Little Numa

Kyoujyou Numarei was not born knowing the fundamental components of a punch. In fact, she was not born to much at all. She showed no signs of great intelligence, great kindness, or even frankly, signs of human consciousness for that matter. She was, to the world, a non-entity. And that, to her, was okay.

Life in Fujikawa was a quiet affair. It was a small town, with a population of less than 20,000, and showed that through its inhabitants and quiet. Things got around quickly, and things got around quietly, spoken in rumours, and the whispered words behind homes.

Thus, when it was discovered that her father—a strapping young butcher- had been arranging orgies in the safety of his home with many a housewife, things got around fast. It was true, of course. The man really did powerwash the insides of many a woman his age.

But that wasn’t the point. The scandal was blown out of proportion. Soon enough, the anti-orgy faction argued that the food had been rendered unsafe—and that bodily fluids had contaminated produce. And soon after that, the anti-orgy and pro-orgy factions came at each other’s throats, shooting dismissive gestures all around, and making life rather unpleasant.

So, Daddy Kyoujyou took little Kyoujyou and moved. To a city of supposed opportunity, job prospects, otherwise known as Tokyo.

Things did not get better.

Her father knew no one in this bustling metropolis. Thrown into an urban environment such as this proved more challenging than expected. The Kyoujyou family sustained themselves on paycheck after paycheck, and at times, young Numarei ate alone at the table.

“Are you not hungry, daddy?” She’d say.

He’d shake his head and smile. “I’m too busy thinking of big bo—big redeeming qualities of the world.”

Numarei would punch him across the table and continue eating.

She was eleven by then, and old enough to understand what he really meant.

But that was okay. Her father, despite his flaws of pursuing consensual relations with women his age, was always there for Numarei. No matter how hard he worked. No matter how much he leered and pursued women, he’d always prioritise his daughter.

That’s why, when Numarei returned home with a bruise on her face, her father skipped a planned date that evening.

“What happened?” he asked.

The room was ten mats in size, and the two did not stand far apart.

Her face was one of apathetic resignation. “They called me a gorilla. So I punched them. And they punched me back. I hate school.” That was all Numarei said before she dropped her bag and lay on the floor. “I hate this city. I hate this school.”

“Why do you hate them?”

“Because they’re mean. And because… because they make fun of me without even talking to me.”

“I’m sorry,” her father said.

“Why?” Her face was written with childlike curiosity. “I don’t hate you. You might be a pervert who dates stupid women, but that’s ok.”

She just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, without saying a word. Her father did not know what to say. Something obviously bothered his beloved daughter, and he had never seen her so lifeless, and dead-looking.

Numarei’s father put on a movie. It was a VHS of ‘Rocky’, and played on their small box of a TV. Unlike many her age, Numarei understood English quite well and watched the movie with great attentiveness.

“What’s this about?” she said.

“This is an old movie. Like your girlfriends,” she’d say again.

In the span of ten minutes, that was all Numarei said. To put it simply, she was engrossed. The character of Rocky. His inability to give up despite all odds—his journey from a humble club fighter to the big stage!

That spoke to her.

“I want to punch like Rocky.”

“I know just the guy.”

Having slept with the estranged wife of an underground boxer, Numarei’s father had found the perfect teacher for his daughter. He was a silver-haired man in his 50s, and Numarei’s father came to him on two knees, begging and pleading.

He did not know whether she would take it with due seriousness or the casual whims of a child with a newfound interest.

Unbeknownst to him—Numarei had stuck with it. In the first place, the reason her classmates and teacher had called her a monkey was because she spent her breaks alone. In front of a tree. Punching and making strange noises like a monkey. Therefore, when given the chance to develop her monkeying, Numarei couldn’t refuse.

Years passed.

Numarei had never been happier. She had spent all her time out of school doing boxing, daydreamed of boxing in school, and even dreamed about it in her sleep. Except for a single, small thing, life was perfect. Except that single, small thing gradually wormed its way in, and before long, Numarei asked herself this.

“Why am I not satisfied?”

She sank her head into her arms. It was lunch period, and everyone had taken to their respective places. Friends with friends, tables pushed together. Numarei with herself in a small corner, eating something her dad had made the morning prior.

She gave the others a pensive stare, and for a reason beyond her, Numarei packed her lunch and left. That inexplicable feeling drove her away. That inexplicable feeling made her sit in front of a tree outside and eat ever so slower, with hands that bordered on clumsiness.

Numarei inhaled deep. She massaged her fingers, tracing the smooth callosities, and tried to steady herself. Tremors still shook her fists, and no matter what she did, would not go away.

The tremors became an impulse. The impulse, a comfortable familiarity. Numarei rose with an alarming speed. She marched around, looking for any reason in particular to let out her frustrations.

There it was. She gazed upon a girl surrounded by bullies, dropping insults and profanities about her.

Numarei approached them.

“Hey? What are you do—”

Numarei punched her.

“What the hell? Are you nuts?”

Numarei punched her too.

“W-wait, I was just forced into doing it! I-I didn’t mean anything!”

Numarei wound her fist, paused, and punched her anyway.

At the end, three bodies were sprawled on the floor, along a single, awe-struck girl. She rose to both feet, and clasped her hands around Numarei’s.

“That… That was amazing!”

“It was?”

She was standing there, confusion in her big, black eyes. For a moment, she stood there passive, stuck like a pinned scarecrow.

Then, she understood.

“Are… Are you what they call a lesbian?”

She was wrong. And yet, a laugh sounded from the girl, shedding tears as she did.

“My name is Katsuwara Shion. Wanna be friends?”

“Are you sure? I’m not good at anything except boxing.”

“Well… I’m not good at anything besides looking cute. So I guess that makes us equals, huh?”

“Equals? I think boxing’s cooler if you ask me…” Numarei’s voice had a strange inflexion. “But sure, let’s be friends.”

From then on, Shion became Numarei’s best friend, and the two could be spotted wherever they went. School. After-school. The road before school, whereupon Shion bumped into Numarei’s shoulder, and they walked together. Theirs was a great friendship, sustained by mutual affection and time spent.

“Numarei-chan, where are you from? Originally, I mean.”

“Fujikawa.”

“Where’s that?”

“Yamanishi prefecture. It’s a pretty small place.”

“Oh—so it’s like the boonies, huh? Why’d you move?”

Pause. “My dad had sex with a bunch of housewives in his shop. So he took me to Tokyo to avoid getting murdered by their husbands.”

Numarei kept her eyes on Shion. She watched for a sign of judgement, any inkling in the brow or cheek. Instead—Shion laughed.

“That’s adorable. Why’d you never tell me?”

“Dunno. Would you?”

“Probably not.” She laughed. “But since you did...” Shion pressed against her, linking arms. “That means you trust me, right?”

“I think it does.”

After that was said and done, their sense of mutual fondness grew even deeper, and their friendship seemed without end.

As time passed, however, and Numarei became a greater and greater boxer, she found a breadth of opportunity open. She had stepped beyond the amateur scene. In the dark underbelly of Tokyo, Numarei discovered one of the most prominent martial arts organisations there was.

Week after week. Day after day. Live matches were held for an audience of over 1,000 strong, and Numarei fought in just about half of them. As long as the arena wanted her, she wanted it, and as that seemed to be a permanent occasion, Numarei kept fighting and fighting.

She made friends this way. Life-long comrades. Some opponents. Some just followers of the trade.

But she also came out of this battered and bruised. It was a no-holds-barred type of deal. Bruises, broken bones, and sliced tendons had become an habitual affair, showing in her day-to-day life.

“What’s happening?” Shion had asked. “Who’s doing this to you?”

Numarei shrugged. “A lot of people.” There was no use explaining any further. This wasn’t a world for civilians.

At one point, the Japanese government had melted the ice block of a 22,000-year-old Neanderthal cavewoman and sent her to fight in the arena. It was beyond the comprehension of both regular and irregular.

“Numa-chan, we’re friends, right?”

“Of course. I can’t let you be alone. You’d starve… or something. You’re kinda weak.”

Shion nodded, pressing closer. “If that’s true… can you promise this weakling something?”

“I’ll try.”

Shion stiffened and shut her eyes in deep contemplation. “Please promise this weakling… That whatever you’re doing. You’re doing because you love to, alright?”

A rare smile spread across Numarei’s face. “Sure. So long as you do the same.”

They circled forth, hugging each other in a display of supreme friendship.

That ended a week later.