Reaching Out

Reaching Out


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You remember the day so perfectly; when he glared at you and told you he was leaving.

You remember the harsh bite to his words, the ice in the eyes that mirror yours and you remember the hate, that acid look on his face. That was when you knew you had failed as a father.

And than he left and you knew that if he had his way you’d never see him again.

Because you were a terrible father.

You favored your students over him and ignored his attempts to impress you, you deemed him a failure before he had the chance to prove you wrong. Than he became a captain and it still wasn’t good enough for you, you would pick and pick and criticize some more until the poor boy couldn’t take it.

You were never cut out to be a father, you thought, so why bother?

You should have seen the warning signs, when third seat Hitsugaya came to you saying how distant your son had been, when the complaints of pranks he pulled had completely ceased, when he actually received some 10th division paperwork in his handwriting, but most of all when his smile changed.

It used to be that his smile stretched across his face, literally from ear to ear, his eyes would even close to accommodate the grin. He used to show his teeth, and that smile would occupy his face nearly every minute of everyday.

Now he scowled often but you notice that when he stares into space, daydreaming, it’s a wistful smile, different that anything your offspring had ever worn.

That should have been the biggest warning; he was in love.

You now remember everything so perfectly; every mistake you’ve ever made with the boy, every wound you’ve ever inflicted upon him and his poor mother, losing her because you couldn’t hold on to her precious baby.

You’re all alone now and you’re bitter, old and angry, not only with the world but also with yourself. Because you know that you brought this on yourself.

“Oi, Yama-ji,” You open your eyes to find two teenagers standing in front of your desk giving you the same strange look.

You sigh and the shorter one wipes her brow in mock relief, “Phew, Soutaichou still breathing, crisis averted.” She smirked while her brother scowled at her. She elbowed him in the stomach.

“You said you wanted to see us?” Ichigo asks impatiently while glancing at his wrist where a human contraption is ticking quietly but distracting still.

And you think that this is your chance, your chance to reach out to someone, to teach them all you should have taught your own son.

Because you want to make it up to the universe. Because you’re dying.

And no one can save you.

So you take a deep breath, “I have an assignment for the two of you in Hueco Mundo,” It wasn’t what you were going to say, you had wanted to explain to them, pour your heart out, bear your soul, but you didn’t. Because you’re so, so afraid that if you reach out there will be no one there to reach back.

You just want forgiveness; you want to be able to repent before you die. You don’t want to be remembered the way he remembers you.

So you let it go, in silence you pardon their malefactions, their mistakes, and their crimes. All for him, all for them. So that you can deserve the love your son once gave you.

And so you let your grandchildren walk out your door with not one more spoken word, yet with so many left silent.