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Please Don't Scream	By : Crystalwren Category: zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] > manga Views: 1554 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the anime/manga that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Please Don't Scream
- 1
You shall be cursed in the town, as well as
in the darkness. When entering, and when exiting. You
shall be cursed. That shall chase you and destroy you. The sky turns red, the
ground turns black. Your corpse is a gate to the skies. Be the prey of the
beast on the ground.

-KannazukiNoMiko Episode 1

Himeko has violet
eyes and pretty hair that she likes to tie back with a red satin bow. Long legs. Small breasts. She�s
sweet and eager to please, clumsy too, and, frankly, just a little dim. She
likes lollies and ice cream and the ocean. She hates it when people touch her
hair. When we have lunch together I give her sweet bean paste and European
pastries just to see her smile.

Having lunch with
Himeko is nice. She is a nice person. There�s a little lawn hidden behind the
roses, out of bounds, and I bring a picnic basket full of food and delicate
china. Since she boards at the school she can�t bring much herself, anpan buns that she can sneak from the lunchroom, cakes
that she makes in cooking class. She has only one uniform that she has to make
last all week. Every night, she says, she brushes the skirt and sponges the
blouse and hangs it all up to dry. She�s always being bullied.� Himeko is sweet and dim and eager to please
and to a certain kind of person, a certain vulgar kind of person, it�s a red
rag to a bull. There have been times when she has come to our special place,
late, with food or paint or dirt smeared down her skirt and in tears because
she know she�ll be in trouble from the teachers and up all night washing and
pressing.

Himeko likes fairy
tales. She likes stories about kappa and
kitsune. She has a strange taste for those
German men, the Brothers Grimm, although the story of Hansel and Gretel makes her eyes turn dark and she�ll never tell me
why. She has long pretty blonde hair that she won�t let me touch and pretty
white skin that turns blue when I press it.

I love her voice.
It�s not particularly special, there�s nothing overly musical about it when she
talks or screams and she certainly can�t sing. She has a proper Japanese voice,
high and girlish, sweet like she is. I have a deep, unfeminine voice. I�m told
it�s elegant and commanding. I can sing and I can play the flute and I can play
the piano. She likes it when I play the piano for her.

She�s nice, that�s
the problem. She is the archetypal nice girl. She�s the nice girl in every book
and movie, the one that the hero always ends up with.� She is sweet and vulnerable and strangely
incapable of taking care of herself even though usually, nothing builds
resourcefulness like being an orphan. She won�t tell me how there�s money
enough for her to come to our exclusive, expensive school. I�ve no doubt that
somewhere, at the bottom of it all, there�s a corpse.

She wears my
clothes sometimes. I dress her up so she can go on dates with a boy. Only
Himeko could be so oblivious to the fact that he�s smitten with her, even
though she�s smitten with him too. She likes boys, and they like her. They look
at her and see a girl to marry, a girl to cook and clean for them while they
stay late at work, sleeping with their secretaries. She likes girls too, but
not in that way. Not like I like girls. Not like I love her. I love Himeko. When
she takes off the garments I�ve lent her I bury my face in them, in her smell.

I love how she�s so
imperfectly perfect. I love her long, long legs. I love the way her breasts are
small and round, smaller and rounder than mine. I love the way her nipples are
so pale and pink and ringed with little ginger hairs that scratch my own darker
nipples. I love the way that her hips are ever so slightly chubby and bruise
under my hands. I even love the way her face flushes when she cries.

She�s a
photographer, did you know? Not many do. She has a little camera and for
someone so clumsy she is amazingly discrete. Most people don�t even know
they�ve been photographed. She takes wonderful photographs of people. It�s an
art few can understand or duplicate, and in the school laboratory she rinses
paper clean of chemicals and hangs pictures of people laughing, eating,
running. Taking good portraiture is a skill I have never mastered. It�s strange
to think that there�s an area that I�m only barely competent in, instead of
perfect and brilliant like everything else. It used to bother me before I met
Himeko. I felt incomplete. Now I don�t care. Himeko is the photographer. She
takes photographs of me. She makes me look almost human. Softer
somehow. Warmer, not like in the photographs taken at
school or for my father. She tells me that I�m beautiful.� A lot of people do. Coming from her it�s
special and it makes my heart flutter in a way that it shouldn�t. Pretty Himeko. Poor Himeko. �I wish she wouldn�t scream.

The hair between
those long, perfect legs of hers is ginger. It�s strange how these things work.
The hair on my head and my body is perfectly matched, but she�s ginger under
her arms and between her legs, on her breasts even, but the hair on her head is
long and soft and blonde. Her labia are pink. Mine are brown. I press them
together, craning my neck to see. I am fascinated by the contrast. She turns
her head away. Her lips are sticky and salty with snot and tears and taste
delicious.

Himeko is clumsy.
It�s amazing how often she trips and falls over. It�s perfectly adorable, even
though I do worry that one day she�ll bloody her nose or break her arms. Once, she
arrived at our secret meeting place with her stockings shredded and stiff with
dried blood at the knee. She wears thigh-highs, elasticised at the top. When I
made her take them off I caught a glimpse of her underwear, worn and slightly
shabby. I bathed her grazes with a handkerchief dipped in mineral water. She
made the sweetest sounds, little mews of pain and discomfort and soft little
giggles when I tickled her behind her knee. She doesn�t shave her legs. She
doesn�t have to, it doesn�t really show but it�s soft and fine and pleasant to
the touch. I love it. I love her. I love touching her.

She isn�t very
strong. She isn�t athletic; she doesn�t play sports unless a teacher makes her.
She can run if she has to, and she often does because she�s always late, but her
hands are delicate and her arms are slender. Not much muscle. It doesn�t take
much to hold her down. I wish she wouldn�t scream.

I really do.

**

Written for Woodburner/The
Liminal Fairy�s birthday. Named and posted with her kind permission. Posted despite the reservations of others. Fuck censorship!
- 1
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Please Don't Scream