Chapter Text
“Amamiya!” Arisato-san yells through the house, her loud, gravely voice filling the silence of my borrowed room. I can hear other kids outside my door. Hushed whispers and “ooos” bounce around the walls, like they think I’m deaf, too. Or maybe just stupid. It’s probably that.
I quickly gather my whiteboard and marker, already writing down a quick “Yes?” as I slink down to the kitchen, my steps quiet and undetectable. Her bony frame greets me, annoyance burning in her sunken, grey eyes. Her hair is greasy and unkempt; she’s wearing an old, dingy shirt that hangs loosely off her shoulders and reads “foster moms save lives” in English. Familiar, unwelcome feelings sink in my stomach at the sight; the feeling is oddly nostalgic. It's like I’m right back where I started. It makes me want to puke.
The only reason the Japanese government allows her to foster is that when they come around to assess the state of things, she bribes the kids with money and makes her house presentable to the social workers. Her husband is not much better, actively going out of his way to make my life miserable. All he does is sit on his butt and drink alcohol all day.
“Somehow,” she starts, “you have managed to be at the top of your class and outperform everyone else on tests. I don’t know how you managed that, given your… challenges, but oh well. Anyways, Gekkoukan High School wants you to begin studying there as a first-year student. You will move into the dorms starting next semester.” Her voice is annoyed and distant, scratchy, and reeks of years of smoking. I begin writing as she stares at me with destain.
“ I appreciate the opportunity, ma’am. I will do my best there as I do here. It is located in Iwatodai, correct?” my message reads, attempting to be polite. She takes a moment before nodding and shooing me away. There’s now only hushed whispers following me; gossip is the only thing these people care about. My mind dangerously wanders to my parents. Their cold indifference to my fate as I was dragged to waste away in foster care, free from them but shackled to another.
As I pass through the halls, the whispers die down, stopping when I get to the stairs. One of the kids, Nastuya Shio, a large kid whose sole goal in life is picking on me, stands before me, a slimy grin plastered on his disgusting face. Fantastic. He leans towards me, his large frame leaving footprints of sweat on the floor.
“Hey, Amamiya ,” he spits, pronouncing every syllable of my last name mockingly, “What did Aristo-san say, huh? I bet they are finally rehoming you again. What is this, like the eleventh time?” I don’t write anything, and I tighten my grip on my board. If I start writing, Shio is going to steal and break my one mode of communication with my foster home, and then I’ll be the one getting in trouble. So, instead, I slowly back away, standing on the balls of my feet to silence any sound from my steps. “What, worried about a few more bruises on that perfect face of yours?” He sneers as he takes a large step forward.
When he throws his large fist at me, I duck under him, racing up the stairs to my tiny box of a room. A curse flies from his mouth as I kick the back of his leg with all the force I can muster, and at least 90 kilograms come crashing to the ground. Or at least he should be when he stops in midair. The house stands silent for what seems like an eternity; a deafening silence in place of the residents. Then my eyes land on it.
Tongues of bright blue fire shine before just past Shio, their light illuminating the whole house. Then, from it, the outline of a person with a burning red, near evil-looking smile. Right as the light dims, I see myself, though I appear to be about five or six years older and with piercing yellow eyes. I look free, like all my troubles have disintegrated from my life. What the heck is that? Was that me? Am I going insane?
I stand there, dazed, until I hear a loud thunk behind me, knocking me out of my surprise. I make it to my room at the end of the hall safely, locking the door shut as soon as I set foot in it. My room is simple: a bunked bed with sheets- the kid I was supposed to be rooming with left right before I moved in, pretty sure his name was Akechi or something- boring beige walls and a window. On my bed, there’s my only real possession, a small black cat plush named Akira that I have had since childhood. He’s stained with alcohol from my dad using it as a napkin a few times, but otherwise in good condition.
After a few hours, I slink out of my room towards the bathroom, my change of clothes in hand. Uncanny tiredness pulls at my eyes as I make my way through the hall, watching for Shio or any other kids who tease me. My thick glasses fall off my nose from the number of times I turn my head and squint through the darkness. The large grandfather clock read 11:50. Great, now I have to deal with that weird green hour, too. Just my freaking luck.
My night clothes are simple: a very large, tattered shirt that my dad gave to me and random shorts. My black, curly hair is messy, and my eyes are glazed over from exhaustion. Suddenly, the light turns a sickly lime green, and the water I’m rinsing my face off with turns blood red. I give a long sigh before returning to my room, ignoring everything wrong with the world currently. I tuck myself into my bunk, waiting with anticipation for what my mind might conjure up for me tonight.
A different dream greets me tonight. I’m in a jail cell, with blinding blue lights shining into my eyes. There’s a heavy weight on my wrists and ankles—are those chains? I’m wearing prisoner garbs that fit far too big on me—they look like they were made for a teenager. As I begin to look around, my eyes land on the center of the circular room.
A balding man, hunched over and resting his long, pointy nose on lanky fingers, sits at a large wooden desk. He has a crooked smile on his face that sends chills down my spine, with round, veiny eyes that protrude from his skull. Beside him stands a long, spindly man with sickly greyish skin, bright blond hair, and orange-yellow eyes. He is wearing a police-blue suit with a tag that I cannot make out without my glasses; he has a police cap on his head with an emblem etched in the center.
Sweat drips down my face as anxiety knots in my stomach. As I begin to move to the bars of my cell, I notice I cannot move my legs. The chains that they put on me are attached to a large iron ball.
“Trickster… welcome to my Velvet Room,” the man in the middle says. His voice is deep and raspy. A smile just a bit too wide creeps onto his face, crooked and wrong. Alarm bells sound in my head, screaming that something is wrong here.
“The master has spoken to you; we expect a reply!” The man next to him exclaims, his voice is deep yet has an effeminate edge to it.
“Now, now, do forgive him, child. I am delighted to meet you. This place exists between dream and reality, mind and matter.” What the heck is happening? Where am I? “I am Igor, the master of this room. This is my assistant, Thomas; he resides here like myself. However, that is not of importance right now. I must tell you of important matters of life and death.”
This is too much; this dream is too real . “Let me out!” I attempt to yell, but no sound ever leaves my lips. Instead, he just chuckles, amusement evident.
“It seems your voice still eludes you, young one. I look forward to your continued growth , Trickster. However, it seems as though your body, in reality, is waking up. Until we meet again.”