Chapter Text
His conduction was stable, as far as distant beeps rang; a constant drumming as comforting as the rattle of a snake putting a baby to bed.
“You motherfucker, what the hell? What the fuck. What are you doing? If you hear me, then you’re not fighting hard enough. You need to do more,”
Faster, in reply, ringing loud but short on ears.
“And open your eyes,”
Heaving sobs from a nameless voice, laden with anger.
A mask puffed up with humid breath, and the tap of a single finger made a chair topple to the floor. A chanted plea without any one sense.
“And face me,”
A warbling intake of breath, like the air filled with debris.
“Like a goddamn man,”
A finger, a tap, a salty racing track.
“Ivan.”
I have heard every word and have lived every fleeting dream of my life inside the confines of my mind. My name which I know, Ivan. My heart which I no longer know, I still call by the same name.
I hate one thing. And it is not myself, because I am not to blame, and I have never been to blame. All I am is circumstance.
Sense of time is fleeting, but his gentle words remind me of threats and pleading in tongues. A construct that was vague but sure. From when I was born until I died, I wished it would end. My mind has given up, and it wills my body to follow.
It always has.
There is this familiar voice, now, both tender and passionate, needing and wanting. But I no longer understand any muffled askance behind the wall.
This force, that keeps me, slowly lessens.
I wait for a long time, but my mind is a familiar and boring place that I have known for years on end.
Then, suddenly, I can hear, see color, relive once more those things that brought me joy, unbridled. The last thing is comfort, and my mother wraps me in her safe blanket.
I feel everything at once. I am sprawled and heaving, and my eyes focus nauseatingly on the soft pallets of flowers. Rain patters, hitting my nape, caressing my exposed skin like a hoard of angry wasps—to my hands, to my bare feet— and the ground touches me too, unavoidably.
It’s been so long that I’ve felt any sensation at all.
So long spent only with words and concepts, I can do nothing but tremble in the wake of something beyond my normal dimensions.
My head is pounding and my thoughts scare me; my words aren’t forming as they usually do. The pattern of repetition is now broken. There is a stranger in my brain, and I am that stranger.
I whisper something, unheard by myself, and the sandy slabs of tan don’t beck my call, either. Instead, a hand is on my back, probing.
Tapping.
“Chisaki! Get up, child, what’s wrong with you?”
Language is a concept. Language is the structure defining what we can put out and give, think, feel, know and understand. Something tells me that the words I’m hearing are not for my ears, and yet I understand.
It feels vile and intrusive— something I should not hear and yet I do. Something I should not know and yet I know. This fact is what makes me realize that in this moment, I am something wrong and ill-fitted.
“Don’t speak! No, don’t, I heard it and know, I’m speaking now! I’m speaking! Stop!” My words fumble without a guide, without mind. I cannot tell what language I am speaking. As my body wriggles under an incredible force, even the words in my head become incomprehensible. I scream, and it is the only thing that makes sense.
I scream, but my eyes still see, and past my vibrating jaw bones hear something other than me. The other sounds should go away! Tucked underneath my skin, something comes apart.
When I come to, at last hearing the insanity in my voice, my eyes are still shut, my body completely still. I tap the pointer finger of my right hand. I tap my middle to the sheets, then the ring finger, my pinkie, and then swipe my thumb against warm cotton. I inhale, and open my eyes.
The ceiling above is strange. I do not pay it mind, because what calls louder than anything is hearty laughter and trees, and bears. “Before you say anything, I know you are there.” My words fill the almost silence, a smile gracing my lips. “It’s my fauIt. I’m sorry.”
But I have done not one thing wrong, and I wish for you to beg my forgiveness, and then maybe I will act hesitant at first, then accept you wholeheartedly, to show you that I am willing to forgive someone who makes mistakes.
“That’s all you have wanted. For so long. My word.” My hands bundle the coolness to my skin.
I’ve never believed in golden years. My twenties have left me much to think, though not nearly enough time to slip into the mindset of an adult. If my heart and self have solidified now, I am like an old dog with only tricks and am content to remain as I always have.
I had friends during my childhood, but now no one wants to play pretend with me. Ten years have passed me by, and I’ve been floating for longer than we used to hunt rabbits. But I am awake, and I will see this through.
I crane my neck up.
A man with blood on his face and robes wrapped around his regal figure. A visage that sees through me, but an unknown.
To me, there could be no worse horror than the thought that the crazed voice keeping me above the surface was just a figment of hope and guilt come to life to humor myself, keep myself sane.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and I feel it as my breath rises in my chest and sabotages me. I am frozen as I stare at his unmoving expression— my eyes don’t even dare wander.
“Please.” I beg and don’t ever hear it; can’t.
Without reason and only with unreliable instinct— nothing to see of anything I know, I jump to the worst. I am going to be tortured. I am going to be raped. I am never going to escape. I will feel everything, and there will be no dark corner in which I can hide.
I awoke and you were not there. I thought I would be in heaven, at your side or not.
“Chisaki. I need you to calm down. I will not hurt you.” The man speaks at last, and his body spreads open just a bit more, as if to invite the eye to settle.
“Calm down.” I repeat. “You won’t hurt me? How could you say that?” My voice wobbles, and I sit up, switching my gaze to his left eye, and focusing there.
His eyes are clear like a youth's, but the rest of his appearance shows his age. Like an odd human, or something pretending. So I take in just enough breath, forcing my shaking heart not to make too much noise in the release of air. Tears trickle down my face, and snot makes my nose feel wet. “Please don’t. Don’t hurt me.”
I feel like it’s the only thing I can say. I feel as if I am a human in an alien's body waiting to be probed. It’s everything to do with the sickness in my stomach and the trigger in my blood that will burst if I urge it. It’s everything to do with a missing presence. I know innately that it’s dangerous. The lack and having— even my lungs take in air wrong.
Without realizing it, my head has bowed to watch my shadow take up space on the covers. My hands are sweaty, and I scrutinize them to some avail. They are small. My skin is maybe too pale or too dark. Too much is something, and my breaths slow. I know my hands are strange, so now I know that I am strange, and there is relief.
"Boy," I look up again. His hair is gray and slicked back, eyebrows heavy-set on his face and gaze heady.
I don’t answer and wait for him to continue.
He stands, and I almost suspect the blood on his face to be his own, until he rises too smoothly. He looks down at me, yet right at me, absolute. “You will be okay.” And then he walks away.
Willingly, I lean back into comfort. I relax entirely and close my eyes to see the dark. His footsteps last but a second as they leave the confines of the room, and his glide light as a child’s.
When I wake once more, it is to numbness. There are women surrounding me, and a few men in robes, posted like guards.
“Good evening, young master.” The dulcet tones of spring carry softly, voice like a bell. She is an other just as the old man was; hair a pastel pink, eyes bloodshot, lined with red and filled with a pool of warmth about to spill.
“Who are you?” I dare to ask. She answers softly, every word clear— as if I am unable.
“My name is Nana, that’s what you can call me. I am here to observe your condition, and heal you if need be.” She gestures to the other women. “They are here to care for you as well, but you don’t need to bother knowing their names. They will not bother you.”
Her words bring me only unease, the baritone in my head is still loud and wry, still begging, still threatening. “Those men.” I say aloud, twitching harshly at the sound of my voice. I look around frantically for just a moment, looking for the source that made that sound.
“They are for your safety, young Master.”
“For me?”
“To ensure it.”
My eyes dart from thing to thing, then come to linger on the bobbed healer with red eyes.
“Where is this? Why do you look strange? Who am I?”
I know who I am. So who is this, that I am in?
She doesn't answer so soon, so he fills the silence with fingernails of skin, scratching an itch.
She huffs, just a bit. “This place is where the Yakuza reside. This room is for you to recover. Those people are for your sake. I look normal, just as everyone else in this room does.”
She pauses, and reaches out for him slowly. He lets her reach until her hand is on his wrist pulling it to her face and letting his hand rest on her warm cheek. “Would you like to tell me who you are, Kai Chisaki?”
“No. You are not normal.” I accuse, a shaky arm pointed straight at her. She is nothing like I have ever seen. I don’t wish to acknowledge that the others in this room are just the same. That would mean the arm outstretched to point in horror at difference might be a bearer of such other as well. The only reason I can feel it, know it with conviction, is because of this feeling under my skin. Crawling.
“This isn’t real. I never fell asleep.” My hope squeezes at my chest. My hand, still resting on soft rosy flesh, nuzzles deeper, nails digging, dragging down the skin beneath the other's eye to expose its red. Everyone had skin you could pull pack to expose the bare extremities of life.
A little girl might stare into the mirror and pull up her eyelids to see what’s underneath. She might ask, “Why is it red?” The innocence of that is not endearing. In the pursuit to answer that question, one might stand beside her in the mirror, and pull up their eyelid as well, saying, “Look, mine's red too.”
I wonder, why is it red? My nails go further, and I look at her. She is still, her expression perfectly blank, save the other half that I twist. I look only a second longer and let my hand drop softly.
Under my nails there is blood, on her, is nothing. Astonished, I inch my face closer to hers. Her skin is unflustered, her eyes the same disgusting.
I clench my fists to contain the uncomfortable feeling of oily blood dripping down my fingers. “I’m sorry.” The words taste stale.
“Yes, young master.” She says. Is it a taunt, a snide jab? Agreeing so complacently, yet not accepting the apology.
“I’m hungry.”
The food is unpleasant, if only because I’m unaccustomed to it. But I am still fed. I can walk without issue, and speak without issue. I can sleep dreamlessly. That’s maybe the worst part. The fact that I haven’t been able to dream.
I was content with routine before, but surely this displacement must be targeted for a person as content as me, the person content to rot in bed, the one who sees no difference between that, and death. As I chew, the taste is so refined and unusual that I even miss the watery hospital jello and mashed potatoes.
I’ve always been someone to care less about my health and more about taste—despite my condition, or perhaps even because of it. I used to sneak around the house, scared of being yelled at for causing disturbance and getting in the way of others if I tried to make a meal.
The easier solution was always just to consume the pure condiments. Even sugar on bread was enough. There was something nice about scavenging for what little you could get.
Sometimes, now, when I’m eating something as odd as fish and soup in the morning, I’ll think things like— what kind of breakfast food is this? But my hands will move and my tastebuds, or his tastebuds, will like what they will. The thought of that—the thought of anything really, will make me phase out of my body as if I weren’t there, and I’ll question everything.
Then I’ll stop and continue eating. There are questions I want answered, and there are questions that truly have no point in asking. It’s hard sometimes to pinpoint the difference.
I clear my throat, and push away my half-eaten dish and chopsticks, feeling a drop in my stomach. “Nana.”
Seemingly at my beck and call, Nana sashays her way to my side from someplace I can’t see, and kneels obediently. “Young master.”
She greets me like that, as if she has all the answers. I don’t want to rely on her, and I don’t want to trust her. But to live, I’ve had no choice but to eat her home-cooked meals. It should be simple to extend that courtesy of trust in the hands that made it. But just because I’m relying on her and these strangers to live, doesn’t mean it’s them I want to live off of. You can feed a dog and still kick it.
A bit hesitantly, I glance at the top of her head and back to my unfinished food, which I feel a bit of shame for, but it’s a different culture, and a place I feel no responsibility for. It takes me a minute before I can really speak, but she stays eerily still. “Why… are you and all of those women nursing me back to health, when I feel perfectly healthy?”
Quickly, she responds. “You might feel that you’re in good health, but the reality is, you don’t even know yourself at this moment, do you?” At the last couple of words, her red-shot eyes meet mine.
Quickly, I look away, more on the tip of my tongue. “I do. I know myself enough to know that this is… this is wrong. I don’t know what all of you want with me, but wouldn’t it be better to just… get it over with?”
“Get what over with, exactly?” She raises an eyebrow. Her expression is always so carefully neutral that the gesture feels purposefully taunting. Sometimes it's like she’s talking to a child who knows nothing. I hate the thought that It might be for good reason. Maybe–she really does know better than me.
“Tell me what you want with me.” I say it flatly— knowing if I give away emotion, I might be taken less seriously.
“Haha—that’s gold.” Nana Laughs bitterly.
“What?” I jerk my head up, startled.
She smiles like whatever’s so funny is insider information.
“It’s nothing, but I’ll answer your question.” Nana smiles at me funnily. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“If that’s true, then who does?” I question, taken aback by her odd response.
With her constant deflections, I feel the first spark of anger well up inside my chest, since the first time I opened my eyes as another.
“Why can’t you just speak plainly? What place,” I take a shuddering breath and look her dead in the eyes. “What place does a child have in a crime syndicate?”