Daily Hell

The morning light filtered through the thin curtains of Kazumo's bedroom, casting patterns across his worn desk. He stared at the ceiling, counting the familiar cracks that branched like rivers across the white surface. The house remained quiet for now—a temporary peace he knew wouldn't last. His alarm clock displayed 6:24 AM in harsh red numbers, six minutes before it would sound and alert his parents that a new day of disappointment was about to begin.

Kazumo rose quietly, his muscles tense as he placed each foot carefully on the floorboards that wouldn't creak. The cool morning air raised goosebumps on his skin as he changed from his pajamas into his school uniform—a white shirt that had been washed too many times and pants that hung slightly loose on his thin frame.

His room was spartan—a bed, a desk, and a small bookshelf containing textbooks and a few novels that served as his only escape. No posters decorated the walls, no personal items cluttered the surfaces. Experience had taught him that anything he cherished would eventually become ammunition.

The first sounds of movement came from down the hall—heavy footsteps that made Kazumo's stomach tighten into a familiar knot. His father, Inakuro, was awake.

"Kazumo!" His father's voice boomed through the house. "Are you up yet? Don't make me come in there!"

"Yes, sir. I'm getting ready," Kazumo called back, his voice deliberately steady.

He grabbed his backpack and double-checked that all his homework was complete and properly organized. A single missing assignment would be catastrophic. He tucked his literature essay—the one he'd stayed up until 2 AM perfecting—into a protective folder.

When Kazumo entered the kitchen, his mother stood at the stove, her back rigid as she prepared breakfast. His father sat at the table, newspaper raised like a barrier.

"Good morning," Kazumo offered quietly as he took his seat.

Neither responded. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence, marking each second of tension.

His mother placed a bowl of rice and miso soup before him without meeting his eyes. Her movements were mechanical, devoid of the warmth mothers showed their children in the TV shows Kazumo sometimes glimpsed through other people's windows.

"Your math test results came in the mail yesterday," Inakuro stated flatly, lowering his newspaper to reveal hard eyes that bored into Kazumo.

Kazumo's throat tightened. He'd scored 89%—a good mark by most standards, but he already knew what was coming.

"Eighty-nine percent," his father continued, voice rising. "Hayashi's son got ninety-seven. The Nakamura girl got ninety-five. Even that slow Tanaka boy managed ninety-one." Each comparison struck like a physical blow. "What's your excuse this time?"

"I—I studied hard," Kazumo replied, his spoon trembling slightly in his hand. "There was one question I misunderstood—"

"Misunderstood?" Inakuro slammed his palm against the table, causing the dishes to rattle. "That's just another word for careless. For stupid."

"Inakuro," his mother interjected, though without much conviction. "He needs to eat before school."

"What he needs is to understand that mediocrity isn't acceptable in this house," his father retorted. "Look at him. Sixteen years old and what do we have to show for it? A boy who can't even place in the top ten of his class."

Kimura sighed, setting down her own bowl. "Kazumo, you know we expect better. The neighbors ask about your accomplishments, and what am I supposed to tell them?"

The rice in Kazumo's mouth turned to paste. He forced himself to swallow. "I'll do better next time."

"You always say that," his father scoffed. "Empty promises from an empty child."

Kazumo absorbed the words without visible reaction—a skill perfected through years of practice. Inside, each syllable carved another notch into walls already covered in scars.

"I received an email from Miyuki-sensei yesterday," his mother added, her voice deceptively calm. "She mentioned you haven't joined any clubs this semester."

"I was thinking of the literature club," Kazumo ventured.

His father's laugh was sharp and cutting. "Literature? What will that get you? A job flipping burgers?"

"The science club has openings," his mother suggested, as if he hadn't spoken. "Tanaka's daughter got into Tokyo University from that club."

"I'm not good at science," Kazumo said quietly.

"Not good at science, barely passing math, and now you want to waste time on literature?" His father stood up, looming over the table. "This is exactly why you're such a disappointment. No ambition, no drive."

The words washed over Kazumo like acid rain—painful but familiar. He kept his eyes on his bowl, counting his breaths to stay calm.

"Your father and I sacrifice everything for you," his mother continued, her voice taking on the rehearsed quality of a speech given many times before. "We work extra hours to pay for your cram school. We've given up vacations. And how do you repay us? With mediocrity."

Kazumo nodded, knowing any defense would only prolong the torrent. He checked the clock—7:15 AM. If he left now, he could take the long route to school and have twenty minutes of peace before the next phase of his daily hell began.

"I should go or I'll be late," he said, standing and carrying his half-eaten breakfast to the sink.

"Running away as usual," his father muttered. "Just like you ran away from answering those math questions properly."

Kazumo rinsed his bowl methodically, placed it in the drying rack, and bowed slightly to his parents. "I'll do better," he repeated, the mantra as hollow as it was hopeless.

Outside, the morning air tasted like freedom. Kazumo filled his lungs with it, savoring the temporary reprieve. The neighborhood was coming to life—mothers walking younger children to elementary school, businessmen hurrying toward the train station, an elderly woman sweeping her doorstep.

For these few blocks, walking alone, Kazumo could pretend he was someone else. Someone whose parents spoke with pride instead of disappointment. Someone who wasn't dreading the school gates appearing around the next corner.

Because beyond those gates waited Izuna and her friends. Beyond those gates waited classrooms full of people who had long ago decided his role in their ecosystem. Beyond those gates waited Miyuki-sensei, who would see but not see the bruise forming on his arm where his father had gripped him too hard last week.

Kazumo adjusted his backpack and steeled himself. Morning at home was only the first circle of his personal hell. The day had just begun.

The school appeared ahead, a three-story concrete building with large windows that reflected the morning sun. Students streamed through the gates, their chatter growing louder as Kazumo approached. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched—a practiced posture that sometimes made him invisible enough to avoid attention.

Not today.

"Look who decided to show up," a voice called out. Kagayamo leaned against the school gate, his uniform deliberately disheveled—top button undone, tie loosened—the carefully curated look of someone who didn't care but actually cared very much about appearing not to care.

Kazumo attempted to walk past without acknowledgment, but Kagayamo's foot shot out, tripping him. He stumbled, catching himself before falling completely, his textbooks spilling onto the pavement.

Laughter rippled through the nearby students. Kazumo's cheeks burned as he knelt to gather his belongings, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Showing any reaction only extended these encounters.

"Sorry, didn't see you there," Kagayamo said with exaggerated insincerity. "You're so forgettable sometimes."

"It's fine," Kazumo muttered, reaching for his literature textbook.

A foot came down on it—sleek black shoes with small scuff marks on the toe. Kazumo didn't need to look up to know who they belonged to. Izuna's voice confirmed it.

"What's the rush, Kazumo-kun? Late for another disappointing test score?"

Kazumo finally looked up. Izuna stood above him, her uniform perfectly tailored, her long hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Behind her stood Kensai and Atachi, completing the trio that ruled the social hierarchy of Class 2-B.

"Please let me get my book," Kazumo said quietly.

Izuna tilted her head, studying him with an expression of amused curiosity. "You know, I almost admire how you keep coming back every day. I'd have transferred schools by now."

"Or jumped off the roof," Kensai added with a smirk.

Izuna shot Kensai a warning glance—there were lines even they didn't cross openly. She lifted her foot from the book, but as Kazumo reached for it, she kicked it several meters away.

"Fetch," she said simply.

More laughter from the gathering crowd. Kazumo stood, keeping his face a careful mask as he walked over to retrieve his book. The pages were bent at the corner now. He would have to straighten them carefully later—any damage to school property would result in another lecture at home.

The school bell rang, saving him from further torment. Students began moving toward the entrance. Izuna's trio sauntered past, Atachi deliberately bumping Kazumo's shoulder hard enough to make him stagger.

"See you in class, nobody," Atachi called back with a casual wave.

Kazumo waited until most students had entered before following. The hallways were crowded with students exchanging morning greetings, comparing homework, laughing about weekend plans. He navigated through them like a ghost, unacknowledged except for the occasional shoulder check or whispered comment.

Class 2-B was already noisy when he entered. Thirty desks arranged in neat rows, most already occupied. Kazumo made his way to his seat in the back corner by the window—not a preferential location but assigned by Miyuki-sensei, who had placed the "problem students" where she could easily ignore them.

As he sat down, he noticed something on his desk. Opening his notebook revealed a crude drawing depicting him being beaten, with speech bubbles containing the words his father often used. Kazumo closed the notebook quickly, glancing around the room. Several students were watching him, waiting for a reaction. He gave none, sliding the notebook into his desk as if he hadn't seen anything.

Miyuki-sensei entered, a woman in her forties with perpetually tired eyes and a permanent crease between her eyebrows. She placed her materials on the desk and called for attention without enthusiasm.

"Stand," the class representative called.

Everyone stood, bowed, and greeted the teacher in unison. Everyone except Kazumo, whose chair had been secretly tied to his uniform belt loop. When he attempted to stand, the chair clattered loudly as it dragged behind him, creating a disruption. The class erupted in laughter.

Miyuki-sensei sighed heavily. "Kazumo-kun, what are you doing?"

"Someone tied my—" he began.

"Just sit down and stop disrupting the class," she interrupted, not bothering to investigate or reprimand the actual culprits.

Kazumo untied the string from his belt loop and sat back down, cheeks burning. From across the room, Izuna watched him with a satisfied smile.

"Today we'll continue with quadratic equations," Miyuki-sensei announced, turning to write on the board.

The morning passed in a blur of lectures, each punctuated by small torments—a pencil case that mysteriously disappeared and reappeared in the trash bin, whispers just loud enough for him to hear, paper balls that hit the back of his head whenever Miyuki-sensei turned away.

Lunchtime brought no relief. The classroom emptied as students headed to the cafeteria or gathered in social groups to eat their bento boxes. Kazumo remained at his desk, opening his lunch—a plain rice ball and some pickled vegetables his mother had prepared without care.

He ate quickly, planning to spend the remainder of the break in the library—one of the few safe havens in the school. The library attendant, an elderly woman with poor eyesight but a kind disposition, never allowed disruptive behavior.

As he packed up his empty lunch container, a shadow fell across his desk. He looked up to find Izuna standing there, alone this time.

"You forgot something this morning," she said, her voice surprisingly neutral.

Kazumo waited, bracing for whatever new humiliation she had planned.

Instead, she placed a mechanical pencil on his desk. "You dropped this when Kagayamo tripped you."

Confused, Kazumo stared at the pencil—it was indeed his, with the distinctive chip in the plastic near the clip.

"Thank you," he said cautiously.

Izuna studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. "Does it ever get tiring?"

"What?"

"Being everyone's punching bag."

The question caught him off guard. Was this another trap? A new form of psychological torment?

"I don't know any other way to be," he answered honestly.

Something flickered in her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or something deeper. Before she could respond, Kensai and Atachi appeared at the classroom door.

"Izuna! We're heading to the courtyard," Kensai called out.

Izuna's expression hardened instantly, the brief moment of humanity vanishing. "Try not to drop anything else, loser," she said loudly enough for her friends to hear, then turned and walked away.

Kazumo pocketed the pencil, unsettled by the interaction. In three years of bullying, Izuna had never shown him anything but contempt. This small act of... what? Not kindness, exactly, but something less than cruelty, felt dangerous in its unfamiliarity.

The afternoon classes dragged on. During English, their teacher called on Kazumo to translate a passage. He stood, aware of the anticipatory silence in the room—his classmates waiting for him to stumble so they could laugh.

"The man walked through the abandoned house," he began, his voice steady. "Each step raised dust from the floor. Memories clung to the walls like cobwebs, trapping him in the past."

His pronunciation was perfect, his translation flawless. The teacher nodded approvingly before moving on to the next student. From the corner of his eye, Kazumo caught Izuna watching him, her expression thoughtful.

After the final bell rang, Kazumo remained seated, letting the classroom clear before attempting to leave. It was another survival tactic—avoiding the crowded hallways where "accidents" frequently befell him.

The classroom door slid open as he was packing his bag. Miyuki-sensei entered, looking surprised to find him still there.

"Kazumo-kun, I need to speak with you," she said, approaching his desk.

"Yes, sensei?"

"Your mother called again today, asking about your club activities." Her tone was impatient. "I can't keep fielding these calls. You need to join something."

"I was thinking about the literature club—"

"The science club has openings," she interrupted, echoing his mother's words from that morning. "With your test scores, you should be applying yourself in subjects that will get you into a good university."

"I understand," Kazumo replied, knowing it was pointless to argue.

"Good. I've already spoken to Yamada-sensei. He's expecting you at the science club meeting today." She turned to leave, then paused. "And Kazumo-kun? Try to be less disruptive in class. That chair incident this morning was inappropriate."

Before he could defend himself, she was gone, the door sliding shut behind her.

Kazumo finished packing his bag, a familiar heaviness settling in his chest. Even the teachers saw only what they expected to see.

The hallways were mostly empty now. Kazumo made his way toward the science lab on the second floor, dreading what awaited him there. The science club members were serious students, focused on competitions and university applications. They wouldn't welcome someone forced upon them by a teacher.

As he turned the corner, voices drifted from an empty classroom. One voice in particular made him pause—Izuna's, uncharacteristically heated.

"—don't see why we have to keep doing this," she was saying. "It's getting old."

"It's tradition," Kensai's voice replied. "Every class has someone like him. If it wasn't Kazumo, it would be someone else."

"That doesn't make it right," Izuna argued.

"Since when do you care about right?" Atachi asked, sounding genuinely confused. "You're the one who started the chair prank today."

A pause. "I know," Izuna finally said, her voice quieter. "I just... sometimes I wonder if we're taking it too far."

"You're getting soft," Kensai accused.

"I'm not soft," Izuna snapped. "I'm bored. There's a difference."

Footsteps approached the door. Kazumo quickly retreated around the corner, heart pounding. He pressed himself against the wall as the trio emerged, continuing their conversation as they headed toward the stairs.

When they were gone, Kazumo released the breath he'd been holding. What had that been about? Izuna, the architect of his daily torment, expressing doubt? It didn't make sense.

The science lab door loomed ahead. Kazumo stared at it, thinking about the conversation he'd overheard. Thinking about the mechanical pencil returned without witnesses. Thinking about the thoughtful look during English class.

Something was changing. He didn't know what or why, but after years of static misery, any change felt significant.

With a deep breath, Kazumo opened the door to face whatever this new hell had in store for him, wondering if tomorrow might somehow be different—and afraid to hope that it might.