for the day. What does she need to be awake for? Where does she need to go and what does she need to do? That the room isn't all that familiar to her staring eyes occurs to her next. That she has no idea what she did last night lands in her thoughts like the final bomb before a voice speaks up and reveals that she is not alone.
Ayame rolls over onto her other side, hands clinging to the sheets, eyes wide, mouth open. She studies the man in silence. His voice seems friendly, and he speaks as if he has watched over her for some time. Both facts put her mind a bit at ease. There's no cause to fear. Not yet. She sits up slowly, hand coming up to rest against her forehead as a wave of pain and nausea passes through her brain, like a lingering migraine provoked back to the forfront at the slightest bit of movement. "Uh..."
Ayame's eyes settle on the young man once again, blinking slowly. He looks like a priest. Is she in a hospital? "What happened?" she asks, her voice laden with curiosity and trust, "How did I end up here?"
Her eyes narrow, as if she's squinting at Saint's features a little, "Who are you?" She shuffles to the side, swinging her feet off the bed, planting her hands against its edge but not showing any indication of getting up just yet. "Where is this?" she continues, eyes scanning over the room further, looking nervous only in that nothing makes sense. Wincing again, her hand goes to rest against her forehead and she falls quiet for a moment.
There's a slight pause before the man responds, a beat or two longer than would normally take for someone to normally respond to these questions. Obviously it's a pause of concern, for there's a slight crease to his brow as the young girl talks. Then, to give himself a bit more time to formulate a response instead of answering, the man turns towards the chair that is stationed at the foot of the bed, walking to it and settling down on it. His legs cross, and then he folds his hands into his lap, regarding the young woman across from him quietly for a moment longer. "You don't remember?" He finally asks. Certainly not. She obviously doesn't seem to recognize him, and the question of 'who are you?' certainly confirms that. Most interesting, was this. No psychosis, indeed, but something else... she had no memories, then? At all? Or merely, perhaps, of him? But her demeanor was slightly different, as well. Less hostile, like she were expecting everyone to hate her as soon as she opened her mouth and so doing away with niceties. That suggested... she knew nothing.
There's another pause, and then he dips his head a little. "I see... hm. What an interesting turn of events," he says. He almost wants to say 'you poor child' but thinking on it more, it isn't such an unfortunate thing, is it? This girl who had engineered every part of her life, always calculating, always manipulating, and leaving behind nothing but broken hearts and bad impressions, now knew... nothing of herself. All due to his touch, giving her, if only temporarily, a new set of memories, to share in his own pain. The stress was enough that all of her former life... had simply evaporated, overnight. Well, over several nights.
"My name is Saint. I am a priest of the local church here," Saint says, and then lifts a hand to gesture outwards to the room at large. "Though of course, this is my apartment, not the church. The church is a short walk away, however." All idle information while he really thinks of what to say. Should he tell her what happened? All the little details of their exchanges? That didn't seem right, somehow. Not merely because it would scare her - he wasn't really concerned over that - but rather that simply 'telling' her her life seemed... a bit off. So, with that in mind, he cants his head to the side, regarding the strawberry-blonde girl with his narrow-eyed glance. "Do you remember anything at all?"
He asks if she remembers, and from her comes a subtle shake of her head. She seems calm, for the strange circumstances she finds herself in, as if not knowing why she should worry, even if the nagging thoughts in the back of her head do seem somewhat alarming. After her silent response, she stays quiet, eyes focused solely on Saint, but for the occasional blink. He introduces himself and mentions a church and she nods slowly. It makes sense. If something happened to her, as something most definitely has, it would make sense for some kind soul at a church to help her out.
He asks if she remembers anything at all, and Ayame squints in thought. There are some things she remembers, she muses. None of them pleasant. Like the incident that gave her that distinctive scar on her... the girl holds up her arm, gazing at her wrist, then shakes her head slowly. No scar. The memory must be confused. She must be confused. Lowering her arm, she focuses back on Saint, mouth opening as if to answer, only to close again as she begins to weigh the magnitude of what she was about to say.
She doesn't remember anything at all. Not just how she got here or what she did just prior to waking up in this unknown location. She doesn't remember anything. Not a single face, not a single name, not even... /her/ name. All she knows is that the man in black tended to her, and that he is a priest, and his name is Saint. Everything beyond that is suspect. "No." comes her answer at last, the word released slowly but with gravity. No. She doesn't remember anything at all.
Well, there was that one time... she glances at her hand, expecting to find marks that don't exist, evidence that at least one of her memories was real. But no luck. "No, I don't." she reiterates, lowering her hand slowly, looking suddenly at a loss as to what to say or do next. There isn't quite the panic one might expect. In fact, her demeanor is rather calm, meek, and at peace. She doesn't remember anything at all. And that's just all there is to it. As if a certain pragmatism settles in, knowing better than to deny the truth or hope that flailing about in a fit is going to change things. "So..." she prompts, leaning forward a little, focused intensely on Saint. Only one person can tell her anything at all now. And he's seated right there.
The priest is quiet for a few moments more as the answer comes. This situation was certainly a new one. Death, madness, mental and psychic breakdowns... and now, amnesia. It was possible she was faking; the girl was quite the capable liar, he had gathered, and certainly could have pulled such a performance. But so quickly? So... believeably? And not only that, but acting this way to -him- of all people, the person whom several days ago she'd done her best to inflict pain on, hurt and kill. Such quiet, reserved behavior all to fake having amnesia...? Certainly it was at least possible, but it made little sense.
Therefore it was real. She had no memories. No recollection, likely, of who she is, what her past deeds were, what her history was... hell, what she had for dinner the night Saint had shown up at her doorstep. He would assume she still had basic function otherwise, however. Knowing what a TV is and how it works, for instance, but not what the plotlines of the various dramas or even what the news has been reporting recently. Which meant something else significant, as well: all the -bad- as well as the good that Ayame had done with her life, all the lies, all the manipulation, all the taunts and broken hearts and minds and even bodies... were things that, in a way, did not exist any more. They had been inflicted by someone else, some other girl who had Ayame's face but not her demeanor.
In short, Ayame had been reborn. How... marvelous.
Smiling softly, the priest lets out a short chuckle, and shakes his head slowly. "I will admit that I did not know you as well as I would have liked. We were... I suppose, acquainted, even if we were coming to a path where we might have shared much more." He says this without particular inflection, not stressing the words, merely speaking them. "However, that said... I do not believe that it would be prudent, wise, or even... fair, were I to tell you what I know of you, your memories, your life. In other words, I believe you should attempt to remember on your own... so that, one day, you can remember who you are."
The white-haired man shifts a bit in his chair, unfolding and then refolding his legs, his fingers steepling even as they rest in his lap. "I suppose, however, there are certain things I -can- tell you... the core elements I knew of your life. Such as your name." There's a slight pause here, as though he were going to say the girl's name, but thinks of something else to say before that. Tilting his head to the side, he asks, "Do you at least remember your name, child?"
It would seem that there is no pretending, no acting. The girl sitting on the edge of the bed, hands in lap, head canted to the side just slightly as she listens intently to the only person she seems to know in all the world does seem to be a new person. A fresh mind, young to the world. Surely she maintains her smarts, and her sharp mind is learning fast, recording once again over freshly wiped storage new memories, new experiences.
Reborn in unspeakable pain, rising out of the experience a seemingly new person. Perhaps the years of living like a scoundrel have been peeled away, leaving the girl she was supposed to be. The gifted miko, the apple of her parents eyes. When he speaks, she listens, nodding slowly as she bites her lower lip, disappointed that he isn't telling her more, yet showing understanding for his decision to do so. His reasoning is sound, she can't argue with it.
When he asks if she remembers her name, Ayame leans back, breathing in deeply, lost for a moment in silent contemplation. It's a good question. One that seems to require some thought. She tries to dig up memories, events of her past, but they're blurred, mingled with images of places she's not sure she ever saw, locations she's not convinced she was at. But one image seems to linger more than others, and as she focuses on it there are voices, faces to accompany it. "Yes," the strawberry blonde speaks up. "My name is Aya Ichigo." she states at last, focusing back on Saint as she draws that one fact from her past firmly to the forefront.
She focuses back on him, her smile returning, an almost coy expression sweeping over her face, "Acquainted? Us? Hm..." He speaks of a path leading to them sharing something and she seems to muse that point longer. "Friends with a church guy, huh? Either I'm a charity case, or I've been pretty good, eh?" She grins, leaning back, hands resting against the bed. She seems intrigued at the mystery of solving who she is, and as she thinks about it, she's rather glad Saint hasn't spoiled the surprise for her. "You're right. I should figure this out for myself. It will mean more then."
The girl slides forward, rising up to her feet, standing a little wobbly at first but her balance comes swiftly before she's in any danger of falling over. "Something smells good. I get the feeling I haven't eaten for days."
The name is something perhaps easiest to remember. Recollections of the past mean more, and are easier to remember, when strong or definitive emotions are attached to them. Ask the man on the street what he had for dinner three days ago, he will likely have difficulty remembering, because the consumption of food is so ingrained in every day life that it has become trivial. Ask that same man, however, what he had for dinner on his tenth birthday, and chances are good that he will not only remember the dinner, but what the cake looked like, which of his friends were there, perhaps even what gifts he was given. The emotion tied to that memory is stronger, and thus he recalls it with ease. A name is something that holds the absolute most emotion one can have. It defines a person, who they are. 'Aya Ichigo' was this girl's name, and she would declare it many hundreds of times in her life, and many hundreds more from now on; the name itself, though it was hers, was now an affirmation that she was indeed a person, and -had- memories... somewhere.
That said, 'Aya Ichigo'? He'd only known the girl by the name Ayame. And the last name, if his understanding of Japanese was correct, was humorous on its own. The priest smiles both at this bit of humor, as well as the memory that comes back to 'Aya'. "Yes," he lies of her name. Not like he knew anything more than her pseudonym. At the second comment, however, Saint smiles more, even adding a small laugh to it. "A bit of both, I suppose," he says, his voice still touched by the laughter. He doesn't add more to this, though, intending on letting her figure things out on her own.
The mention of food, though, does make Saint raise his eyebrows. "Ah, yes... there is water there," he says and lifts a hand to gesture to the glass pitcher, "and sliced fruits and cheeses on the tray beside it. I did not know what your condition would be like when you awoke, but I figured after so many days out you would be starved. I would not recommend moving about too much just yet... but, if you're feeling -that- well," he says in response to her standing up, "then I suppose you may wish something more solid in your stomach?"
Her thoughts are still a blur, a whirlwind of conflicting images, experiences, some real, some borrowed, though she hasn't a clue as to that quite yet. For a moment she looks distracted, tongue pressing against the side of her cheek as she glances to the side, trying to sort through the clues that brought her to state her name. Something about it sounds foreign, distant, as if it really isn't hers. Even though she just stated it was. Saint confirms it, and she has no reason to doubt the nice young man. The thoughtful expression passes as he gestures to the water and Ayame turns to it immediately, sitting back down on the bed, drawing the tray onto her lap.
The cheese is sampled before she moves on to the fruits, the food sounding good to her even though she mentally knows she must be in dire need of water by now. "I feel queasy, but I think I'll be all right. Whatever happened doesn't seem to have left any lingering problems." She pauses for a moment, realizing that that's a rather ridiculous statement to make, her hand coming up to tap the side of her head as she winks, "Well, except this one. But yeah," she pauses to stuff an apple slice into her mouth and resume chewing.
"There is one part I might need help with. Where do I live?" She raises a finger, swallowing her mouthful, "What city are we in? Do I have a house somewhere? Or a pad like this place?" she continues, sweeping her arm at the room. Sliding the tray to the side. "I suppose I need to figure out the basics first. The day to day stuff. Then go from there," she muses. One thing hasn't changed - her persistant problem solving nature taking charge as the girl muses thoughtfully. "I can see this is going to be trickier than I first realized." she finally admits after a moment, brown eyes focusing back on Saint.
Saint gives a soft, if somewhat rueful chuckle at the comment about 'no lingering problems' but nods his head to it; he understood what she had meant. "A serious injury, but not a permanent one, I think," he says and offers another smile, nodding his head as he says it. "I have hope that you will reclaim all of your memories some day, and be better for it. I will keep you in my prayers to Him, so that He might help you along." There's a small pause here as he considers just a moment. Though the priest's eyes cannot be seen, he appears to be watching the girl eat for a few moments, his lips pressed in a line of thought. "Yet, I would not be in such a rush to remember everything. Non-permanent as it may be, I believe amnesia cases can take months, even years to recover, and may never fully recover all of their memories. If you run headlong into it, you may find yourself growing frustrated, which would not be healthy.
"As for your residence, well." Saint trails off, and hmms. He doesn't hide the fact he looks pensive about answering, turning his head away so that he might consider a few moments longer. "I do not mind telling you these things, Aya, but they will lead to further questions. To begin with... I do not know where you live. I have checked many local places, city hall, phone books, even a few pizza delivery places, but none of them have an 'Aya Ichigo' in their registry; at least, not one that is you. I knew you lived alone, however... but, well." Again he cuts himself off, and after a moment the priest uncrosses his legs, and stands up. He moves to the other side of the room in a sort of pacing manner, as if unsure whether to continue.
"...I found you here, Aya. Not here in my home, but rather some distance away in an alley. You were injured," he gestures to the girl's side, which is bandaged, "and were unconscious. You looked as though you were very hurt, and had been trying to reach the church for help." All lies, of course, but his expression is an anguished one, as if he were frustrated, slightly, that he could not help you more, and that he was worried then, as he is now. "I brought you here and called a doctor friend of mine to make sure you weren't in any serious danger... but alas..." he spreads his gloved hands, shrugging helplessly. "I am uncertain of any other facets of your home life... you were... something of a street urchin in demeanor before," he adds with a quick smile. "You... however, are quite free to spend your time here. I do not mind housing you for as long as you may need it, my child."
As he speaks he may notice the intensity with which Ayame watches him. She seems extremely trusting on the surface, but she's no less sharp, her mind constantly working angles, trying to validate the statements he makes against her extremely limited pool of knowledge. She listens to him speak of the time it might take for her to recover and she is quiet. It's a good point, and one she has to grant him. She might not ever get everything back. She just has to accept that and move on.
As he continues, it seems her circumstances are even trickier than she realizd. He doesn't know where she lives. She glances at herself, deciding that his summary of her having a bit of an urchin look about her sounding rather plausible. He says he tried to find a listing for her but to no avail and she looks a little surprised, frowning slightly. Maybe she's misremembered her name, too? She dismisses that thought. No, she needs to cling to /something/. Her name will have to suffice.
"I see." she states quietly. Everything Saint does is passable beneath her scrutiny she decides. His story holds, for now. "I'm glad you found me," she states after a moment, lowering her eyes, hands clasped in her lap. "Thank you. For everything you've done in helping me get better. And for your offer. I don't think I have any choice until I learn more." She glances up then, her smile returning as she rises to her feet again.
"And to that end... I think I need to get some fresh air. Go on a walk, take a look around, see what sort've things resonate with me." She stretches her arms out to her sides then lowers them. "I won't go far. Just need to see where I'm at, and think about some things in quiet..." Her voice fades out, mouth curling into something almost becoming a pout, "Ah... can I borrow some money? I promise I'll pay you back when I find my home again." she states, resting her right hand at the back of her neck sheepishly.
The intense regard is something he's used to by now. All through his encounters with Ayame, he has been faced with that calculating look, the girl's mind like a steel trap, always poking holes in things, always examining every angle to make sure things fit. Though now she did it less for trying to analyze everything to manipulate it to her own benefit, and more simply because... that was how her mind worked. So that doesn't bother him in the least. And when she thanks him, his expression is natural enough, smiling and shaking his head gently. "You need not thank me. Should you wish to give thanks to anyone, thank Him," he says and gestures upwards. "Even if you don't believe in Him, I'm sure any help in your situation would've been good to have, mn?"
Go outside...? Hm. Well, what was she going to do, run away? That didn't seem likely. And even if she did, it wouldn't really matter. So, being the kind, generous, and loving soul he was, he only pauses for a brief minute before reaching into his back pocket and producing his wallet. Rather than opening it and settling aside some bills, he simply walks forward and sets the entire thing on the table. Notably he doesn't just hand it to her. "Your possessions are few in this world. I have some money stored away, and I do feel very sorry for you... please, take my credit cards with you; we priests occassionally have expensive needs. You'd be surprised how much certain things necessary to our prayers and even the upkeep of the church costs. Buy yourself some clothing and necessities, and we'll talk about the rest later."
With that, he steps back and gives Ayame another smile. "I'm sure you haven't yet lost your enthusiasm for shopping, and it might pick up your spirits... and indeed, seeing the city may help you remember some things. Just, ah..." His smile is a bit more teasing now. "Try not to spend /too/ much? I'm just a priest, after all."
Log created on 22:36:39 07/15/2008 by Ayame, and last modified on 03:04:27 08/25/2008.