On New Year's Day, We Will Change Back To Ourselves

Hands were incredible combinations of muscle, bone, tendon, and vessels. Fingers could bend to lift, grip, cup, punch, hold, pull, and more. With the right contortions and positions, they could be their own voices for a language that went unheard but was instead seen. Palms and fingertips could caress the face, lips, and waist of lovers. Hands could also hold blades and press them against skin, then pull until blood appeared from wounds deep enough to scar.

That was exactly what Nozaki Kaho's hands had been doing, unnoticed, for years. Until a few days ago when the unplanned entry of her mother into a dressing room led to a bout of screaming confusion and devastated, indignant tears. Not from Kaho, but from her mother. Kaho had merely sighed when she realized there would be consequences to finally being caught.

In truth, she’d never done it as a call for help. If that had been the case, she’d have staged a partial overdose, or stood on a building edge screaming, or anything else that would have gotten attention much faster than the years she’d been cutting herself.

Cutting was simply a way to jolt herself back into feeling anything at all on the days when her mind fell into the abyss again, and everything sank beneath The Surface.

That was what she called it. It was the best way she could ever describe the deafness she’d lived with her entire life. If all the world were a raging ocean full of sound and fury and constant energy, she lived beneath the surface, not in absolute silence but in a realm where every sound was there but not perceptible. For Kaho, sound was a neighbor on the other side of the fence that you were aware of but never met or saw their face.

Living with a disability was as easy as it was hard. It helped that it was all Kaho had ever known, so from the beginning she had learned to live with it. Her family had paid for the best support possible, received all the medical treatments in the world, learned sign language, and done everything possible to integrate the difference into their existence.

When she thought on sinking beneath The Surface and the bouts of melancholy that would frequently pull her into a near catatonic state, Kaho never blamed her deafness directly. Sure, it had made her feel othered by much of society and had given her more than enough challenges, but The Surface’s pull was something more fundamental. Something in her spirit just felt gone; Like a missing channel that was never tuned.

So, when she was eighteen, she started pulling a razor blade across her upper thigh.

Being in a country as modest as Japan, and living in a conservative family, it was easy to keep that area hidden. She’d never really had true friends, so there was no concern of a kind companion noticing. And, though she had occasionally wanted it not to be so, at that point, no paramour or boy toy was exploring those sacred realms of her body. So the upper thigh was a secret.

The first time she did it, she remembered the burst of adrenaline that came as soon as the red drops appeared, and in that moment, Kaho knew she had found her medication. Western mood stabilizers and Eastern Zen philosophies had both failed to give her a drop of the euphoria she felt from a simple slice.

Thus, for years, that became her self-medication to keep her from drowning in the undercurrent of an unmoored soul. But then, four days after Christmas, it all came crashing down.

Panicked, confused family members struggled to understand. Concerned phone calls were made to secretive doctors who provided a house call under the secrecy of moonlight. Her family was important, and this was Japan. Stigmas about things like mental health and self-harm were still very prevalent, shame was a burden none wanted, and her father had approval numbers to keep in mind.

Hours were spent shouting via hand gestures and with actual audible voices. To her surprise, Kaho’s mind shook itself clear long enough to cry. Crying wasn’t something she often did. It was buried deep in the chambers of the sea of her soul, well beneath The Surface, and usually only came out on the most intense of moments. But that night, she found herself crying on the floor, wrestling with trying to explain herself between heightened facial expressions and intensified signing.

In the end, her cries and explanations were not enough. Her parents made a few more phone calls full of unheard words as Kaho lay on the floor, feeling her tears dry on her lips. The rug’s threads were rougher than usual at that moment. When her parents returned to the room, Kaho was told she would be sent to a treatment center. Deep in the mountains of Nikko, there was an upscale facility where patients could spend weeks or months recuperating and seeking peace. The order came from a place of love as much as it did a place of concerned control.

So, bags were packed, plans were made, and a narrative was crafted for those that asked - Kaho was simply traveling across Europe for an undetermined period of time. Alps, museums, and croissants were not in her future, though, and truth be told, she had always found Europe underwhelming… Kaho would have preferred her alibi to at least be somewhere she was interested in. If she was going to have to lie when she was done, she’d at least want to lie about a place she resonated with.

On New Year’s Eve, her driver quietly whisked her away from Tokyo’s towering metropolis and north into the Tochigi prefecture. Elegant, ancient mountains hid stories of times long passed, with realms of unspoiled nature sprawling as far as the eye could see. Deep in those placid hills and valleys was a collection of stucco buildings where Kaho would be staying. Sadama Treatment Center awaited.

Kaho’s escort entered first to handle the intake forms. Tinted windows kept Kaho hidden, but this place was not one for them to be concerned with wayward photographers. Gates shielded the visitors, who all commanded secrecy just like Kaho’s family. Those who were guests here were here because they could afford it and because they needed to heal out of sight. So, once the forms were ready for Kaho, she stepped out of the van and walked towards the beige building at the center of the compound.

December had robbed the foliage of its coverage, and now only barren branches peaked out from the nearby treeline. Still, it was calm. Peaks of nearby mountaintops rose over the rooflines, hinting at a natural barrier from the rest of the world. When Kaho reached the door, she extended her hand and inhaled as she entered. This year, she would seemingly be ringing in the New Year from within a monitored environment. It was not her choice, but now it was her reality. She only hoped it would pass by quickly enough.

Papers were signed. Consent forms were processed. Legally binding details were agreed to. One sign interpreter was available, so that helped. Moments later, Kaho was officially turned over to the care of those at the facility. There was no grand farewell to her escort, simply a silent bow.

Then, it was down the well-adorned hall to her private room. As Kaho walked along with her suitcase rolling behind her, she felt a sense of curiosity pull at the corners of her mind. If she was going to be here for at least thirty days, she would find ways to entertain herself. Nature was always appealing to her, and something was intriguing about the ancient mountains. Beyond that, Kaho was also noticing several displays of intentionally arranged flowers lining the hall inserts. Something about their minimalist, artistic arrangements caught her eye.

The hallway split, and her aide turned left to lead Kaho to her room. Turning the corner revealed more floral arrangements, along with a single other person, who was currently observing one of the displays.

He was young, but slightly older than Kaho. He was tall, lean, sturdy-looking, with a pensive presence and shaggy, silver-blonde hair that was currently drooping over his brow. Rolled sleeves revealed that bandages were wrapped around his left wrist and forearm. His hands were large, with strong knuckles and waiting fingers. It only slightly registered in that moment, but Kaho did think to herself that he was rather handsome, in a quiet, pensive sort of way.

As they passed one another, the young man looked up from the flowers and briefly met Kaho’s gaze. His eyes were dark hazel, lined with exhausted, unhealthy bags. But his lips were full as he smiled a soft, gentle smirk and slightly dipped his head. Kaho found herself lifting her hand for the subtlest of waves before she reached her room and entered. As her door opened, she turned back once more to glance at the tired young man, who was already walking away.

That was how Kaho first met Kurokawa Shuhei.