0
***I have a lot of things to talk about, but! I’d rather choose this one.
"Wh—"
What’s the difference between selfishness and selflessness?
"..."
It can diverge, quite a ton. Observe it carefully: if a certain someone is being selfish for a selfless role, what is truly selfish?
If someone is being selfless for a selfish reason, doesn’t that defeat the concept of selflessness?
"... can’t the two coexist?"
Naive. Selfish and selfless are like a coin.
"Sorry?"
A coin with two sides. The other side simply can’t meet the other, yet it contradicts the fact they can’t meet by possessing the purpose of the other.
"... what if someone is being selfish for a selfish reason? Or being selfless for a selfless reason?"
Something so ideal doesn’t exist.
"..."***
1
Nothing happened yesterday.
I can sense the light of the newly rising sun peeking at my room.
Simply said, it’s morning.
Slowly but surely, I force myself off the bed.
Flipping my body on the sheets, stomach pressed on the bed, pushing my clenched fists to help lift my body as if I took a down in boxing.
Was I exaggerating by doing that?
Hope not.
Now I’m standing on top of the bed like an idiot.
As if a child jumping on a trampoline.
Realizing how awkward it is, I immediately get off the bed.
Wait. It’s not even a bed.
I was sleeping on a futon.
Neither I nor this family were luxurious enough to be sleeping on beds. (I think?)
No insult to futons, though.
So I thought I was being awkward while I really wasn’t.
I hate when that happens.
Or was I awkward?
My foot met the carpetless floor.
Obviously, it’s cold.
After all, it is January.
January 7th, to be precise.
And to add up, this apartment is on the fourth floor. Of course, the coldness would be skin-numbing.
Glancing up at the clock—
I don’t have one in my room.
Sigh
I wasn’t frustrated, nor upset, not even one bit.
But I thought it’d be helpful if I had more items to aid my day-to-day life.
Whatever.
As usual.
In the past, present, and totally in the future.
It’s always a whatever.
Nothing happened.
If I had to assume—well, everything I do is assumptions.
The time is 6 to 6:30, probably.
If it’s not, that’d be troubling.
My school isn’t strict, nor is my family.
More like I’m strict on myself.
It’s better to be strict on myself instead of ruining my schedule.
Well, it’s about time.
Making no fuss, I open the questionably small closet on the left side of my room.
I pause.
Sometimes I just have to think about how small my room is.
Not that I complain about it; it’s good to have a room in the first place.
The room is 3 meters by 3.5.......................................................................................................
I hope my calculations are correct.
They probably are not; I just said a number while I can.
Whatever.
The room was normal, which wasn’t a bad thing.
A good thing, in fact.
Small, not to the level of suffocation (at least to me), and clear of anything dirty.
The white walls are spotless, which is great.
Saves me time from doing any form of chores.
Setting what I picked up from the closet—my school uniform.
Generic dark long-sleeved shirt, the only thing standing out being the uniform’s buttons, which are yellow.
The pants were no different, pitch black. Quite annoyingly long as well.
Could they have put more effort into the design? It looks plain. Unremarkable, even.
It set me off; it could look way better.
Whatever.
Pushing my critiques aside.
Crack
I simply took a step, and yet my bones cracked like I was a 49-year-old divorced mother making an omelette for lunch.
...why did that come to my mind?
Whatever.
Apparently, my lack of physical movement.
Also known as exercise.
Made me feel that way.
It wasn’t that bad—
Crack crack
Okay, it’s that bad.
Why is it that bad, though?
As I thought, I led myself outside my room.
My eyes only met the ground that did have carpet. I immediately got warmer by the feeling of fabric against my skin.
Looking down at my pair of feet, I had the realization that I should probably—no, definitely—cut my nails.
But that aside.
My face.
I have to wash it, or I’ll look like a battered warrior from the 600s.
Nobody was around; good.
Very good, in fact.
The less interaction, the less hassle to deal with.
They probably were asleep.
So.
That means I’ve awoken quite early.
Wait.
Let me check; if I recall correctly...
"Ah."
Finally lifting my head up, which was slouched down since I stood up, I finally got a grasp of the time as I blinked at the oddly square clock.
It’s 5:34. (I hope that’s the exact number.)
What the hell?
This was unnatural.
I didn’t know about anybody else’s waking-up routine, but to me, this was unprecedented.
Maybe I’m exaggerating it, but this sure was off my limits of waking up.
Yes.
I am strict on myself. I always wake up at the same time every day. Always exactly at 6 in the morning.
But this feels odd, without a reason.
No.
No way.
Everything has a reason.
Involuntarily sighing to myself, shaking my head to brush the bewilderment away, I head towards the east side of the apartment.
"...tch."
The second my hand contacted the metal (was it metal?) doorknob, I immediately yanked my hand back from how excruciatingly low the temperature of it was.
"..."
Narrowing my eyes in displeasure, I force myself to man up and open the door.
For a moment—just a moment—it hurt.
I couldn’t understand why I was so prideful about it hurting or not; I ignored my own thoughts and made my way to the sink.
Suddenly.
Immediately.
Expectedly.
And without a doubt, deservedly.
A headache hits me like a gunshot.
As if a shovel was thrust into my head.
As if I was getting brain surgery fully conscious.
As if an ice cube was forcefully stuck in the backside of my skull.
All because———
"God, such a filthy color."
Muttering to myself, I look away, trying to change my focus to something else.
The tub? Maybe.
Well, the tub is plain. Boring. Nothing to care about.
Looking around to see something to distract myself, I couldn’t help but cringe at my own actions.
So I changed my focus to the sink.
Realizing how childish and stupid I’m being, I groan softly and shake my head as I force myself to look at the mirror to continue what I wanted to do.
Messy short layered shag of dark hair.
Pale white skin.
A neutral expression.
An average body of a 17-year-old boy.
5'9 feet tall.
Small nose, maybe too small.
My ears covered behind my hair.
And lastly—— red eyes.
Crimson.
Scarlet.
Ruby.
Cherry.
Wine.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Garnet.
Maroon.
Red. Just like blood.
Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.
Blood.
Blood.
A memory.
Blood.
Splash
To get myself out of my unnecessary daze, I slapped a handful of water into my face.
Immediate effect.
Not only was my drowsiness subdued, but my mental affair was as well.
I didn’t want, nor need, to look at my face—most importantly, my eyes.
A hideous color.
The same shade as human blood.
A painting that ruined my life.
A decision I’ve picked.
A choice I’ve decided on.
Something I’d never let go of.
...whatever.
Looking back down at the sink—right.
My teeth.
Gotta brush them.
"..."
...wait.
Which one was mine?
There’s four of them.
One black, three pink.
For sure, the black one isn’t mine, so...
I picked one up.
Sniff
I hope nobody sees me, this is very awkward.
...not mine.
I picked up the second one.
Sniff Sniff
Alright, this is the one.
Finally—and I emphasize on finally—I’ve picked up the brush and started cleaning my teeth.
Nothing happened.
Didn’t take me more than 40 seconds—and yes, I counted.
Sigh
Letting out a breath that sounded more like a hiss than a sigh, I made my way out of the bathroom.
Nobody is awake, as expected.
Making it back to my room, I notice the calendar page that I sometimes forget even exists.
Wait.
November? Isn’t it January?
I could swear it was.
No, it is.
Then why?
Hm. Maybe I didn’t flip the pages for the past few months.
Shrrk rrrip rip tear
Ripping a few pages, I eventually reached the page of January.
Monday, 7 January, 2011.
Not a single thing on the schedule—well, of course.
I’m the absolute last thing from busy.
Now.
How do I kill time?
I technically have an hour of free time.
Extending my arm lazily, I grab.
Ruffle shuffle
Messily looking through my blue darkish bag, trying to find something of significance to waste the remaining hour on.
...
Nothing.
I’m quite—totally—sure that I don’t have anything missing for my homework or classwork.
Nothing happened.
I threw the bag back to the empty corner of the room.
Thud
Maybe I was too aggressive with it.
...
...
...
...
"Aggressive."
Repeating the term of power, I look down at my open palm.
Skin white as the wall.
Clean.
Neat.
Smooth.
Free from injuries.
Safe from any visible harm.
Yet———full of shame.
For the next hour or so, I did nothing.
No purpose.
No goal.
No achievement.
No value.
Nothing happened.
In the past hour, nothing of use occurred—and that was fine.
It had to be.
Pointless, maybe.
Meaningless—only if someone expected something.
Vacant. Hollow.
Futile.
Nothing happened.
As it should be.
2
It’s about time to go to school.
I thought to myself as I wore the uniform.
As always, it fits quite well.
If it didn’t, that’d be both troubling and embarrassing.
Silently thanking God for preventing any awkwardness away from me.
I preferred the winter uniform, so I obviously felt more comfortable in this one.
I took featherlight steps outside my room.
Sniff sniff
My nose tingled.
Suddenly—and of course, expectedly—an aroma strong enough to erupt chaos in my stomach floods my nostrils.
"...ah!"
Bright as sunshine.
A beam that puts stars to shame.
Loving as a mother—no.
She is a mother.
But not mine.
"Kaito...!" Her voice rang out. At first, you’d think her voice is exaggerated.
But.
It’s not; that’s how she really sounds.
A low tone that sounds high.
A melodic voice.
An unsung song.
A vibration of affection.
I stood awkwardly three meters away from her.
I couldn’t see what face she was making, but from her voice, I could tell she’s upset.
"You’re not going to leave without having anything to eat? Or money to buy from the cafeteria?"
Ah.
That’s it.
She’s just worried.
"... I—"
"No excuses!" As she advanced her way to me, my body tensed up.
Every accountable muscle tightened.
I was going to ask her for some distance, but I immediately silenced myself.
Knowing it’s impolite to ask her that, I stopped.
Yanking my left hand, she forced 450 yen into my hand.
The second she touched me, I made sure not a single joint in my body moved.
Which I succeeded at.
Not being able to argue with her, nor do I want to.
I reluctantly put the allowance in my pocket.
I didn’t want to take the money.
Nor any lunchbox she’d ever offer.
That’s right. I didn’t want anything from her.
Not a single thing.
I’m already a big enough burden; any further will be nothing but an eyesore.
An unneeded existence.
A pitied invitation.
A place I don’t—never—belonged to.
Nodding once, I turn my back to her and take my silent gesture of leaving.
"Take care." Once again, melodically giving me her farewell.
I didn’t look back—I didn’t want to, nor did I need to.
I only nodded one more time for her before opening the main door and silently announcing my leave.
But before I stepped outside, I heard a brief muffled sound.
Maybe it wasn’t her. Was it Yuki? Or was it Shirou? Or was it Yui-san?
I didn’t look back.
I didn’t want to.
Even out of curiosity about who was speaking, I didn’t even bother.
Thud
I closed the door gently—well, I hope it was gentle.
I couldn’t help but let out a shudder.
It is January, after all.
The temperature is merciless.
Making sure it was actually closed so no cold air gets inside,
I held the doorknob again.
It was closed well.
Good.
Facing the door, I couldn’t help but involuntarily read what was written on the plate out loud.
"Yamamoto..."
The family name, even after so many years, still sounds foreign to me.
Click
Clicking my tongue, trying to forget the thought—I immediately regretted doing that.
What if somebody saw me or heard me? Quite awkward if you asked me.
Left
Right
Looking sideways, nobody saw nor heard me.
Good.
My concern washed away as if it didn’t even exist.
Finally picking up my pace through the averagely narrow gray hallway, I shook my head at how unnecessary what I just did was.
Did it take like 4 seconds?
Yes.
But that doesn’t deny how redundant my thought process is.
Well, to be more specific—overthinking.
Wait.
The plate said 404?
I could swear it was 405 or something...
Was my memory failing me again?
Or was that simply the first time I’ve ever seen the plate?
I know I never lift my head up, but there’s no way I wouldn’t notice something so trivial.
Right?
Plip
Huh?
Oh.
I’ve already reached the street.
Higashi Sakura. For some reason, I remembered the name for the residential street.
Did I... walk down four floors this quickly?
I know I’m absent-minded, but...
Whatever.
Glancing to my left, looking at a not-so-good-looking wall, the building’s number is 5.
Good.
At least I remember that.
Feeling a tiny bit proud of myself for remembering such common knowledge, my pace unconsciously picks up.
Glancing down at the pavement, wet from yesterday’s rain (did it rain yesterday?),
Looking around (barely), I couldn’t help but remember that this is the 12th block of the Higashimachi 3-Chōme neighborhood.
Passing by and by, I eventually reached the Aoyama Avenue. The main street.
Not that I care, but I remember these names for some reason.
I wish I could remember important things, unlike these ones.
3
It took like—I don’t know?—thirty or forty minutes for me to get to the school.
It didn’t matter.
But the walk was quite fine, in fact.
Solemn and calm.
Maybe it’s because it’s so cold nobody has enough energy.
Especially considering it’s early in the morning.
Which was good to me.
Mindlessly walking in the cold breeze
wasn’t so bad of an experience.
Well, was.
Till I got to school—
"Higashimachi Municipal High School."
—and my mood immediately sulked.
What a discouraging name.
I didn’t hate school in particular.
...That was a lie.
I didn’t hate it, actually.
Hate is a strong feeling to have.
Full of resentment and loathing.
I can’t bear such an emotion towards a place like this.
Or simply said—I can’t bear hatred at all.
My mind is way too occupied to accompany this level of dedicated emotion.
People would say I hate you without a second thought, which, to me, I believe is disrespectful to the concept of hate.
Hate should be reasonable.
Hate is an emotion you should dedicate yourself to.
Just like the opposite of hate—love.
When you love, it’s not simple.
It’s strong.
Everlasting.
Unshakeable.
Unwavering.
And irreplaceable.
Love and hate are yin and yang.
Both hold the same power within them.
Both scale the same.
They shouldn’t be treated so naively.
...or am I overvaluing these emotions?
Whatever.
"...?"
I pause, completely stopping every muscle in my body as I stare half-awestruck as I’m in front of none other than my classroom door.
The white—way too white—sliding door in front of me.
I look up at the signboard to make sure.
Class 3-B.
Yeah.
This is my class.
All this time—well, I don’t even know how much time it took to begin with.
I was thinking to myself nonstop until I reached my homeroom without noticing.
"..."
Slide
I’m already in class.
Wow.
Should I be proud of this?
Thinking to myself so deeply, I didn’t, whatsoever, notice that I got to the third floor.
My ears are immediately filled with classmates’ chatter.
"..."
Silently marching towards my desk, I undramatically, uninterestingly, and most boringly...
sit on it.
Nobody spoke to me, nor did they ever have to.
Good.
As I make myself comfortable, I close my eyes as I start rubbing my temple as my brain starts flooding.
"...Er... Kaito Yamamoto."
A voice that I got used to called my name.
Between the tornado of sounds of either students, or desk clatters, or sounds I couldn’t even tell what they were for in the classroom, I listened to that voice specifically, knowing it was bound to come. And to be honest, it was rude to waste time and act like I didn’t hear him. So I managed to keep my focus on him in the meantime.
Instinctively, I called back.
"Yes."
Without working a muscle.
The teacher immediately continued the roll call.
As if falling into a void of darkness, everything that could possibly reach my ear becomes futile.
As far as I’m concerned, nothing happened.
4
Am I daydreaming?
Well, not necessarily.
I know what’s going on in front of me. To say the least, I didn’t bump into anyone or anything as I was walking towards the school building.
Hell, even when I got upstairs, nothing happened in particular.
Maybe it’s because it’s a routine thing to do; my body acted on its own?
Maybe.
I can’t tell what’s bothering me.
The fact my body moved on its own?
Or the fact I was so drowned in thought I can’t recall walking here?
Probably both.
Could be none as well.
But...
I guess I should be proud, huh?
I can be so sucked into my own brain that it’s as if I’m not even in the world.
I guess that’s a talent of some sort.
...
But———I hate talents.
Maybe I’m being ironic for saying I hate something now, but I can’t help but feel it.
Talent.
My hatred for it isn’t something I’ve dedicated—or on a similar scale for the levels of love and hate. Yin and yang.
If you love someone or something for your whole life, same should go for hate.
If you hate—it should be for a long-lasting life.
Incomprehensible levels of loathe.
An emotion you accompany forever.
Love shouldn’t out-scale hate.
Hate shouldn’t out-scale love.
I don’t hold that for talents.
And.
To be more precise, and unironic, I’d say it’s dislike.
Yeah.
I dislike talents.
Not fond of them.
Whatsoever.
A talent is what you’re born with.
A thing or two you exceed at unlike others.
What sets you apart.
Naturally comes within a person.
One in a hundred.
One in a thousand.
One in a million.
One in a billion.
Gives birth to uniqueness.
Improves individuality.
And most importantly, forces the talented person on one path.
I dislike it with every fiber of my being.
Hell, maybe it can develop into hate, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that ever happens.
The concept of a talent makes me shiver.
Makes my skin crawl.
Gives me involuntary cringes.
Something you’re destined to be good at—talented at.
Makes you feel good about yourself.
This is basic—is what a talented person would say when they compare themselves to others.
I’m better—they’d say this.
I’m born for this—and that.
I feel good about myself.—and this.
All of it.
Every single one of it.
To the last bit.
Are forced delusions.
Stacked ideals.
Ignorance of what’s truly desired.
Just the mere thought is disgusting.
Am I exaggerating? Maybe, but rightfully so.
A talented person is happy; of course they’d be.
Simply being exceptionally good.
Above adequate.
The standout success.
Superiority to feel good of—
Feel proud of—
Confident in—
yourself.
It’s all about you.
Yourself.
Nobody else.
It doesn’t matter if you stomp on somebody else’s dreams, or hard work, or passion, or even all of them.
But none of them matters.
What matters most is yourself.
And even with that—nothing hurts yourself more than talent itself.
The ecstasy of superiority you get when surpassing others with half the sweat they put in—it’s an indescribable pleasure.
Yet, it’s nothing more than pleasure.
Mere vision-destroying pleasure.
Blinds of what’s truly wanted. What’s actually aspired to.
What a human being yearns for.
What you want to be—in contrast to what fools you into wanting to be.
What your heart and mind seek for—in contrast to pleasuring superiority.
What you earnestly devote to be—pitted against ego gratification.
If you’d ask me what I’d prefer between the two—I’d say none.
I don’t care, honestly.
Because it’s all, without a doubt, a whatever after all.
Follow your talents and deny who you are?
Or follow your heart and be outwitted by the talented?
Both sound like crap to me.
...what if, your heart and talent matched?
....... something. Something so ideal doesn’t exist.
Well, whatever.
So I shouldn’t give it much thought.
"..."
Looking up (my neck hurts), I check the clock.
It’s the third period.
So I shouldn’t give it much thought.
Amazing.
I’m a living contradiction to my own thoughts.
More of a liar, specifically.
I said I shouldn’t give it much thought, but it’s been three periods of just me talking to no one but me.
I guess that’s what I’m talented for, huh?
Well, whatever.
5
"What a nothing-burger day."
I wanted to say, but I was embarrassed of people calling me a schizo, so I only thought it to myself.
Classes had ended.
I was merely in my own Safe Zone with my thoughts.
I did focus on the class board when it was important, of course.
But nothing was significant.
We weren’t given any homework. (Good.)
No classmate spoke with me.
Not a single student crossed my path.
Not one teacher aimed a question at me.
Which was odd, to be honest.
I would say I didn’t stand out much and the teachers didn’t care to ask me anything.
But.
That’s obviously not true, whatsoever.
I have, probably the most standout thing possible, eyes.
Crimson eyes, at that.
Well, does it stand out? —...er, uh.
Uhhh...
Yeah, I can’t recall people’s eye colors.
I don’t even look at their faces to know the difference between each one’s eyes.
Well, from what I remember when I used to look at people’s eyes, there used to be many different types of eyes.
But did red stand out the most?
I really don’t know.
Neither can I know.
Well, whatever.
It all went by smoothly, and of course, boringly.
To say the least, today—
Nothing happened.
Getting my shoes on after walking downstairs, I stand up and adjust my bag.
It’s not so heavy, but heavy.
I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s a weight.
A weight on my back.
As if a responsibility.
"...whatever."
As unnecessary thoughts are perished, I squeeze my way out of the annoyingly crowded school entrance.
I probably should’ve waited until it got un-crowded. This is really...close.
Damnit.
It’s not like I’m in any hurry to go back home either.
Whatever.
Anxiety instantly faded as I took distance after leaving the gates— I created a gentle pace as I walked.
Noticing the ground— Looks like it rained minimally today, huh?
Couldn’t help but acknowledge how odd the weather’s been.
Good aroma, way too good, harasses my scent detection violently.
Sometimes I forget I even live in Japan.
Side-eyeing it in a distance, I knew what it is.
A takoyaki shop.
"..."
I looked away.
Ignoring my gargling stomach, I walked forward.
No matter how good it smelled, or looked— I couldn’t spend the money she gave me.
Not at all.
I needed to save.
That’s what’s important, really.
"..."
Sometimes, I genuinely forget that I live in Japan.
Japan.
Kisora Prefecture.
Midorikawa City.
Higashimachi 3-Chōme.
Block 12.
Building 5.
Apartment number 404.
That’s where I’m headed.
6
This time, I counted.
Took me 23 minutes to get me back home.
I wanted to complain about it taking quite the time to get from school to home and vice versa.
But.
What’ll happen if I complained? To who?
And what’d they do? Shorten the street? Give me a car? A bike? A motorcycle? Bring my home closer? Bring the school closer? Change my living? Change schools? Make me live in the school? Make the school in my home? Make me drop out? Make the school drop out?
No idea what I was trying to achieve with such thoughts.
So.
I threw them away.
As anybody else would.
As I mentally threw what infected my brain away, I knocked.
Knock knock
"..."
...
Knock knock knock
"..."
...is nobody gonna open?
Uhhhh—
"It’s open."
A male voice.
I know that voice.
It’s an annoying one.
Well, thank you very much for being considerate of me being polite and waiting outside instead of barging in, sir.
I was childishly upset for approximately two seconds before opening the door and—
"Close the damned door, it’s cold!"
Thud
Without replying, I didn’t need to, I closed the door.
Entering wordlessly, I walked through the short hallway.
The apartment wasn’t the greatest in size, so it wasn’t a bother to get into my room without any extra unneeded scenarios.
Ignoring my obviously rude little brother, I open my room door.
Sigh
With my deepest sigh today, I fell directly on my futon (I never wrap it up) and land cleanly.
Well, I hoped I’d land cleanly.
But apparently my left knee wasn’t protected by the futon. The length of it was inadequate.
So, that.
That hurt like a bitch.
I never use curse words, unless it’s necessary.
And it was definitely necessary now.
In agony, I hold my knee with both hands, but I only made it worse by putting pressure on it.
So I left it be.
Realizing how stupid I’m being— which is nothing new, I look up at the wall.
White as hell.
...Is that even a correct statement?
Is hell white?
...whatever.
I bother myself with endless debates with no one but myself.
As if I’m a genius, but I’m an idiot.
As if I’m a scholar, but I’m an idiot.
As if I’m a philosopher— when I’m nothing but an idiot.
After all, I’m only a pitiful 17-year-old man— no, kid.
Yeah.
Sounds very fitting, a kid.
Irresponsible.
Thoughtless.
Worthless.
A nuisance.
A burden.
A sinner.
"...whatever."
Routinely knowing what time it is, I bring myself to stand up.
"!"
My knee hadn’t recovered, for God’s sake.
But.
I ignore the pain.
It’s only momentary, after all.
If I can’t get myself over some time-limited problem, then living isn’t even an option to begin with.
...was that sentimental of me?
I’d rather not think about it.
And this is exactly what I’m doing to not think about it.
Eat.
7
I went out of my room.
I entered the bathroom.
I showered.
I went out of the bathroom.
I entered my room.
Now, it’s about time.
I appreciated how cozy and warm my (kinda tight?) hoodie is, and—
Crrreak
I opened the door of my room.
It pisses me off how random my door’s creaking is.
It didn’t do that at all today, why now?
I wasn’t a fan of randomness— never was, never will be.
I was about to go deep in thoughts as I usually do, but a certain voice kicked me out of my state.
"...hm? What is it, Kaito? You hungry?"
As caring as ever, Yui-san says exactly why I went out of my room.
"..." Needless of words, I nodded once.
I couldn’t tell what kind of expression she was making by the time I reached the kitchen.
The apartment wasn’t much to look at.
Generic, mostly.
A short hallway led in from the entrance, with a couple of doors I didn’t pay attention to and another at the end. The bathroom was on the left. So was the kitchen, which felt like the biggest part of the place, at least from what I’d seen.
Everything in there was some dull shade of brown. Cabinets, counters, the whole thing. It didn’t bother me. I noticed it anyway.
I went around the table and took the chair in the corner without thinking. The mattress nearby had a floral pattern on it—blue and purple, I think. I didn’t stare at it for long.
And... just wait.
That’s all I have to do.
Waiting and waiting. Eventually, the two plates came into my eyesight.
"Thank you." Of course, I had to say that or I’d be an ungrateful little shit. I bowed my head politely, still zero eye contact made— hell, my eyes have yet to make contact on her upper body at all.
Well, it doesn’t matter anyways.
Whatever.
Taking the spoon, I immediately started mixing the white rice and soup.
I wondered what soup that was...oh. It was potato soup.
I couldn’t tell what it was due to how...very red it was, I couldn’t notice the potatoes within unless I stirred them up.
Ugh, I’m really hungry. I shouldn’t just waste my time thinking about how, and whatever this is. Just eat.
And which I did. Wasn’t over the top, neither too mediocre, but it was good enough.
"...hm." I hummed once in approval of the taste.
I really didn’t mind this warmth in the food. I didn’t.
I shouldn’t. And I wouldn’t.
Yet I am.
8
It’s time. I said to myself, slapping my full belly.
I immediately regretted doing that.
Whatever.
Now that I was pretty much full for the rest of the day, it’s time to go to my job.
I wore a grayish dark waterproof jacket and loose not-so-loose jeans. I took my wallet, and...uhh. Yeah, my wallet, and went out of my room.
Of course, I couldn’t go out without permission, no matter how older I get, I’m still technically a kid.
Even though I did this every day, it was a little embarrassing nonetheless.
"Yui-san." From behind the couch, I called out to her. I couldn’t tell what was going on, because I didn’t look at her, but from what I’m hearing I’d guess she’s watching the television.
"...hm?" From the side of my eye, I can see her cocking her head at my intrusion.
"I’ll go out." Needless of too many words, I said it as simple as possible.
"Eh?" A different voice. "Kai’s been goin’ out-a-lot, hunh?" It wasn’t Yui-san, it was Yuki.
"..." I should greet her, but no words left my mouth as I once recalled her scolding me for calling her "Yuki-san" (I still don’t know what’s so bad about that.)
"Say! Where you goin’?" asked Yuki. I felt troubled on what to say. I, of course, didn’t tell them I had a job. So this is...a problem.
"He’s just going out with some friends, right? Kaito?"
She’s the best. What a save.
"Yes." I responded with a nod. Now things should be ove—
"Take me with you!"
Hell no. I wanted to say, but of course I didn’t.
What was this about, man? Me and my younger stepsister rarely ever interacted, now she wants me to take her along with me?
"..........." I was at a loss of words, of course. This is a first. It was out of nowhere, and I surely couldn’t tell her no.
"Yuki! Don’t bother your brother." The mother interrupted the sister.
What a god damn save, man.
Seizing the opportunity, I nodded quickly. "I won’t take long." I promised, and made my way out with quick steps.
"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaa....." Her voice faded away, I could tell she was complaining.
As the middle child, she wasn’t the center of attention, even though she’s the only daughter, so I felt bad for her. But that feeling didn’t last long as my nose scrunched up as soon as I opened the door. It was really damned cold.
But— whatever.
9
The Higashimachi 3-Chōme neighborhood was quite the maze, well, at least for me.
I made my way out of the Higashi Sakura residential street by taking a straight line and then tilting my heading to the left where I reached Aoyama Avenue, which is the main street.
Took me quite the time as I did not lift my head a lot to check where I really am, just walking on instincts.
But I eventually noticed the bakery by the familiar smell. "Higashi Bread Works." And I immediately knew where I was.
Finally reached my destination, the Higashimachi shopping arcade. The shopping street had everything you could ask a shopping district and probably more, but I didn’t check to be certain about that.
But, whatever.
Now that I knew where I was, it was no issue to know where I should go.
It was a bit more crowded than usual, but not to the point of bumping. So my walk was safe until I reached it. "Kisora Wellness Drugstore."
I silently pushed the glass door and entered into the pharmacy.
The smell was always a hit or miss. This time it was a total miss. I covered my nose for one second before pulling back my hand. It was informal to cover my nose, so I stopped.
The workshop was, as always, full of colors. It had a bit of everything. Varying from toothpastes, toothbrushes, shampoos, bandages, mouthwashes, soaps, conditioners, painkillers, moisturizers, makeups, creams, different meds I didn’t even know, a few candies and toys here and there.
I worked here. Partially.
Seshoumaro Minato took me in here. I couldn’t help but feel amused by how medieval his name sounds. Well, whatever.
It’s a long story, but with simplicity: this old man in his 60s pitied me enough to give me a path for income.
Seshoumaro-san is a close relative to the Yamamoto family’s relatives (I didn’t understand how many relatives of a relative there are) and is the first— and probably last— person I asked any help from.
And he let me in here. The pay is a little over the top, but in all honesty, I didn’t care. He could give me a trillion yen right now and I’d say thank you and leave.
"Hn. Yama-boy." I didn’t like that nickname, but whatever. "Welcome." greeted me Seshoumaro-san with his raspy voice.
Sitting on his lab chair— which always looks on the verge of seriously falling—the man with wrinkled skin that looks like a desert, lazy eyes that makes you wonder if he can even look up at all, and oddly long white hair that looks unwashed. As usual, he wore his (probably favorite?) blue jacket that gave a suffocating vibe.
"Thank you for taking me in, Seshoumaro-san." I said calmly. As always, relentlessly showing him my gratitude. Without his financial help— and also a way to kill time— I’d be in a fix.
"Don’t mind, don’t mind." Waving his hand dismissively, not looking up from his whatever book that is. Seems...complicated. At a second thought, I teared my eyes away, not wanting to care about whatever complexity is written down. I already have school to bother with. "And also," he added, making me stop before entering the backside. "Call me Sesh." He said carelessly.
"Alright," I lied. Not only was the nickname impolite, it also didn’t sound good at all.
I went to the backside to do my daily job.
10
"Done." I said to myself, uncharacteristically and randomly wanting to hear my voice as I finished my job.
Simple and easy as ever— clean the entire place, organize quite literally everything, take care of the leftovers and garbage, be in Seshoumaro-san’s place if he’s ever bored or doing any private business of his, watch over for any possible threats, and finally, be with him.
The Minato bloodline wasn’t too fond of Seshoumaro-san, I heard from him. So any company for him was refreshing for a lonely man like he is. Even though, we never speak more than a three word exchange...most of the time.
Then, the main event of my job, the paying.
Ever so lightly, he lends in my hand ten thousand yen.
I worked so easily, so carelessly, so lazily, yet he gives me this amount for a mere two hours. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have a good valuation for money? Isn’t ten thousand a day a lot? I didn’t know, neither did I want to know.
"Thank you very much." I didn’t object anything. To be honest, I could only be thankful.
"Take care, Yama-boy." He said before I left him alone.
...huh. The cold air hugs my entire body. But I didn’t care. I had a clear objective to chase after now.
Taking a left, in the opposite direction of my neighborhood, I kept my pace calm while I marched forward.
I couldn’t help but look back at his generosity and feel blessed. I squeezed the ten thousand and four hundred and fifty yen in my pocket, just to make sure they’re there.
The money Yui-san gave me won’t go to waste, that’s for certain. No matter the number.
I eventually reached it. Higashimachi Post Office.
"..." I silently made my way in, it was per usual minimally crowded.
I waited in the line next to box no. 3.
The people didn’t take long, which impressed me just as I thought this’d be an insufferable wait.
"...the usual." I said, handing the earned money I had to the woman behind the glass box.
"Foooour, fouuuur, fiiive. Siiiiix." said the woman. I didn’t give her a glance to know how she looked like. But that easygoing tone of hers, the way she counts as if she’s a preschooler. It’s the same girl. Every day I come here and save the money. It’s her. I wondered if she ever takes days off.
I was lucky enough to have Seshoumaro-san help me to save money over here easily.
"The money’s registered~" she said with a sass that made me want to scratch my head, but I didn’t. "Anything else?"
"No, thank you." I turned my back to her and left. An odd thought came to mind. I could work much more hours and I’d gain a lot, huh?
I’d say, with confidence, that nothing happened.
11
I got lost quite a bit, so it was 10:42 when I came back to the apartment.
I felt a little hungry, so I wished I could’ve saved at least two hundred yen or so from the money to buy me something to eat.
But.
But, of course not. The money is not mine to use.
None of it is.
Even the money from the job, not a single yen is mine.
Whenever I become an adult, able to take care of myself, every single yen I stored would go directly to Yui-san.
The only way I could show her my gratitude is by doing that.
For her taking care of me, for her ever looking at me, the money, even though inadequate, would be my one of my two ways of repayment to her.
*First, is the money, of course.
Second, is my leave.*
I settled down on my futon. I just had finished my— quite easy, homework.
To not trouble Yui-san, I had to be in no need of help in anything I do. (Excluding food.)
My repayment is that simple.
Do nothing, gather money, give her the money, leave.
I don’t belong here. I said to myself, throwing the notebook away, which landed perfectly on the desktop, standing tall.
That made my mouth make an 'o' shape from how surprised I was.
Thud
It fell.
Nobody would believe me if I said this happened.
Well, there’s nobody to tell in the first place.
...
....
.....
"Nothing happened, huh?"
That’s right.
Nothing happened today.
Nothing of importance needed to happen.
Nothing of significance needed to happen.
Nothing of any meaning needed to happen.
Nothing was supposed to happen, just as I wished.
Nothing was going to happen, I won’t let it.
That’s right.
Nothing.
Do my best at school. Don’t interact with anyone. Save up the money. The usual, the vivid emptiness of a nothing new.
The unneeded shouldn’t be needed.
The accuracy of no surprises is exactly what I deserve.
A predictable life is what I desired. And is what I’m living.
I’m content with this.
A life with nothing happening is deserving of a murderer like me.
