Mourning Becomes Kuonji
A Ranma 1/2 Fanfic by Alan Harnum - harnums@thekeep.org
All Ranma characters are the property of Rumiko Takahashi, first
published by Shogakukan in Japan and brought over to North
America by Viz Communications.
http://www.thekeep.org/~mike/transp.html
A new Ranma one-shot from me after... at least a year.
Commentary would be welcome.
***
Ukyou Kuonji, lately bereft, well-used to bereavement, stood
before a new grave amidst old graves. All the other mourners
were gone now; even Ranma and Akane had left at her asking. At
the moment, she desired nothing more than solitude.
The years had worn her well, and, in turn, she wore them as
well she could. Forty-six last autumn, but only a little gray in
the hair, a few folds around the corners of the eyes and mouth.
Eyes could show age; at least, some people's could. Not hers.
Twenty-nine years. A long time. Not long enough. The
disease had eaten him from the inside, and near the end, right
before he slipped into the coma, he'd been so weak that he could
barely speak. After she made the decision to take him off the
machines, she held his hand, and listened to his last breaths.
Gentle they were, peaceful, with slow-growing spans between,
until the span became eternal. Konatsu never woke up; she wished
he had, and was somehow glad he hadn't.
Twenty-nine years was a long time; in her youth, it might
well have seemed forever. But now, twenty-nine years left her
middle-aged and alone, albeit comfortable with wealth from
years of careful investments and the insurance her husband's
death had brought. Comfortable with wealth; the thought made her
want to spit.
There were flowers on the fresh-turned earth, petals bright.
The sun was bright too, and the sky cloudless. That wasn't how
it was supposed to be, not on the day you buried your husband;
the occasion called for grey clouds, black clouds, and rain
falling down as though in mutual mourning. Definitely not the
way she'd envisioned the funeral would be; then again, married
life hadn't been all she'd envisioned either. Did anything ever
turn out as dreamed?
They'd all helped scoop the earth onto his coffin, a
shovelful each before the gravediggers took over; Ranma holding
in his tears like he always held in everything, Akane crying
openly, Soun gripping the spade in two age-gnarled hands. Could
she talk to Soun, perhaps, and ask him what he'd done to survive
after his wife had died? He'd lost his spouse earlier in life
than she had; did that make the pain less or more? Less time
together meant less time to grow needy for each other. And he'd
had his daughters; no children for her and Konatsu.
Not that they hadn't wanted any, of course, but after three
miscarriages and one stillborn, they'd just kind of given up on
the natural way. Oh, they'd tried the adoption route, of course,
but it had been decided by the authorities that the seemingly
confused state of the gender roles in their marriage wouldn't
have made a healthy--yes, that was the word that had been used,
as if the two of them were somehow contagious--environment for a
young child.
Konatsu had tried to change, of course, but by that time, it
was too ingrained, too much a habit. No, not a habit, it wasn't
like being an alchoholic or a drug addict, it hadn't been
something sick, it had just been something different. He liked
wearing the clothing of women; pretty kimonos, elegant dresses,
underwear, all of it. She'd come to terms with that, and
accepted it; loved him all the same for it. And if once in a
while she would bind herself up again, and put on a suit so they
could go out for a formal dinner with her as man and him as wife,
so what? It hadn't been anything kinky, just a game they played.
It didn't mean they wouldn't have been excellent parents, if
someone had given them a chance; with the childhoods they'd both
had, they would have tried extra-hard.
It hadn't been anything kinky. But then again, they'd
always had their best sex on those nights, after they came home,
and stripped out of their clothes, so that it was quite obvious
just who was man and who was woman. Against her will, she
started laughing at the memory; Konatsu pushing down his dress,
taking out the padding that created his bust, slipping out of his
high heels, and advancing across the floor to her. And she'd
remove the suit jacket and toss it casually on the bed, undo the
knot of her tie, and then slowly unbutton her shirt like she was
doing a burlesque act. God, they used to laugh so hard, giggling
like kids, up until two years ago, when he'd gotten so sick, and
it had come so fast, the doctors said it was one of the fastest
onsets they'd ever seen; it got into his bones and ate him from
the inside.
Suddenly, she was on her knees and crying onto the earth of
his grave. It was such a cliched image that she wanted to laugh
again, but couldn't. How would she ever laugh again?
After the crying was done, she got up again, and brushed
loose dirt from the knees of her black slacks. You can't stay
here forever now, she told herself. But you'll be back
eventually to stay forever, right beside him. The thought didn't
comfort her much, but taking the long view always helped a
little. And this, too, shall pass away.
Deep breath; get control back, calm down.
She reached down and picked up one boquet of flowers from
his grave, pale lilies; one of Kasumi's daughters had brought
those.
"Goodbye, love."
While she was here, she thought she might as well make
another visit. Her route took her up and down a hill within the
cemetary, to one of the big marble monuments in which dozens of
cremated remains were held, with little plaques to indicate just
whose ashes were where. She found the monument easily, although
she hadn't been here since before Konatsu got sick. Even before
then, what she'd vowed would be a monthly visit had become a
yearly one, and finally an occasional one when the thought struck
her.
She put the flowers down at the base of the monument; the
flowers brought back the memory of him standing in the park,
waiting for Ranma. Holding flowers. Tsubasa Kurenai, annoying
Tsubasa Kurenai, who, like Konatsu, had loved girls, and loved
dressing up in their clothing. And, like Konatsu, he'd been so
good at it that no one had realized that he wasn't a girl, until
the clothing came off.
That was how he died, after all. There had always been the
undertone that he wasn't entirely innocent, not simply in the
wrong place in the wrong time. If he hadn't been posing as a
woman, he would probably never have been dragged into an alley by
three other men so late at night; had he been a real woman, he
would have probably just been raped, instead of being beaten
until all his bones broke, left for dead, but not dead, left to
die months later when even the machines that his family refused
to take him off couldn't make him live that half-life any longer.
Just been raped. It made her sick to think of it, even
though no newspaper had ever dared to say it out loud, to state
it so explicitly. The police had put together a precise picture
of what happened. Pretty girl in a bar, talking to the other
girls, rejecting the advances of three drunk young men, three
friends who their parents said were good boys and everyone who
knew them said they couldn't understand it at all. They call her
a dyke; she throws her drink in one's face and leaves. They
follow; they're brave with drink, or maybe that's just brought
out something lurking below the surface. But, in the alley, when
they tear her clothes off, when they touch her body, it isn't a
her, it's a him, and then they start beating him. He fights
back; he's stronger than he looks. But there's a few boards in
the alley, and one of them grabs one up to beat him down with it.
And when he's down, helpless, they start kicking, stomping.
That's how his skull gets fractured, how his legs and arms get
broken, how his ribs cave in. Maybe some noise makes them run,
or maybe they just start to sober up and realize what they've
done; the brutal abnormality of it.
But they're caught all the same, all three of them. Life
sentences. Ukyou saw their faces in the paper; she couldn't
stand to go to the trial. They didn't look like murderers should
look; young, clean-cut. University students, all of them. All
these different factors, alchohol, macho rage, the fact that the
woman wasn't a woman... all coming together, focusing down into
a single incidence. Oh, there was debate, of course; was it a
hate crime, or wasn't it? Laws were passed, and it made the news
for a while, and then it went away, and Tsubasa was still dead.
Twenty when he died. She and Konatsu had been married less
than two years. She read about it in the paper, and went to see
him at the hospital. Why? She couldn't understand it entirely
herself; he'd never been anything but a nuisance to her. The
resident drag queen of an all-boy's school, seemingly in love
with Ukyou Kuonji, who was supposed to be manly and tough. And
they'd all whispered behind her back again, just like after Ranma
dumped her. Again, people were laughing at her, and it was
Ranma's fault; if not for him, she wouldn't be dressing as a boy,
wouldn't be going to an all-boy's school...
Tsubasa spoiled everying, made her realize: she hadn't
killed the bitterness, but merely buried it to rise again,
stronger. She could not live as a man, and her pride wouldn't
let her live as a woman. Nothing else to do but go and take
revenge.
She traced the kanji of Tsubasa's name on the plaque with
her fingers. What if, after finding out he'd known all along she
was a girl, she'd reached out to him, instead of pushing him
away? Hadn't he only been another lost one like her, trying to
be something he couldn't, craving affection?
Like Konatsu; just like Konatsu.
Konatsu had stuck with her, though, forced her to realize
that she could love him through stubborn perseverance. Tsubasa
had been flighty; hadn't he switched from her to Ranma, and
switched away from Ranma just as impulsively? Akane had said
he'd even shown some interest in her. And the night he died,
he'd been trying to pick up women in a bar. No; not like
Konatsu.
Why hadn't he ever done those kind of things dressed like a
man, she wondered; he was handsome, and would have done well.
More than well. Was he trying to prove something? If so, what?
And so what? Whatever the quirks of his life, they didn't
account for or excuse his death. They helped to explain it, but
they didn't somehow make his dying less terrible.
She'd hated his parents; heartlessly conservative, they'd
seen their oldest son as a shameful aberration. Death gave them
an affection for him they'd never had in life; once he'd hit
eighteen, and it had become clear that it wasn't something he was
going to grow out of, they'd thrown him out of the house. Tough
love, they'd probably called it.
"Goodbye, Tsubasa. I'll come back." She said that every
time. Her fingers lingered on the stone plaque and the graven
name, as if they did not want to pull away. But, in the end, she
made them. The same route that had brought her here led her out,
and she passed by Konatsu's new grave again. She didn't linger.
There would be plenty of time to visit later.
As she approached the tall iron gates through which the dead
and living entered, and the living left, she saw a stooped figure
waiting patiently, hands upon the cane he needed to get around at
his age.
"Tendo-san? Why are you still here?"
He shuffled awkwardly towards her. "I wanted to talk to
you. Didn't get a chance."
"Where's Ranma and Akane?"
"They went home."
"I'll give you a ride back."
His thin, papery hand touched her wrist. "Let me talk
first. I know what you're thinking right now; you're thinking,
how dare this old man intrude on my grief when I said I wanted to
be alone. Am I right?"
"Well..."
"Am I?"
She nodded, though unwillingly.
He patted her wrist. His hair, which once had been so
lustrous and long and black, was now nearly white, and thinning.
"It's natural. It's all natural. When my wife died, you know, I
spent a lot of time thinking, how can I go on without her? And
after Genma died, I thought, how can I go on without my oldest
friend? But you go on, you know; somehow, you go on."
You had your daughters, Ukyou thought. You had something
left to cling to. What do I have? Memories? What are memories.
Your wife has been dead nearly forty years; how dare you attempt
to liken your old grief with my new one?
Soun, oblivious to any discomfort she was displaying, went
on. "Though I don't really know how you do go on, now that I
think about it." Hope fled his face. "My daughters are your
husband's age; couldn't they slip away at any moment? There's
nothing worse than having to bury your own children." His lips
and thinning white mustache trembled. "What a terrible thought."
Then he began to cry, as unashamedly as a hungry toddler.
Ukyou put her arm through his, slowed her pace to match his
slow steps; in silence, she led him to her car, put him--still
crying--into the back seat, and drove him home.
END
Author's Notes:
I cannot say where this came from. It was first completed two
months ago, and shown to a small audience; response indicated
certain problems that needed to be fixed. I finally got around
to making those fixes this morning, catalysed (I am somewhat
embarassed to say) by reading Michael Rhea's latest post to RAAC.
Anyone familiar with his stories should be able to guess why.
This story was greatly improved from its first draft by helpful
commentary from Mike Loader, Zen and Timerunner. My thanks.
Ciao,
-Alan Harnum