Timely, Godly (Asahina Mikuru)
People like to talk about clocks and hourglasses and time as if it is something perfect and profound and God. Asahina would tell you that one of three of these are correct.
She was choking, it seemed. Her whole, holy skin, her bones, her throat, her eyes and ears, her mouth, her touches, all were imploding in of themselves in the most excuriating way. Asahina couldn’t, wouldn’t breathe, and every aching movement the muscles in her chest made in an attempt to WAKE HER UP simply made her gaze blur over with water colour tears.
Asahina, to a lot of people, was a sweetheart in every way. “Moe as fuck” had come out of Suzumiya’s mouth more than once or twice or three times, “delicate” from Kyon, “filled with mystique” from Itsuki and amidst her pain, she felt dull hatred dredge up from her breaking lungs.
Time was killing her. Suzumiya Haruhi was, actually, but…
She could tell you that the last thing she remembered was sitting in the club room, with the sun setting slowly and warmly on their motley quintet. She was wearing the maid outfit, and Kyon-kun was bickering very loudly with Suzumiya in the corner over something she couldn’t remember, because the last thing she really remembered was the way Itsuki’s calculating irises had cut right into her own stare like he knew something he shouldn’t. Fear filled her, momentarily, but thinking back, maybe it wasn’t just that. When your throat tightens and your heart throbs for a moment and your breath catches, it’s not always bad.
Even if the person causing it is.
But Asahina digresses. She hates Suzumiya Haruhi right now, because in that completely arbitrary argument she had been holding with Kyon such a short time ago, she had snapped. The straw that broke the camel’s back. The final grain of sand in a small hourglass. A clock coming to a full hour’s completion, the last tick of the second hand, the final tock of the minute hand straightening on the number 12.
The universe was undoing itself, unraveling rapid-fire and tearing her apart from every direction. Asahina could guess that somewhere, Yuki was being deprogrammed, though she didn’t know if it hurt, and Kyon hopefully was enduring whatever horrors were being induced upon him, and Suzumiya, oh, that stupid— whatever— she was probably, probably, just fine. And Itsuki. Her stomach wrenched in the wrong direction and she let out a soundless, strangled noise of agony — God, she hoped, this hurt, as badly for him, as it did, for her.
The lights started going out in her eyes and she assumed this was the end of her time. Surely, her small life had neither been perfect, nor profound. She lived it in a timid, timely manner, and she learned something, accepted something, as everything died.
People like to talk about clocks and hourglasses and time as if it is something perfect and profound and God. Asahina would tell you that one of three of these are correct.
And Asahina would tell you, with a dying thought, that the only thing she’d ever hated was God.
i just linked this to xander bc we were talking about itsuki and mikuru and i just want to reblog it again bc ekaterina’s writing is perfect and also The Biggest Inspiration To Me ok idk she’s probably gonna think it’s weird that i dug around for this old post but i really like it a lot okklsdghsadfhdsfh
-
birthbysleep liked this
-
hylia reblogged this from optimisticghost and added:
i just linked this...xander bc we were talking...again bc...
-
trenchcoatlove liked this
-
darkleerx liked this
-
hylia said:
oh my god
-
optimisticghost posted this
