Chapter XVIII - Like I Was Never Born (II)

Kagami Hiroki fallen asleep—or passed out—fully clothed, one arm dangling to the floor, fingers curled as if still clutching a glass. His mouth hung slightly open as a line of dried saliva tracked from the corner down his stubbled chin. The stench of alcohol, cigarettes, and stale sweat emanated from him in putrid waves.

It wasn't always like this. There were photographs in an album hidden under my bed that showed a different man. He was younger, he stood straight, and smiled beside my mother. With his arm around her waist, pride was evident in the set of his shoulders. With me, tiny and gap-toothed, on his shoulders at a summer festival.

That man died with her. Only his shell remained, preserved in alcohol and spite.

The motions of collecting bottles, emptying ashtrays, wiping surfaces, and tiptoeing around discarded clothing were so well-rehearsed they'd become muscle memory. My hands moved mechanically, my mind elsewhere: breakfast. Rice in the cooker, miso soup from instant packets (we'd run out of proper ingredients days ago), a single egg that I prayed wasn't past its expiration date. It wouldn't be eaten, but I made it anyway. It was a ritual as meaningless as everything else in this apartment.

The sound of the rice cooker clicking on in the kitchen was all it took for him to reawaken from his drunken stupor.

"Turn that thing off," came the growl from the couch, followed by the creaking of springs as he shifted.

I didn't respond.

Responding only made things worse.

"Oi, you heard me?" Louder now, with the edge that meant he was working himself up to full-on anger.

"Good morning," I diverted instead, keeping my voice perfectly neutral. "There's water and aspirin on the table next to you."

A grunt was his only form of acknowledgment. I heard him fumble for the pills, and then gulp as he swallowed them dry despite the water being right there.

Regardless, I simply continued preparing breakfast; the click of chopsticks against bowls was unnaturally loud in the tense silence.

"What time is it?" that man finally spoke, his voice rough and thick from sleep and dehydration.

"Almost nine."

"Damn. I'm late."

But he made no move to get up, instead fumbling in his pockets. I knew what he was looking for before he even asked.

"Where're my smokes?"

"I don't know." Another lie. They were in the trash along with three empty packs I'd found scattered around the room. "I can pick some up on my way home from work."

"Work... you're still doing that convenience store gig?"

I ignored the implied insult in his tone and simply nodded.

"Good. We need the money. Rent's due next week."

"I paid it yesterday. And the electric bill."

With the money I'd been saving for a new textbook that I needed for college entrance exams.

Money that disappeared into the black hole of our existence, never to be seen again.

He looked at me then... really stared at me for what felt like the first time in months. His eyes—dark, unlike my mother's vibrant green that I'd inherited—narrowed slightly.

"What about the gas?"

"I'll pay it Monday after I get my check."

"And the money I loaned you last week?"

There it was. The familiar twist of the knife. He hadn't loaned me anything. It was the other way around, as always. But pointing this out would only lead to a meltdown that neither of us had the energy or patience to endure.

"I'll have it for you soon," I said, the taste of the lie bitter on my tongue.

"I need it now. I've got people waiting on it."

Gambling debts? The specifics didn't matter—it always ended the same way.

"I don't have it," I admitted, tensing for the inevitable.

"What do you mean, you don't have it?" He quickly took a step toward me as his face darkened in tandem. "The hell're you spending it on? Girls? Fancy clothes? Video games? I thought I raised you better than that. What'd I say about taking my money and—"

The accusation was so absurd I almost laughed. When was the last time I bought anything for myself specifically? When was the last time I'd done anything but work, study, and clean up after him?

"Food, your cigarettes, and the bottle of whiskey you asked for last Tuesday." I cut in sharply, though I forgot to lessen the agitation in my voice.

"Don't give me that! You've been holding out on me! I know you have!"

As he got to about two unsteady steps within my personal space, I got an unconsented whiff of his stench. His breath was foul, a combination of stale alcohol and sleep. I tried not to flinch away from it, tried to maintain eye contact even as every instinct told me to run.

"I'll have more after work today. I can give you half my paycheck."

"...Half? You live here rent-free, eat my food, use my electricity, and you think you're entitled to keep half your money?"

"It's for college entrance exams. The application fees—"

"College?" He spat the word like a curse. "What makes you think you're college material? You think you're better than me now?"

"No, I just—"

"Just what? Want to run away? Leave me here alone like she did?"

And there it was: the true source of his anger, bitterness, and contempt.

My mother hadn't chosen to die, but in his mind, she had abandoned him. And I, with my green eyes and my talent with the piano as well as my humble ambitions of something beyond this apartment, was planning the same betrayal.

It may have seemed bizarre and utterly delusional, but to him, my existence was a constant reminder of his greatest loss and deepest wound. To him, my very presence was a constant insult.

I was an intruder in his life, and in a mind poisoned by cigarettes, alcohol, and grief, he was determined to drive me out, even if it meant tearing me down piece by piece until I shattered.

"I'm just trying to get into a decent school, and I can't do that without the proper preparations. I can't just freeload and do nothing if I want to have a future—"

"Future."

He snorted violently at such a prospect.

"What future? You think a piece of paper from some fancy school is going to change anything? You think it'll make you happy? Make you matter? Nothing matters. Nothing changes. You're just too stupid to see it yet."

I should have stopped there. Should have nodded and agreed and found some excuse to leave the room. Yet something in me—perhaps the same something that had enabled me to speak honestly to Serena on the rooftop—refused to retreat this time.

"Mom would have wanted me to go to college—"

I never finished the sentence.

The back of his hand connected with my cheek with enough force to make me stagger backward.

The sting was an immediate affair, a hot, throbbing pain that brought tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I quickly raised a hand to my face, half in shock, half to hide the tears that were already threatening to spill over. Whether they were from simple biological reactions or something deeper... I didn't know, nor did I want to know.

"Don't you dare," he hissed, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Don't you dare use her against me. You didn't know her. Not like I did."

I stayed silent, one hand pressed to my burning cheek, the other gripping the counter to stay upright.

"She had dreams too... she was going to be famous. Travel the world. And look what happened to her. Look what all those dreams got her. A box in the ground and a husband who drinks too much and a son who's just like her. Head in the clouds, thinking he's too good for real life."

It wasn't the first time he'd hit me. It wouldn't be the last either.

But something about this moment felt different. Perhaps it was the previous night with Serena, the strange liminal space we'd occupied together. Perhaps it was just exhaustion, the cumulative weight of years spent walking on eggshells.

Whatever it was, I found myself looking at him—really looking at him—and seeing not some amoral monster fears, but a broken, pathetic man who had never learned to live with his grief... who had chosen alcohol instead of healing, bitterness instead of memory.

Who had lost himself so completely that he couldn't even see what he was doing to the one remaining connection he had to the woman he claimed to have loved.

Was it self-hatred that made him resent me? The same self-hatred that had driven me to the rooftop?

I couldn't find the anger within me. All I felt was a bone-deep weariness.

I just knew that if I continued to live past this month, I didn't want to turn out like him, and I would do everything whatsoever to ensure that never came to fruition.

"I'm going to get ready for work," I said quietly before turning away from him.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he demanded, but the fire had gone out of his voice, replaced with a child's petulant tone—a child who knew he had lost control of the situation.

I didn't turn back.

"I'll get your cigarettes on my way home. Whatever left from my paycheck is yours."

"Damn right it is," he muttered, but I was already closing the door to my bathroom, shutting out his voice, his presence, his claim on my existence.

In the mirror, a red mark started to bloom across my cheekbone. It would bruise by evening, but it was nothing that couldn't be explained away with a story about clumsiness or a stray ball during gym.

I'd had plenty of practice crafting such excuses, after all.

The face that stared back at me looked tired. Hollow. The green eyes that were my mother's legacy seemed dull in the harsh bathroom light. For so long, I'd tried to see her in my reflection—to find some trace of her gentleness, her passion, her unwavering belief in beauty. But all I saw now was fatigue, resignation, and something else. Something new.

I showered quickly, dressed in my convenience store uniform, and left without saying goodbye. My father had already retreated to his bedroom with the door shut firmly against the world.

And so, I left my purgatory for the day.

As I experienced today's weather, I was delighted to feel that the morning air felt clean after the stale atmosphere of the apartment. I breathed deeply, letting the early summer warmth seep into my skin and trying to shake off the residual tension from the confrontation. As I walked toward the station, my hand instinctively found the earbud in my pocket.

My talisman.

My strange connection to a girl who saw through me with eyes like winter. Who had, without meaning to, given me a reason to step back from the edge.

"You're so busy trying to be what everyone else wants that you've forgotten who you are."

Her analysis from the previous night echoed in my head as I navigated the familiar streets. Was she right? Had I lost myself so completely in the daily performances—dutiful son, diligent student, reliable friend—that I no longer knew where the mask ended and the real Shouma began?

And if so, how did I find my way back?

Even as I entreated the gods, no answer was given.