[PG]

This main part of this story takes place in the early part of
Episode 112, with the ending occurring just before the commercial break.
If you have not seen 112 or read episode synopses, the ending will be
largely incoherent.

The narrator for this story is the one from the Dr. Seuss specials.

gradient@thedoghousemail.com


                        *  *  *  *  *  *  *


From three to four, he planned to stand perfectly still and think of
	what it was like to be alive.

                 ---  Wilbur the Pig (Charlotte's Web by E.B. White)



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One Sick Puppy

by

+Gradient
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	"Tomoe Hotaru, you are one sick puppy!"

	And so, the school day began anew.

       * * * * *

       To be alone in a crowd can be viewed as either a curse or a 
blessing.  For a few girls growing up, it becomes a way of life.  For
this one in particular, it had been made an art form.  And art had
in turn been made the very essence of life itself.  Circles are always
the cruelest of shapes.

       It looks so happy, doesn't it?  The playground is always such
a natural place.  What could be more natural than children enjoying
each other's company in a momentary respite from the drudgery of
learning to be an adult?  Why can't there be schools to teach you how
to be children?   If ever the current race of men is to enter a Golden
Age, I'm sure that such wondrous places would be the cornerstone.

       See?  There she is, over there, in the shadows.  Behind the
impromptu softball game.  You've got to watch carefully or you'll miss
her.  She is hard to notice unless she moves.  She likes to watch the
others, but it's hard to tell whether that sad look on her face comes
from her not being able to join them or the realization that she has
finally given up trying to do so.

       Yes, that's her in the shadows.  Funny how a person who so 
treasures lamps is destined to live so far outside the light.

       Funny, but not unordained by those watching with the remnants of
a sadly taciturn visage from far, far above.

       * * * * *

       She is a good student.  She gets good grades.  She takes pride
in her work.  She never bothers anybody of her own volition.  She is
a good student.

       She likes to write.  Her diary is a model for those girls who
would wish to keep one.  It is neat, the script is polished, and the 
style is graceful beyond her years.  It should easily be the envy of
other girls her age.

       But that it is empty.

       There are words, of course.  Just words and sentences and 
clauses and immaculately formed characters.  No heart, though.  She 
knows her little self-deception is self-defeating as well, but she's
long past the point of caring.

       Watch her form the kanji so delicately.  She is a good student.

       * * * * *

       Look:  she doesn't even see him looking at her.  Indeed, why
would she even consider the possibility?

       Oh, new student, you say.  Hasn't been warned about the local
outcast yet.  Or maybe he has and he's just looking at her due to some
sort of morbid fascination.  Figures.

       Wait a minute, this can't be right.  He's going up to her.  He's
standing by her desk.  She senses him to her side but, still looking down,
only turns her head a centimeter toward him.  Painful equilibrium: one
side, the past, safety.  The other, the unknown, the too-well-known.
The slightest detection of the ambient heat of his closeness draws her one
centimeter further before unseen chains snap her trembling form back.
Any more, she thought, and he will surely go.  She's probably right; 
just enjoy his closeness, you don't need to see his face.  A vicarious
life is better than none at all.  No wait, don't look any higher!  He's
going to go . . . he's going to . . .

       Stay?  Smile?  Gods, what's going on?  Doesn't he realize who
she is?   She doesn't really exist here; she's just an animated shadow.
Look *through* her like everybody else, not *at* her.

       She's looking at him now, confused, not knowing what to do. Dare
I smile?  Dare I smile and start something that I know is always fated
to fall apart?

       The moment.

       I dare.

       Look at me.  Look at me, world!  I can smile too.

       * * * * *

       She kept it.  She kept it all this time.  I can't believe it.
As lamps go, this was one of her favorites.  She was going to give it
to the last boy that looked her way, but, of course, she never gained
the nerve, and he eventually faded away, like all the rest.

       It was bittersweet to watch her give it to him, not knowing what
response it would bring.  When he said that it was the second most
beautiful thing of the day and that he would treasure it forever . . .
well, it's good to see her at an innocent loss for words sometimes.
It's such a rare sight, after all.

       Leaving the school together, I see, virtually hand in hand. 
Walking her home; oh, how long had she waited for this dream?  This
is quite a fiction she's spun for herself.  She should know better, know
what is to become of this.  I suppose that's one of the weaknesses of 
childhood.  Or its strengths.

       No one left in the schoolroom now.  That's unusual:  she didn't
take any books home.  What a clean desk she has; everything in its
place.

       Hmmmm, I hadn't noticed this.  She's carved something into the 
surface of her desk.  A kanji.  I wouldn't have guessed it would have
been that one.  She'll get into trouble if the teachers find out, but 
I doubt they'll notice.  I wonder how long it has been there.  From the
way the edges are worn, I'd suppose it has been there for quite a while.

       But why that one?  She puzzles me sometimes.  I wonder what she
sees when she looks at it.  I wonder what it means to her that she
chose that one.  She must have been looking at it just before she found
the courage to look at him.  Sometimes I wonder if she's just a little
more human than We above usually credit her.

       "Honjitsu."

       "Today."

       * * * * *

       If her hearing had been slightly less acute, then she would have
never heard the cries of pain from the alley.  It's a coincidence,
really.  One of those silly juxtapositions of fate that we can't
control.

       Keep walking, she thought to herself.  It's just a dog; even
though it might be hurting, it's not worth the risk.  It's just a dog.

       Just a living, breathing puppy, in pain.

       No, no.  Don't do it.  If you do go to it, it's all over.  He'll
see you for what you are and he'll become just another page in your 
diary.  It's hurting now, but it will be all right.  No one ever
bothered to help *you*.

       She sighed.  Stop fooling yourself, Hotaru.  You know you have
to go.  Maybe this time will be different.  Maybe he will understand.
He has to.  If our words had meant anything at all, he must be able to
understand.  It won't matter to him at all.

       He'll hold my hand and say, "Good job, Hotaru."

       *He will hold my hand and say, "Good job, Hotaru."*

       She smiled as she raised her arm in front of him to halt their
walk down the street.  She felt good inside as she realized that she
did not need to explain or motion, as the unseen gravity between them
pulled him into the alley shortly after she entered.

       It lie there whimpering, perhaps after being attacked by the
pack.  Odd how the weakest are always the first to suffer.

       He warmly watches as she cradles it.  She can feel it now; it's 
only moments away from passing to the other side.  You probably should
let it go.  The way that this world works, it will just be in another
alley close to death in a couple of weeks.  You can't cheat fate.

       Maybe this time I will.  What's the use of living, knowing that
you never tried?  So close to being human -- can't turn back now.

       She places her hand on its head.  There is a slight, comforting
glow as she lets the healing, cruelly locked away for so long, flow 
into it.  It is a good feeling, possibly beyond the grasp of most human
souls, to give life back in such an intimate way.  She smiles as it 
receives it and begins to cautiously stir, mercifully not knowing of 
the choices and pains by those above.

       She waited to hear from behind the words in her wish, the ones
from him that would say it is all right.  Please say them.

       Ever so subtly must the wishes of children ascend to the seraphim
and the retainers between.  The wishes move by innocence, you know;  true
innocence is always weightless.

       If her hearing had been slightly less acute, then she would have
never heard the lamp shatter against the cold surface of the alley.  
Nor would she have heard the sound of terrified footsteps moving
backward.  She didn't have to turn around; she knew what was happening.
It's a coincidence, really . . .

       Tomorrow will be the hard day.  He'll come to school, look at
me for a moment, and then walk away, pretending I don't exist.  Well,
not pretending:  I really won't exist.  Then he'll go into the crowd 
and become one of them forever.  I wonder what my last words to him were?

       She holds the puppy tightly, unconsciously strengthening her grip
on whatever companionship remained.  It was more than happy to respond,
licking the arm of its benefactor and then glancing up to finally get a
look at her.

       It looked at her, staring into her eyes.  It looked deep, and at
the bottom of those eyes it saw her.  It saw her.  It saw what she was.

       And its mortified, frantic whimpering told the girl that she had
been seen.  Her other side had been recognized.

       It disappeared as quickly as she released it from her grip, 
running as far from this accursed place as possible.

       The sound of dripping water from an adjacent building descending 
into the puddle at her feet was the only sound.  It would soon be joined
by the painfully familiar rhythm of another type of drops falling.

       Alone again, she thought.  Alone in this alley, with just a few
pieces of broken glass to remind me what I could have had if I were
just someone else.  I bet no one would even notice if I never came out
of this wretched hole.  It might be better that way.

       If her hearing had been slightly less acute, then she would have
never heard her faint heart, for the briefest of moments, stop.

       Living tears.  Living tears, that's what we are.  Maybe someday
the sun and the wind and the stars will evaporate this awful shell and
show the world what beautiful beings we are inside.  And the world will
look back and smile and say, "I never thought otherwise."

       I think that's what she wrote in her diary last night.

       Until then, I suppose it would be okay if she cried just a
little bit longer.

       * * * * *

       You see her limping along there, but don't worry, she's not in
danger.  She's going to the park, you see.  That's one place where they
will accept her.  The trees and flowers care little for the vanities
of man.

       She's made it to a bench to rest momentarily and think for a
while.  She's reading the last few pages of her diary.  If the last
entry would have been the one she wrote two hours ago, then the story
might have had a happy ending.  I could just lie to it, she thought, and
write my own ending.  Maybe such self-deceit can be worse than the
truth.   As it stands, I do not think I could read more than a page or
two of hers.

       Now look, she's closed her book.  She's looking ahead, but she's
not looking at anything nearby.  More like the past, present, and future
all at once.  Most girls her age are not this reflective.  It really is
a gift.

       What's this?  Struggling to climb onto the bench to stand aloft.
Close her eyes and hold her arms out to the world.  An unusual sight
for this park, but hauntingly elegant.  Others stare; nothing new, she
thinks.

       Close your eyes and make your wish.  It's not a big request.  
They'll grant it.  I've gone through too much.  Too much.  Surely 
someone in the universe will take pity on me.

       Stay silent, and think of who you are.  Who you were.  Who you 
will be.

       Hold your arms out and take your life back.  Ask the heavens 
and the gods above to send a wind to blow her shadow away and cleanse
her spirit.  She whispers her prayer upward and wonders whether it was
better never to have been at all.

       I've waited this long.  Please, just one little breeze.  Just one.

       Please.

       Please.

       Nothing.

       She sinks to her seat, her spirit syphoned away.  Just a foolish
child, she thinks.  Just a stupid, stupid foolish child.  I can't even
make a wish right.

       Every *real* child can do that.

       She opens her book, to pretend to herself that she is reading.
Just look at the words and you won't cry.  Remember, the pain has to
end sometime.  Just look at the words.  It's hard.

                .

                .

                .

       Don't worry, little Hotaru.

       They heard you.

       *The wind is on the way.*

       And when it gets here, it will give you a gift beyond giving.
It will give you your life back and more.  So, so much more.

       The wind is on the way, Hotaru.

       And a little hat with a bright red ribbon is coming with it too.

       * * * * *

       Tomoe Hotaru, you are one sick puppy.

       Maybe so, but not today, my friend.

       Not today.

                        - - - - x - - - -



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La vie humaine commence de l'autre côté du désespoir.
Human life begins on the other side of despair.

              -- Jean-Paul Sartre, "Les Mouches", III:2


Author's Notes:

	Sailor Moon and associated characters are the intellectual 
property of Takeuchi Naoko and/or Toei, DiC, Bandai, Kodansha, and a 
host of other ethereal corporate entities.

Apologies to John Ruskin.

email:  gradient@thedoghousemail.com

Thank you.

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