The Ritual

The thought of success still makes me giddy, head spinning and butterflies invading my chest. So I’d taken on this new field of studies with more determination than ever before, compiling lists of traditions, corresponding reliable works, and websites. The sheer amount of books and theories out there is staggering.

Thankfully, having access to the library and the university database has proved very valuable. I’ve always enjoyed my work there, and now my expertise is paying off. Books are easy to sneak home for further studying, and projects written by sensible scholars can be accessed from my work computer and printed. A few seemingly innocent questions, paired with flattering words easily gain me the insights of some of the most revered professors in the city.

And, there’s that ancient book. Even after studying many others, somehow I always return to that one. I may not understand the words, but the pictures speak clearer than any language.

Intuition. That’s what brings me back. A nagging pull to my heart. To my gut.

I must see you again! You would be so proud of my work. Of my progress. 

I read your notes, your poems, your thoughts every night before going to sleep. Close my eyes with your face looking back at me from my phone.

But not even your beauty, your love - our love – can save me from the nightmares. By now, I can’t remember the last time I didn’t wake with a start just before midnight, heart pounding in my chest. Tears soaking my cheeks and pillow.

Most often I see you in the tub, that accursed tub. Pink water flowing through my being, washing away my hope, my sanity. And in my heart I know that one day the water won’t stay pink. It’ll turn red, red like blood. Drowning us both.

Red blood on white tiles.

Or we’re back at the train station, where time stands still, where my feet won’t move and my voice won’t carry.

I’m not sure which dream I hate the most.

Tonight, I fall asleep with the list I put together carefully tucked into one of your notebooks, greedily pressed close to my chest. 

Tomorrow, I’ll see you again.

You’ll be here.

*

On the way to your place, I stop by the flower shop, the lady smiling as she starts picking out purple flowers. I remember to smile back. Today I ask her to put more red ones. Roses. Like a wave of blood in a stormy sea.

The iron gates squeak as I open them. A good omen, I hope, as the neatly raked gravel crunches under my feet.

“Hello Bunny,” I say as I kneel before your grave, open the bag, and line up the things I brought. Someone has removed the flowers I gave you last time. A bouquet of pale pink peonies sits in the smaller vase, while the heavy one is empty.

Your parents again. Still choosing the wrong colors.

I shake the anger off and check my list.

First is the protective circle of salt. It’s harder than it looks, stones and bushes are in the way, but finally I manage a circular shape big enough to contain both your resting place and me. The wind already starts spreading the pale grains. Will that matter?

I glance at the list again, even though I know it by heart. Next up are the offerings. But first, I place the photograph of us close to your stone. And one of your notebooks. Once they’re in place, I arrange the flowers in the vase, light incense and a candle.

The smoke dances in the wind, while the tiny flame bobs merrily.

So far so good. I pick up the other notebook, now filled with bookmarks at the pages I’ve selected.

“You walk in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless velvet, starry skies;

Aki’s the best of dark and bright.”

You always recite those lines to me whenever I gush about your soft bunnyness. Warm tears rise in my eyes and my voice breaks. I need to focus!

I straighten myself, clear my throat to continue with the next poem. In response, an owl hoots. One… two… three… four times, the sound hollow, eerie, yet it makes hope explode in my chest. Threatening to make it burst.

Hastily I prepare the next and final step. The most important offering.

Carefully, I tear out a page and write your name across the poems. In both our languages, just to make sure. Then I take the needle, hesitate for a moment before I stick it deep into my fingertip. There’s no pain, only a sense of elation. The wind picks up, making leaves rustle, and the smoke from the incense dissipates. The owl hoots again.

I pull the needle out of my finger, but no blood follows it. What? Frustrated, I keep poking and stabbing my finger until a drop of blood emerges. Finally.

Is that enough? Clenching my teeth, I drop the needle and squeeze the finger until more blood drips out. Slowly. Reluctantly. But enough. Grinning wildly, hair flowing in the wind, I smear the precious drop all over your precious name. Over your precious words.

“Bunny-chan, can you hear me?” My voice is clear, ready to breach the walls keeping us apart. “Please answer me.” 

I lean forward, holding the paper close to the candle, the flickering flame making the words glow… then sets them on fire.

It burns brightly, fast, yet I cling to it until the flames force me to let go. On the ground, it keeps burning until it’s nothing more than a red glow… then grey ashes.

“Bunny.” 

Stillness.

“Nina?” 

Nothing. Perhaps I need to be more formal?

“Nina Ward?” A rustle from behind makes me turn in hope, but it’s just a cat. A black, sleek one with eyes like golden lanterns. “Bunny, I beseech you to show yourself. Talk to me.”

Nothing. Even the wind is quiet, as if the world itself is paused.

“Please, Bunny… bun… bun. I miss you so much. Please come back to me, please!”

My fingers dig into the ground, desperate. "Please, Bunny. Please."

The answering wind is cool and gentle, like a caress. But it cannot soothe me. I fall forward, bound in despair. Curled up, I cry and weep and beg and curse. I’m not sure for how long, only that the pain from the gravel digging into my body becomes sharper than the pain in my soul. Drags me back.

I sit back up on my knees. Bury my face in my hands.

It didn’t work…

What had I expected? That your ashes would magically come together and transform back into a living body? That you'd claw your way out of the grave, the ground breaking to reveal pale fingers with purple nails?

Foolishness.

Yet, a part of me wanted to believe. Wants to believe. That it’ll work like in the movies - only you’d come back, not as a twisted zombie, but as the real you. Warm, alive. Mine.

Numb, I get up.

"I'm sorry, Bunny. I tried. I'll think of something else. I promise." Yes, there are more books to study, more symbols to try. Perhaps a different order? A different language? Or… more blood?

Or… It’s their fault. The dumb pink flowers. They don’t belong here. This time, I give in. Rip them apart. Spread petals and leaves to the wind. As I toss the broken stems away, a new insight hits me.

This is just a temporary setback. After all, nobody expects a scientific experiment to work perfectly the first time. There's always a period of trial and error. And this, this is something to learn from. To make it better next time. To succeed.

So I can hear your voice again.

My feet are heavy as I walk away, the shadows growing longer, darker, as they follow me. Escort me back to the gate. The squeak as it opens and closes echoes through the quiet night.

The shadows surround me, dance around me as I walk toward the station. Toward home. Toward another night of dreams.

Another night without you.