600 - RUSTY
Mitsumoto Yoshiko had climbed up to the attic, fighting back the tears from her eyes. She and her mother had gotten into a fight-her mother wanted her to finish the cold miso soup that she had cooked, though Yoshiko wanted to have some yakitori instead-and, of course, her only solace was to creep up into the attic. The attic was, in a sense, Yoshiko's "special place"-when she felt lonely, or sad, or angry, she'd climb up there until the negative emotions floated away. The attic was also the place where their family had stored her old toys, and most especially, her beloved dolls.
Yoshiko was quite rough with them when she played with them in the past. Most of them had broken arms, broken faces, and had their hair torn out. They were hand-me-downs, and she was young when she received them; as such, her hands were still careless, and most-if not all-were broken. Her mother had scolded her, telling her that dolls weren't right for her, and stuffed them in the attic; when she wanted to play with them as she got older, she crawled up to the attic and host fake tea parties with her mutilated friends.
But something was new today, and Yoshiko couldn't place a finger on it. The old rocking horse was still there; paintings, the passed-down katanas that her mother's grandfather kept and passed on from generation to generation were still displayed; old kimonos that looked worn-down and moth-eaten remained folded up on old dressers; toys from her infancy and early years still remained there, where she last left them (specifically the day before yesterday; yesterday, she and her family went out for some ice cream, so she wasn't able to play in the attic). Her eight-year old mind couldn't process it that much, though. She scrunched up her face in concentration, her eyes darting around the room, her brain working so that she could point out why exactly it felt odd.
Yoshiko knew the attic by heart, and she was proud of that. If there was something that she didn't know about it, she'd get frustrated.
Finally, when she pinpointed it, her face lit up. "Of course, it's that!" Yoshiko hurried to it and got there quickly enough, and silently enough; she had practiced the art of moving without a sound when trying to pace around in the attic without her mother discovering what she was doing in the dusty old place. She always had to be quick and precise with her steps, because if she lingered for too long, a creak would sound and it would all be over.
"It" was an old, dusty chest with faded paint; the color was something she couldn't tell, because of the dim light. It could've easily been white or a pale, fleshy color. It looked plain and as if it hadn't been used in ages, which seemed logical-it had a rather thick coating of dust on it. Yoshiko blew on it and lifted the lid.
She didn't know what to expect, but she knew what she wanted to expect; a rare china doll, perhaps, to make her the envy of all her doll-loving classmates? A nice and soft teddy bear to snuggle up to? A pile of valuable coins, so that she could buy all the toys and yakitori she wanted?
The disappointment on her face overruled every other emotion except confusion. What the...?
Unfortunately for her, there was nothing special inside. Only a pair of scissors.
The scissors, in fact, were mildly rusted. Yoshiko frowned. Who would hide a pair of scissors? Though, with the knowledge that the Mitsumoto family was filled with hoarders, it wouldn't be unlikely...
She reached inside and picked it up. Noticing it was dusty, she blew on it. As the cloud of dust drifted, she inhaled through her nose, then sneezed.
Not a cute little sneeze. It was a sneeze that bounced of the walls and, to her embarrassment, echoed to the lower floors of her house. Oh, shoot. The sound of her sneeze echoed in her ears as she grimaced, preparing herself for what was to come. Yoshiko-Titanic was now drawing closer to face the wrath of the Mama Iceberg-mayday, mayday! Everybody get on your lifeboats, now!
"Yoshiko?" Her mother's eerily calm voice called. That was a bad sign. When Yoshiko did something that really upset her mother, her mother would first talk in a calm, collected voice, that-though seemingly docile-would always send chills down Yoshiko's spine. Her mother never abused her, never hurt her, but she was still afraid of offending her mother. The chores that her mother made her do, the lack of her favorite candies and fruits on the table (replaced, of course, with her least favorite vegetables and fruits) were enough to drive Yoshiko crazy.
It wasn't that bad compared to others, yes, but Yoshiko was more than a little pampered, being the only child of a CEO of a powerful company (see: her mother) and a manager for a famous, successful band (see: her father). They received a large sum of money as their salary, and they spent most of it caring for their precious little princess.
"Coming, mother," Yoshiko said, heading down the ladder of their attic; she hadn't realized she was clutching the scissors until she stepped down on the ground, wriggling her toes when both of her feet were planted firmly on it, and her mother looked at her sternly. Her beautiful, strict mother.
"Why do you have a pair of scissors with you, Yoshiko?"
"I was going to do origami."
"Okay, then; be careful with them. You might get cut, even if they're rusty. Yoshi, I want to talk to you about..." And, with that, her mother started droning on and on about respect and responsibiity and appreciating what you had, even if you didn't like it. Bo-ring.
The words tumbled out of Yoshiko's ears as her eyes focused on her mother's hands. She couldn't care less about the lecture now that something else had piqued her curiosity. A red string was tied to her pinky; it was thin, but the vibrant shade of red that Yoshiko made it stand out. What was that? Yoshiko stared curiously at her pinky finger.
She didn't have one.
A/N: Alright, time to get this started! Welcome to the prologue of 'Scissors for Red Strings'! For those of you who don't know, the "red string(s) of fate", also known as "red thread(s) of fate", is from Eastern culture (specifically Chinese and Japanese). The red strings of fate are said to connect you to your soul mate. I came up with this idea just last night, and I plotted it out 'till late night, heehee. I won't force you to R&R, but of course if you want to, feel free!
~Ultimate Hipster Thanatos