The Silence Before the Voice

The alarm buzzes on the bed. Kichiro touches the screen. The sound dies. The sun flashes across his face. He gets up and goes to the bathroom.

 There he is. The same face. Neck full of handprints. Purple crescents under his jaw. A split lip. He touches the bruises and flinches. “God, please talk to me,” he says, his voice hoarse from the swelling. “I need you.”

 His hands grip the cold sink until his knuckles turn white and his fingers go numb. He stares deep at his reflection. Yesterday replays in his mind. Fists flying at him like a rock. Kenji’s voice. Laughter. “Die, piece of shit. Why won’t you die already?” Kenji said it close enough to smell the cigarette dangling from his mouth. Kichiro's eyes tear up, he slaps water on his face until his head clears.

He pulls his uniform on. A note stuck to the fridge catches his attention: "Food's in the fridge, eat it or throw it away". He reads it and leaves without eating. His father's jacket hangs on a hook by the door, untouched for months.

 He leaves the house silent, like always. 

At school he moves along the corridor with his eyes on the floor. Fluorescent lights buzz. He slides into class first. The room is quiet. He keeps his gaze on the desk. Students begin to flood the class. They look at him with indifferent eyes. They're used to seeing him this way. Some even get amused or happy that it isn't themselves.

 Lessons are noise behind glass. The teacher talks. Voices around him are muffled. The bell for break rings. He stays put, hands folded in his lap. 

Shadows fall over him. 

Kenji. Masaki. Hiroki. 

They don’t need to say much. Their smiles say it for them. Kenji’s voice cuts like a knife. “Come to the roof, after class.” 

No choice in it.

He goes. He always goes.

 On the roof the blows come. Same as before. Same as the day before. Same as the day before that. Two to the ribs. A shove. A fist to the face. Gravel digs into his skin when he hits the ground. Their laughter bounces off the walls. 

When it ends they walk away. Alone on the concrete. The sky looks too bright. His chest moves too fast. His thoughts reduce to a single beat. 

Die. Die. Die. Die. 

His legs move without asking. He stands at the rail. Cold metal under his fingers. The yard below drops away. He steps onto the ledge. One foot then the other. His grip loosens. One hand slips.

 Then something touches him. A voice. A murmur. He can’t catch words. It’s inside his head like a small wind. He knows the cadence. He knows the sound. He jerks back. Flesh hits concrete. He coughs, cries, breath rips in and out. Tears hot on his face.

 The numb inside him cracks. 

“God” he whispers.

 He waits for the voice again. The sky turns from blue to purple to black. The rooftop light clicks on. Crickets start somewhere below. Nothing answers. Still, something small has shifted. Hope is not loud. It’s a stubborn thing that doesn’t leave.

 The school starts emptying as he limps through the halls, the last students walk past him, eyes forward. He walks home, each step is harder to take, his ribs are screaming at him but he ignores it. Night hangs heavy. 

The house is quiet. A plate sits on the table—cold rice, a scrap of fish. No questions. No one cares. He ignores it.

 Upstairs, he shuts his door. He is not sad. He is not angry. He is curious. Was it real? Or did he make it up because he wanted to live? 

The bathroom light is a small, yellow circle. He looks into the mirror. The bruises look worse. Then his mouth moves. He smiles. It’s wrong. Too wide. It does not reach his eyes.

 “Don’t leave me again,” he says to the glass. Breath fogs the mirror. The words are a prayer but more a demand. It feels like a bargain.

 “If you leave me,” he says, voice low, “I’ll kill myself. I swear I will.”

 It hangs in the room. A promise. A threat. He watches his reflection—dead eyes, eerie smile. He leaves the bathroom light on. He lies down and stares at the ceiling. The silence is not empty now. It waits. He waits with it.