Pinioned


High-toned ladies and gents in their tony outfits – each worth a king’s ransom, that’s for sure - have kept streaming in and out of the door for the past thirty minutes. Yet here I am still, sipping the best champagne money could buy off a tall glass because there was nothing else for me to do.

He’s late. He always is. Damn him.

The good-looking man sitting at the table beside mine kept trying to catch my eye.

‘Sorry, I don’t really care for your oiled hair; in fact I’d been having the strangest desire to rinse your greasy head. I don’t really care for your shiny teeth either. Give me another sparkling grin and I swear I’m going to knock your teeth off. Sorry, I don’t care about you at all. Look for someone who does. You see, I’m taken.’

But he’s late. So I cross my legs and wink at Mr. Greaseball - after all, there’s nothing else for me to do.

Until now, that is.

While Mr. Greaseball was getting up (to join me at my table, I presume), I look up and see HIM. HIM in his tailored black tuxedo. HIM in his sable trench-coat. Perfectly groomed hair to shame Mr. Greaseball back to his oil depot and haughty upturned nose to boot.

He hasn’t changed much since the last time I saw him ten years ago. Perhaps a few lines where there have been none before. Or perhaps the way his young athletic body filled out – for his clothes clung to him (to his ass, more like) differently from the way I remember. But it’s still the same piercing gaze. The same flick of the hand. Even the same mole.

It’s still the same Atobe Keigo.

He looks at me with an emotion I can’t seem to read and I feel my breath catch. So much perhaps is the awe of seeing him again written on my face, for Mr. Greaseball seemed to have thought better of approaching me and went back to his expensive entrée. Good for him - who knows what could have happened had he done so. Perhaps I’d had shoved his head into my champagne bucket by now.

Now he’s right in front of me, standing still. And I find myself looking up at him expectantly, willing him to do something, anything, for my throat seemed to have dried up and my legs melted into the consistency of jelly.

I wait for a while. A minute. Two minutes. Thirty minutes. I don’t really know – I’ve lost track of time. And it doesn’t matter.

He opens his mouth and voices, “ …”

Ah…after eight years. After eight long years. Hearing him say my name is enough to send me into raptures. And his oh-so-familiar baritone voice brought back memories of so long ago that I can barely even remember.

We met at seventeen. It was in a cocktail party of our families’ common business partner. He was wearing a purple tuxedo so tacky that I recall snorting into my glass of wine when I saw him. Oh, but he stood out, which is perhaps his goal from the very beginning. Everyone noticed him, everyone greeted him politely – the sole son and heir of the Atobe dynasty.

I went over to him, goblet of red wine still on my hand, when a klutz of a waiter bumped into me, making me spill the scarlet liquid onto his coat. I mumbled a hurried apology and hastily turned away when he called, “Pause, madam.”

‘Pause, madam’? Which era was he from anyways? Intrigued, I turned and arched my eyebrows.

“How do you plan to replace my raiment?”

Well two can play that game, so I replied: “My apologies, kind sir. Intentional, it was not. I could not also, however, replace your coat. Had I known that I would spill, albeit unintentionally, wine all over your vesture, I would have commissioned Grimace’s* services for the eventide,” I intoned mockingly.

I had no idea if anyone in the A-crowd knew who Grimace was but I heard a couple of laughs so I guess someone did. HE, however, was looking at me with a face of candid amusement.

“I find it hard on my pride,” he smirked, “to be made light of a lady who chooses to wear a gown so low-cut it displays naught but her…ah…questionable cleavage.”

So I wasn’t well-endowed. Big deal. I was seventeen and Japanese. Damn Atobe Keigo.

I wasn’t hurt by his spiteful remark at all though; in fact I found it just as amusing as he found mine. But the more I see his self-satisfied smile, the more I want to tease him - just like a grade school crush. In hindsight, I find that feeling and that moment so agonizingly cute it makes me want to squeal like a teenage girl.

“I recant what I had said earlier,” I smirked back. “Please allow me rectify my fault,” and bobbing a curtsy, I added, “my lord. May I?”

Without waiting for a reply, I approached him and grabbed a full bottle of red wine situated on the buffet table behind him. Uncorking it soundly, I tipped it over his head – the scarlet liquid gushed in rivulets all over his face and the rest of his clothes. All the while he only watched me silently as though detached from the whole situation while I heard a collective gasp behind my back – I don’t think anyone thought that someone could actually do such a thing to the heir of the wealthiest family in Japan.

When the last crimson drop was spilled, I replaced the bottle down and held my arms akimbo. I watched him dismiss his bodyguards with a flick of a gorgeous hand when they tried to wipe his face clean.

Now smiling with a sort of feral intensity, he slowly moved towards me and suddenly collected my whole person into a bone-crushing vise-like embrace. I felt the cool liquid soak my white Marilyn Monroe inspired low-cut dress all the way to my skin but for the life of me, I just can’t seem to push him away – it was just too delicious a development.

So I just waited for him to release me with an atypical grin on his face and whisper into my ear a statement so modern it almost took me aback: “Payback,” he proclaimed and I laughed soundly at that.

While he was starting to walk away though, I grabbed his hand to stop him and placed my palms on either side of his face. I almost laughed again at his confused countenance when I remembered what I wanted to do – I kissed him hard and sound on the mouth. In front of everyone. And I loved it.

That day I went home knowing I had fallen completely and utterly in love.

But before that, I went and found the waiter who had bumped into me and slipped a crisp 10,000yen note in his hand – he did a job well done.

That same year, a few months later, my father, with not a hint of contrition on his visage, told me something of utmost importance.

Before he knew what I would be like, before he knew what I’d turn out to be, before he knew I’d become an artist and a free spirit, in fact, before I was even born, I was apparently already promised to be someone’s wife. Yet even if he knew all that, I doubt very much he would give a damn.

I remember my rage when I heard this. My freedom is something I value the most in life. That I could live and do what I want is my biggest happiness. My father, who had never shown me affection, had never restricted me of my propensities before either. That was the first time he’d commanded me to do something at his bidding and it had to be marriage. Oh, but I had wanted so much to fall in love – I wanted a grand romance, an epic love story, something to sweep me and the rest of womankind off our feet. I had wanted the right to choose a husband. But he took it away from me and I was beyond furious.

But then the day to meet my fiancé came and all my hatred vanished as quickly as it had come. For it was none other than HIM - Atobe Keigo – the man who had tickled my fancy. I was ecstatic and from the way he looked at me, I was also sure he wasn’t displeased that his future wife turned out to be me.

We got married at eighteen. It was in the States and I wore a gown made by Monique Lhuiller sewn with real diamonds and baroque pearls – I felt like a princess and HE looked like a prince. The wedding night was MUCH better than the wedding itself. It was magic the first time he held me – oh but there were, oh god, sparks and fireworks and explosions. And I loved every part of his body and every drop of his sweat and every strand of his hair. I loved him, I loved him, I loved him.

Our first few months were spent in absolute joy. We toured Europe and the rest of Asia, falling deeper in love along the way. I found out he liked milk in his tea and he discovered my love for chocolate. He read and lauded the novel I was writing while touring with him and I was astounded by his innate business sense. He loved the taste of my strawberry-flavored lip gloss; I get intoxicated by the smell of his cologne.

And then we had to go back home.

Everything was fine at first. He and I lived in Atobe Mansion #2 away from the prying eyes of his domineering mother. But slowly, so as to appear initially unobtrusive, she had wheedled her way into our daily lives.

She was impressed by my ability to play both classical piano and violin yet she sneered at my playing the electric guitar. Her eyes lit up when she found out I’ve already written a New York Times Bestseller at eighteen, then panned it later when she found out it was of the romance genre. She hated my painting technique because it was too colorful and flamboyant and would often go into bitter philippics about it. She despised my ability to be able to laugh any time of day – “laughter is the sign of an inferior mind”; the gospel according to Atobe-mama. She didn’t have to tell me that there was nothing else she regrets more in this world other than making the irresponsible deal of having me as his son’s wife.

Little by little, without me noticing, the laughter began to cease. And the blossoms inside my mind – the prancing fairies, the pirouetting muses, the azure skies, the cerulean seas – all but evanesced. All that’s left of me is a shell controlled by mere rote.

Atobe-mama would drag me to weekly tea parties with the other high-toned women of Japan’s richest - we’d have lovely tea in a lovely garden wearing lovely clothes, pretending we’re having a lovely time. And as for me, I didn’t even have to pretend – I already knew just WHEN to laugh, WHAT to laugh about and even HOW to do it. Just like a wind-up doll. Or perhaps like a call-center agent answering the phone with a “Good morning/afternoon/evening, (insert name here) Company. This is (insert name here) speaking, how may I help you?” for the umpteenth time.

Oh, Atobe-mama laughs during these parties, she really does, despite her erstwhile mentioned gospel. A rusty, strident, unpleasant laugh that certainly, no one would ever think is actually REAL.

But I didn’t mind all these because I didn’t know what I was doing. During those times, it never occurred to me that I could go on living without her guidance. I was completely under her maleficent spell.

Just like Trilby*. Just like fuckin' Trilby.

And then one day, I just woke up and saw everything at face value. It was an epiphany – sort of like being reborn, like waking up from a long and never-ending nightmare, or perhaps like the first gulp of air after being submersed underwater for a period. Never had I such an experience before that I found everything so excruciatingly lucid it took my breath away. I finally saw them, the strings that bound me. The strings that controlled me.

I went down to my atelier and stripped the cover off my paintings. I gasped when I saw what I had created – trite and clichéd artworks I would have never done before. Next I saw my writings and found them extremely lacking and wanting of emotions I used to be able to express freely. And my clothes – oh my clothes! I searched my wardrobe in vain but found nothing but unimaginative, nondescript apparels. Why could Keigo go around in a purple tux while I suffer wearing boring drab? Why had his mother not lecture her son about over-the-top clothing?

Then it came to me, sort of like an avalanche, really. It’s because whatever I do, she would NEVER come to love and accept me. Usual of mothers-in-law, perhaps, except that SHE had stepped out of line and stripped me of my life – and quite literally at that too.

I had come into their house hoping for even a modicum of love. That day, on our wedding, I thanked God for giving me a new family. I thought, perhaps, I finally have a mother, for I had never had one before – she died giving birth to me. And I was thirsting so much for a mother’s love that my once vivacious and fertile mind had willingly become sterile and prosaic – all for a woman who would never come to see me as her own. The patriarch of the family was better, at least – he ignored me completely after the wedding. Or perhaps worse - for there are moments when indifference is worse than outright dislike. Though, in my opinion, nothing could be worse than the deceit and cunning and duplicity such that Atobe-mama has shown me.

All those realizations drove me to the edge and I clutched my head, tore at my skin, ripped my hair and wailed – wailed like I had never before. Like no one ever had before. I was afraid, so afraid of what I had become - so afraid of the fact that I had become unable to soar my proverbial skies - that I thought death was better. So I reached for the knife among my tools and slashed my goddamn wrists – dug into them ‘til vermilion blood gushed out in fountains. I felt no pain.

But God, how wrong the movies were. You don’t just drop dead after you mutilate your wrists; you wait for your blood to run out. In fact, I was even able to stand and lock the door so nobody could get to me before I take my last breath. I watched as the blood from my veins pour onto the brass knob, staining the unvarnished wood. I watched as the unholy liquid ran down my engagement ring – then I remembered. Keigo…Keigo…the one I love the most. The one who showed me the most love.

And then I finally felt the pain. It’s like getting hit by a truck except worse – at least you won’t feel a thing after being ran over dead. It’s more like watching life ebb away from your body slowly, little by little, as if daring you to try and stop inevitable death. I wanted to shout, “Keigo, Keigo, help me!” But I was unable to utter even a single word and the sounds that came from me were mere grunts and nothing more.

I didn’t want to die. Or at least, not anymore then. Maybe, perhaps, I never wished for death from the start or else I would have merely stuck the knife to my throat which would have meant almost instant death. But I chose to bleed instead. Perhaps, all I really wanted was a catharsis – I did a stupid thing to achieve it, though. But I didn’t realize it then, for pain overtook what remained of my consciousness.

When I woke up, I was somewhere else. It was a bit hazy but I was able to make out my husband’s face hovering above mine. He looked a lot less resplendent than he usually does – in fact, he looked positively horrendous and it welled up within me a perverse pleasure in seeing him as such. He looked close to crying when I whispered his name and he took my hand in his.

“Do you,” he whispered, “really hate being with me that much?”

What a question. What a question, Atobe Keigo. You really do have a way of greeting people back from the dead, don’t you? I wanted to say that wasn’t the case – that it was his mother who makes me miserable, not him. But then I remembered why I was always in his mother’s presence in the first case. He was so busy with his studies and the family business that he barely had time for anything else – including me. In fact, I seldom saw him after our three-month long honeymoon. I even almost forgot the smell of his cologne.

Yet even then I wanted to tell him to take me away, far away, where no one and nothing could come between us. But I wouldn’t want to take from him his birthright and besides, for Keigo, succeeding his father is a matter of honor – something he holds in highest regard. Just like I do my freedom.

So I did the only thing I could think of – the right one.

“Give me…my wings back,” was all I could reply.

There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much I wanted him to know (like how much I loved him) but that was all I could say. Yet no other words could have expressed my feelings better. I saw Atobe-mama at the background while we were talking, busily pretending to be anxious and severely distressed.

When Keigo left and I saw a look of pure distaste cross her features, I had understood. She, who’s been rich and miserable in her marriage wanted to make me miserable as well. She never truly hated me, only the fact that I had been happy. I felt really sorry for her then so I cried – for her and for all those who can never spread their wings and take flight again. But there was no room for forgiveness in my heart just yet, only pity.

We got annulled at twenty-two. The process was quick in conclusion; money really could do wonders. My fairy-tale wedding had ended after only four short years. I left Japan not long after that, intent on making a new life for myself. My father had also cut all ties from the Atobe Conglomerate shortly after despite suffering heavy financial losses. It was his first gesture of affection and I was extremely grateful and overwhelmed - it also wasn’t his last.

Lose a husband, gain a father. Not so bad a bargain, right? Yet despite that, I had never loved Keigo any less than before. If ever, I loved him even more; for he had given me my reason for being. Even now, I yearn for him even lust for him.

How I wish things had been different for us. If only I had been older when we’d wed, I’d have had more patience and sense of self. If only he’d given me restitution when he saw what his mother was doing to me, I might not have been driven up the wall. If only we’d loved each other more…

It’s too late now. A few years ago, I heard he got married to another. I know the woman; she has a heart as cold only as the deepest of nights is dark.

Now, he stands before me, still the pristinely unruffled Atobe Keigo. A man now, but still my Keigo. Oh but, God, how I want to touch him!

“It’s been a long time,” says he, only the tiniest hint of emotion betraying his resolve.
“You’re late,” I whisper back, for I seem to have left my voice somewhere else.
“Still as charming as ever, I see.”
“I could say the same to you. I hope you and your wife are doing well.”
His eyes flicker uneasily. “We got divorced a year after our marriage.”
I raise my brows at him.
“For bedding half the men of Japan and making me the country’s biggest laughingstock,” he laughs bitterly.

I suddenly feel an odd tugging of a heartstring I recognize as hope.

His eyes travel to the other occupied seat at my table and I see a look of surprise register on his handsome face.

“Do you realize?” I couldn’t help but smile at his befuddled expression.
“Who?” He utters lowly and I discern a catch in his throat.

The seat adjacent to mine was occupied by a young boy, seven years of age, wearing a child’s tailored tuxedo with well-kempt hair to shame Mr. Greaseball back to his oil depot and haughty upturned nose to boot. He has a mole under his right eye. His tuxedo is purple.

“He is…the reason I asked to meet you now, Keigo.”

I turn and smooth the hair of the young boy who is looking at my ex-husband curiously.

“I would like you to meet our son.”

“Our…son…”

He reels at the revelation and sits down. Yes Keigo, our son. My reason for being.

“How?” Is all he could muster to say. I take one look at his ashen face and thought that perhaps such a disclosure should have been done more slowly. But it’s too late for that now, so I offer him a glass of champagne to calm his nerves.

“I was pregnant when I left the country. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you until now.”
“Hardly matters anymore,” he whispers. “A son…”

He takes a long look at the young boy, then kneeling before his chair; he placed both hands on either of his shoulders.

“What is your name?”
“Keigo,” our son replies.
“Keigo,” he laughs with an odd manic energy that was very unlike him. “The best name ever devised.”
My little Keigo smiles back happily at his estranged father. “Isn’t it?”
“My name is Keigo too. And apparently, I’m your father.”
“You are?”
“Yes, I’m very much sure. The penchant for purple can only be genetic.”

I have to laugh at that. It surely is.

I watch him run his hands on his son’s cheeks and feel a copious amount of happiness engulf my very soul. That’s the way it should be. That’s the way it always should have been – my family whole and together like it is now.

Before I could even recover from the joyous inundation of emotions, I see him gather his son into his arms, embracing him deeply. And I see our son embrace him back.

He looks at me strangely after he let go, his expression unreadable yet not unpleasant and I find myself wishing this would be the start of something new. What that something is, I don’t exactly know.

He sits in his chair and takes my hand, kissing it softly and placing it over his heart.

“Shall we have dinner now, wife?”

I feel hot tears stream down my cheeks and answer, “Yes, husband, let’s.”

At the next table, Mr. Greaseball sniffs and wipes a tear and as for me, I finally recall the smell of my husband’s cologne.


END.


//© 01/27/07 by MitsuiSelphie


*Grimace
McDonald’s big purple mascot

*Trilby
A character (a singer) in the 1894 novel of the same name by George du Maurier who was under the control of the hypnotist Svengali. A sensation in its day, the novel created a stereotype of the abusive hypnotist that persists to this day.

*Pinioned
verb. pin•ioned, pin•ion•ing, pin•ions
To remove or bind the wing feathers of (a bird) to prevent flight.
To cut or bind (the wings of a bird).