Inuyasha Get the Picture

Alright, I'm only going to say this once. This story is completely AU and the characters are very OOC. Yes, I know the characters would probably never act this way, but it's my story and this is the way it is going to be written. Also, although it is angst, I am really a softy at heart, so it's also a IY/Kag. This story is R so you have now been warned. If you don't like it, then don't complain and stop reading.  
  
My reflection  
  
Wraps and pulls me under  
  
healing waters to be  
  
Bathed in Breña Guides me  
  
Safely in  
  
Worlds I've never been to  
  
Heal me  
  
Heal me  
  
My dear Breña So vulnerable  
  
But it's alright Heal me  
  
Heal me  
  
My dear Breña Show me lonely and  
  
Show me openings  
  
To lead me closer to you  
  
My dear Breña (Feeling so) vulnerable  
  
But it's alright Opening to. . . heal. . .  
  
Opening to. . . heal. . .  
  
Heal. . . Heal. . . Heal. . . Heal me  
  
Breña By A Perfect Circle  
  
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Prologue  
  
Get the Picture  
  
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Funny how children represent the innocence and everything good and worth saving in the world, but they inevitably grow up. They can grow up and become heartless unfeeling people or they could grow up and support charities. They could grow up only to become criminals and killers or they could grow up to be the victims. That's what we fight for. People think it's so righteous fighting for the children and then for some reason thinking that everything is better afterwards. But they abandon them too soon. Victory only lasts for so long, and afterwards there's always another battle waiting to be fought. Dreams are shattered, hearts are broken, and they are left to defend themselves.  
  
I guess that's what we call growing up.  
  
So like every other kid in the world, I had a sheltered and loved childhood. But I was also abandoned too early in my life to truly understand the way life works. I never fully grasped the concept of good morals and the importance of family. I never had any set goals in my life, nothing to fight for or look forward to. I guess you could say I was something of a wild child.  
  
I had an older sister, a younger brother, a mother, and a grandfather who owned a shrine. I was still at a young age when we moved in with my grandfather, so of course I didn't understand the significance of it, only that my mother was taking me far away from my friends and the life that I knew.  
  
I didn't hate my mother, not exactly. But I hated how weak she had become. It was my father who had caused us to move. My father who, even though had no role in our family anymore, was somehow still indirectly making all of the decisions for us. Even though my parents were divorced, he still had to support us. Well, by court law he had to, but I don't think that really meant anything to him.  
  
I hated him for it. Sure I disliked the class bully and I cried when the kids made fun of me. But that was my first real taste of hate. I regret it now, knowing that I would hate many other times in the future and not holding on to my ignorance of the concept.  
  
That was actually the first time I realized he wouldn't be coming back. Of course I understood the significance of money. It was thin, it smelt bad, and it was a fucking piece of paper. But still, it was valued, people wanted it, and people either died for it or because of it. So when my mom told me that he would not pay for child support, I realized that he valued money over his family. Yea, he was never coming back.  
  
But then again, he was never one to back down when he expected something from us. I underestimated the power of greed.  
  
So after he blew of the last of his gambling money/pleasure money/who knows what the hell he spends it on money, he hunted us down. For some sick reason he thought that we owed him something, that we owed him for ruining his life. For a while I thought he was right. I mean, I had toys and all the things a child needs to grow and develop, things that cost money. And that money came from my parents. I felt bad because I was a selfish brat and I always demanded more than what we could afford. So to get rid of the guilt, I told my mom that she could sell my toys. And the sad thing was that she actually did sell my toys. You would think that as a mother she would tell me that I had no reason to feel guilty and that I could keep my toys, but she didn't.  
  
That was when my mom failed. That was the first time she wasn't a mom for me. You see, she believed him too. She thought that it was our fault for the family breaking apart. My mom was a sensitive woman, and when the family she always dreamed of having fell apart, she took the blame upon herself. And she was blinded by her own guilt. She never sat us down and said it wasn't any of our faults. She never took me by the hand and calmly explained that my dad was sick and to not take the things he said seriously. She just couldn't convince us of something that she didn't really believe herself.  
  
So she gave him what little we had, hoping that it would appease him and his greed and hope that he might come home. Although it hurt, I admired that my mom had the ability to forgive so easily. She never hesitated to give people a second chance. But when his second chance turned into his fifth, her hope died. She slowly started withering away after each time he came, took money, and then ran off for a year or so. He started threatening us, and carrying out those treats when we didn't do what he wanted. You now something is seriously wrong when one of your earliest memories is seeing your father beat your mother and staying awake at night to her screams.  
  
When he turned his hand on my sister and myself, I stopped calling him dad. I was surprised that I had called him that for as long as I did. The bitter people would say that a father is simply the person who knocked up you mother and you were the result. An optimistic person would say that your father is the one who cherishes you and your family and earns his title by the simple act of loving you. Well maybe I shouldn't say simple. If it were simple then there would be a whole lot more love in my family and others.  
  
And because of that, I was the bitter person. The name 'father' implies a relationship, and the only relationship I had with mine was the fact that it was his seed that made me. Our love was as shallow as the roots that connected our family tree.  
  
There were no emotional ties holding us together. The fact was I had a father who was sick, a mother with issues, an emotionally depressed older sister, and a younger brother who had learning disabilities. Basically, the only thing we had in common was a last name.  
  
We lived through it though. We barely got by. But when he sunk to a new low and started hurting the most vulnerable of us, I had had enough. I was barely twelve and he was an eight-year-old with the mind of a five-year-old and he was abused. It was so easy to ignore my brother, and that's what usually happened. But I couldn't stand to see his already fragile mind corrupted by what my father did to him. So I took responsibility for him and protected him when my mom couldn't, which happened a lot. He was called worthless and stupid, but with me there I turned the words into more forgiving ones. Instead of the hate that was directed towards him, I stood in the way and whispered love.  
  
The only problem was, I went to school and I couldn't protect him all the time. There was one day when my sister and I were at school and my mother left him at the house. I came home that day and found him beaten bloody. Although my mom was slow, she wasn't stupid. After that incident she finally realized that we had to escape.  
  
So we ran. We ran in fear of him and the things he could do. I remember my mother being terrified of him and I remember hearing her cry at night after she had tucked me in. I was mad about that too. I was mad that she always took time to cry but never took the time to read us stories anymore.  
  
I would like to say that our lives are better. I would like to say that we were able to forget the things he put us through. But he just broke us so completely, and any hope that I had within me died a long time ago. Even though I was living in a shrine, I never truly felt protected. Whenever I hear the noise of something being broken, my first reaction is to place my hands above my head in defense, thinking that he would come in any moment to strike me.  
  
For a while I was afraid that he would easily find us, but by then his mind was so warped, I'd be surprised if he could find his way out of a bottle. We never saw him again.  
  
My mom slowly healed, but she was never able to truly trust someone. Though he inflicted us with many physical wounds, what I hated him for the most was the fact that he shattered our spirits beyond repair. Grandfather helped her through her healing, and eventually she was able to talk to us without bursting into tears. She apologized all the time, still blaming herself. So I took the role that she could never do for me and told her that it wasn't her fault. She didn't believe me, but at least she knew that I didn't blame her.  
  
I envied Sota, my brother. Because of his handicap, he didn't have as hard a time moving on as the rest of us. I was so relieved that he could finally play with his toys and enjoy himself without having me to look over his shoulder. I still protected him though. I learned the hard way that not all people are as accepting as others. People stared at him; I couldn't help that. And they sometimes pointed but I couldn't help that either. But when someone made fun of him, I would always be there at his defense.  
  
My sister, Mieko, was still in depression. She tried not to show how it affected her, but going out to parties every night and doing drugs, you could tell she was running from something. She was almost sixteen by then and bought big bras with a lot of stuffing to make her chest look larger, and tiny t-shirts that showed off her bellybutton. I was always her little guinea pig. She would dress me up in tight clothes that I felt uncomfortable in and pile makeup on my face.  
  
I remember her asking me what color I wanted for my eye shadow as long as it wasn't the same as hers (she didn't want me to look like her), and I would always say brown.  
  
"Brown?" she would say. "Why would you want brown. It's such a lonely color."  
  
"'Cause it looks more natural and it's the same color as my eyes."  
  
I didn't like it, but I never said much. I couldn't live up to her expectations and eventually she gave up on me being more like her. Sometimes I couldn't help but think that that was the kind of person she wanted in a sister; someone just like her to share clothes and secret crushes with. But that wasn't me and she seemed to jump at the chance to voice every insecurity I had and everything I lacked.  
  
I would look at us over in the mirror, with our hair piled on top of our heads and makeup covering up our features, and cringe. My grandfather would always say we looked like clowns, and we did. So while I washed the paint off my face and went to get Sota ready for bed, my sister would steal my Mom's high-heeled shoes and sneak out the house.  
  
During dinner, my mom would scold Sota for his manners. I don't think she was quite used to the fact that he was different, and therefore needed to be treated differently. It was frustrating, I understood. I myself still lost patience with him and his ignorance. My mom was always preaching about how he was so delicate; I think she still felt bad for what my father did to him. She always talked down to us, not realizing that her motherly teachings were coming a little late because we had done so much growing up without her. I think she still needed to do some growing up herself. Grandpa would sit calmly at the head of the table, not interfering. And my sister would try to hide her grin behind her fork. She didn't mind yelling as long as it wasn't directed at her.  
  
As my mom got older and we all started passing her in height, Mieko became more accepting of me. Eventually, I was almost taller than her and I even had breasts, though she never failed to mention that hers were still bigger. I didn't really care about that but I was happy when she trusted me enough to start talking to me. I guess she thought that with the boobs and the height came maturity, even though I didn't feel any different than I did before.  
  
She would tell me about all the guys she met off of the shrine grounds and all the drugs she tore up her veins with. She told me about all the bars she went to just to watch people and get wasted. She told me it was like living in a different universe where people could just go out and feel good. The lights are like stars and the music just hums through your body and flows like waves.  
  
One day she came home crying with a quarter of weed and a pack of my mom's cigarettes. I saw her smashing the leaf-like drug and pick out the seeds.  
  
"What are you doing?" I asked.  
  
"I'm getting ready to smoke it. You want some?"  
  
"Ok."  
  
I think I agreed out of curiosity, but mostly because I hated seeing her alone and I thought she might want to show her troubles to someone.  
  
I saw her take out a cigarette and cut the end with a pair of scissors.  
  
"I have to cut off the filter and take out all the stuff in the cigarette first because I don't have any paper," she explained. And I saw a bunch of brown stuff fall to the floor. Then she began stuffing it with the green drug and lighting it.  
  
"Here," she handed it to me after sucking in a long line of smoke that made the end brighten with red light.  
  
I carefully took it from her hands and paused, not quite sure how to do it, so I followed her example and breathed in the smoke from the tip and coughed.  
  
She laughed and told me to try again without coughing it all out.  
  
"You wont get a good buzz going if you don't inhale it all," she directed.  
  
So we sat out on the balcony, she talked, we smoked and puffed, and I listened, and after that we laughed and laid down and ate popcorn because we were so hungry and week in the knees and giddy about forgetting things. I wondered if we would be damned for smoking on holy grounds.  
  
I went to sleep that night, tired. I didn't feel guilty about doing it. Maybe I should have, I heard so many bad stories about bad people doing things like that. But I didn't care. It was just me and my sister talking and smoking and laughing about how fucked up the world was.  
  
It felt like I was disappearing.  
  
Thinner. . .  
  
thinner.  
  
Into the air.  
  
Sometimes, it's okay just to go out and forget things, if just for a little while.  
  
After that night, we made a point of doing it occasionally. I know it's a strange way to bond, but I had never been closer to her.  
  
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One morning I was just waking up when I heard my mom crying. I followed to quiet sound to her room and found her sitting brokenly in a large chair that dwarfed her size considerably.  
  
I walked making sure she heard me and lightly tapped her shoulder. Despite my unspoken warning, she gave a small jump and looked at me with dread in her eyes.  
  
"Mom, What's the matter?"  
  
She was never one for pretty words and half-truths, so she took a breath and told me straight out.  
  
"Mieko's dead."  
  
It's strange how mere words could be so damaging.  
  
I sucked in my breath but gave no other reaction. I didn't try to deny or ask her how she knew. Why bother asking stupid questions that only got in the way when I could see the truth in her eyes?  
  
"She. . ."  
  
A sob choked up her irregular breathing as she tried to speak again.  
  
"She went out again last night, even though I told her not to go. I- I didn't want her to leave again and I yelled at her."  
  
She stopped talking long enough to take a deep breath.  
  
"She left anyway though. She left and I stayed up all night, waiting for her to come home- but she didn't and I was so tired I just fell asleep and then the phone woke me up and I realized that it was morning and she still wasn't back.  
  
"When I answered the phone and heard the police on the other end, I knew it had something to do with her. I really thought that she would just be in jail somewhere and they were calling me to bail her out or something. I feel so guilty. I feel so guilty because I was preparing myself to yell at her for making me bail her out with money that we couldn't afford to lose.  
  
" Then he told me she was dead. I was preparing myself to yell at her and she was dead. She was dead and all I could think about was her next punishment," she said with anguish.  
  
I don't think my mom realize that she was still talking to me. She was completely taken over by her anguish and giving into her despair. By then I was kneeling and I reached up to touch her wet cheeks and then she touched mine. The warmth of her hand contrasted to the wetness on my face and it wasn't until then did I realize that I was crying too.  
  
"It was an overdose," she whispered. "She was only nineteen and she died of a drug overdose and now I'll never get to tell her how sorry I am."  
  
I stared at her and then grasped her hands and rubbed her palms. "Yes you can. Don't you remember how she always seemed to know when we were talking about her in another room? She would yell 'I know you guys are talking shit about me behind my back!' I said with a small grin at the fond memory of seeing her cheeks flushed with rage at the thought of us talking bad about her, even though we never did.  
  
"What makes you think that she cant hear us wherever she is now? I'm sure if you just whisper her name and talk to her as if she is right in front of you as I am now. She'll hear you, I know she will."  
  
I leaned over and kissed her cheek, then left her to tend to my own raw emotions.  
  
My only regret was not being able to say goodbye to her. After all those years we went through together, I finally got to know her. She wasn't the most wonderful person, but she loved and she cared, even though she didn't always show it. I was just angry with my father. Her life was lost because of the corruption he put in her head while she was growing up. Still, there was no use blaming him when he wasn't even around.  
  
It was ironic that the one thing she thought she could fix her life with killed her.  
  
I never smoked again.  
  
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After her death things weren't the same. It was almost like out family had been through too much and her death finally knocked down our weak walls of defense. The blow was hard and everyone was miserable.  
  
I think my mom took my advice, because sometimes I could hear her in the next room talking to Mieko. Yet still, she sort of just started to disappear. My sensitive mother was blaming herself again. In her eyes, if she had never yelled at Mieko, she never would have run off, and then she never would have died the way she did.  
  
She stopped eating and stopped caring. I knew if I didn't do anything that I would lose her too, so I told her that I still needed her. I still needed her and Sota and Grandpa. She tried to fight her depression, I could see the determination in her eyes. But she was too weak. She had just been through too much too many times and she was suffering.  
  
She faded away. She died.  
  
Another life taken that I blamed on my father.  
  
I was sad. Sota was miserable without his mother there to tuck him in at night and chase away the monsters under his bed. I only found comfort in the fact that she wasn't suffering anymore. I always believed that my mom was really an angel anyway. She was an angel who loved too much and the world destroyed her. But she was where she belonged now.  
  
I took my own advice and I talked to her sometimes. I told her that I loved her. I told her that I never blamed her for anything. She didn't have to worry about Sota; I would take care of him. I was almost eighteen by then so after Grandpa died I promised her I would take custody of him and not let him end up anywhere bad.  
  
I promised her that no matter what else the world threw at me, I would live through it. I would never abandon the wonderful things she taught me. Although I was only human, bound to make mistakes, I knew that I could move on and lean from whatever good or bad experiences I went through. I had things worth living for. I had my brother who depended on me, and even if I lost everything, I still had the name my mother had given me.  
  
No matter what happens I will always be Kagome.  
  
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Sorry, no Inuyasha or anything. This was just a Prologue but was a lot longer than I intended.  
  
I really enjoyed writing this and though I still have other things to finish, I will continue this when I have the time. I really appreciate thoughts and comments on what you thought of it! Thank you for reading and I hope you all got something out of it! 


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