Chapter Text
September 2011
It was raining. The sky was dark and stuffed with charcoal marshmallows of dihydrogen oxide in its liquefying form. They say every cloud has a silver lining. It’s a lie.
Clouds are not lined with silver. Clouds don’t rain water. They rain acid. That’s the truth.
I remember sprinting down the acid-coated pavement, and the splashes rippling from the soles of my boots. I remember holding an umbrella. It was pink. Pastel pink. Our favourite colour. I remember it was 4:30 pm, and I was going home. I remember clutching, holding treasures to my bosom, books and scores and reports. I remember the freedom of having wings. Wings on my feet, on my ankles, on my arm and fingers. Yet those on my fingers had no feathers, but thin gauze, like those of a bumblebee’s. In flight. I remember having dreams, when in them I waltzed to the ¾ beat, and swung to the jazzy rhythm when the rhapsody is played. I remember being able to play, and believing in every lie they spoon fed me. I remember believing that every cloud has a silver lining.
It’s a lie. They don’t. They don’t even have a lining to begin with. They’re just carbonic acid.
I remember learning that, as I sprinted across the road to push the pink and yellow figure away from the incoming giant of a monstrosity, and feeling my body crushed beneath its tyres.
I remember seeing Fate as I lost to the dark, peeling off my wings and tearing off my fingers, with that odious smile on her face.
I remember waking up immobilised, to the exact same smile, etched onto the face of the very person I saved.
They say we’re identical.
That’s a lie.
July 2013
It’s a pain to not be able to do anything without others’ help, especially when one had to be spoon fed by one’s mom at thirteen years old, in the face of one’s twin sister who unapologetically ruined one’s life and never did nothing but cause trouble for the family.
Take-out again. Nice.
I eyed the jug of milk on Urumi’s side of the table with disgust. It was taunting mercilessly with snickers, almost. Let me add another thing to the list on the first paragraph, so that one’s sister adores milk despite one being lactose intolerant, and hateful of anything containing dairy, especially Hokkaido 2.5 milk, and butter cookies.
We just sat there, staring at each other like the other is an evil loathsome cockroach in the guise of a blonde Japanese eighth grader in pink, while our mom shut herself in the kitchen, discussing “serious business” with Uncle Genzo. He probably got into legal trouble again, given that he was what you’d call a mafia guy, and Mom a barrister. Betting one hundred that he “accidentally” chopped up some drug dealer during some trade dispute again.
Ever since the incident two years ago, Urumi and I’s relationship took a turn for the worse, with increasing bad blood among us, not that it hadn’t always been that way. She thought I didn’t notice, that stupid wretch, that she had been jealous as hell of me since the moment she came out of our mother’s womb a minute after me, screeching like a harpy. And she had a good reason to. From a young age I was famous for my musical talent, especially for my piano playing. I have always loved music, and had never ever considered anything else to be my career. The knowledge of my presence, it spread like wildfire throughout the country, and soon enough I found myself in Hope’s Peak Elementary as the L’il Ultimate Music. Urumi, on the other hand, had never really done anything spectacular. The most remarkable thing about her was probably being my twin sister, and perhaps drawing and designing crazy contraptions and fashion accessories which look questionably inappropriate, and maybe for drawing genitals all over the blackboard in her classroom for a whole month before getting caught red-handed by the principal, thus nearly getting herself expelled.
All had been fine and dandy, though, until that day, and I had always been protective, maybe too protective in retrospect, of Urumi. Her recklessness, I’d always thought, would be the death of me. And was I correct about that.
After all, it was her jaywalking arse that got me into a two-day coma, before waking to find that I could never move my limbs again.
She stole away my life and was not in the least apologetic about it. I wouldn’t be surprised if she jaywalked in the rain in front of an effing dump truck to ruin me on purpose. In fact, I’m pretty sure that was what happened.
But physical barriers could not bar Tsue Akama away from the God of Music. I might not be able to play, but I continued composing. Sonata after sonata, symphony after symphony. Miss Kaedei, my class teacher at HPE, said I might -- might -- someday be scouted by the Main Course of Hope’s Peak Academy. Many HPE alumni attend HPA in high school, but most of them only go as far as the Reserve Course. To get into the main course, you had to be one of the sixteen most talented students in your age group, for instance, my cousin Fuyuhiko and his bodyguard Peko (and might I add they’re also the most shippable but dense couple in the century. I mean, come on! Confess already!). It was one in a million. That had never been my goal though. I just wanted to create a better world through whatever my talents allow me to do.
Unlike Urumi, who practically couldn’t survive without attention.
“Tsue, Urumi,” Mom emerged from the kitchen, clutching at her chest, her breathing weak, “Your uncle called.”
“We know,” Urumi chirped. “Mom, can we eat yet? I’m hungry.”
Mom didn’t seem to be listening, and as her face paled further I noticed something was terribly wrong. I winked at Urumi. Of course, like the dunce that she was, she couldn’t even take a hint.
“Moooommmmm I huuunnngryyyyy --”
“We’re not eating,” she looked calm, but her voice was trembling. So were her hands. “Urumi, go change your clothes and pack. We’re going to the police station.”
“Why?” I asked quietly, like a ninja maneuveuring around a chandelier. I didn’t know where the simile came from. The situation was dire as I could sense it and I couldn’t think straight.
She slowly wheeled me to my room and changed me with shaking fingers. I remember what she chose for me, a white shirt, a black skirt and a pink cardigan. We remained silent for a long while, until she started packing my backpack.
“... Tsue, your cousin… Natsumi… She has been murdered. Fuyuhiko… he… he bludgeoned the killer.”
...
Ho.
Ly.
Cow.