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Floor Eight.
High enough up that a glance outside could give them a false impression of the weather—if a cloud passed by the window, for example, and took on the mighty visage of a heavy fog that blanketed the town. That was, of course, if its plans weren’t so readily foiled by weather reports and plain common sense.
The permanency of the clouds wasn’t consistent, either; for that much at least, Katsuragi was grateful. The false fog had a way of occluding his view of the evening sky whenever it did linger. The likes of Orion’s belt, Aquila or Cassiopeia were coveted by an evening haze, holding them hostage from his line of sight.
This was one such night, as unfortunate as it was. Even the shine of the moonlight was choked by a thick blanket of clouds. Eventually, the simplicity of the cool evening breeze just wasn’t enough to keep the boy outside. He’d gauged more than enough respite to get back to work; the sink wasn’t just going to empty itself, after all. Taking one final whiff of the open air, Maki slid the screen door shut. Pupils fixated on no one thing—on a few various things, really, that required his attention next. Mom’s plans needed to be within her line of sight the next morning, the floor needs to be swept free of the dried rice littering across it, and . . .
Drawing his attention as it bobbed and reared its head, up and down, up and down—the bobblehead boar.
Perched atop a fine mahogany finish, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy it; he'd grimace. The boar stood atop a throne of 30,000 yen, the value peeking out hauntingly from within a small manila envelope.
He felt a twist in his stomach. The sort that held him hostage in his place, no matter how much he wished to shift towards it. Oh, how his mind went rampant in imagining that manila envelope of money swept right from the boar’s greedy feet! How he would spare much of it for a rainy day, how it was more than enough to fund that kotatsu that his mother would always pine over ever since she passed by it in the store—oh, how wonderful it would be if that bobblehead boar didn’t always perch atop it, rendering it useless to them.
Maki took a step forward. He’d immediately retract with the skip of his heartbeat, however, with the incriminating squeak of the floorboard before him.
The boar nodded.
He exhaled, stepping forth again.
He could envision it, even though he wasn’t there. A frail, slender, trembling hand pursing open the envelope while the other mournfully parted with what it rightfully earned. A manila envelope surrendered, left in plain sight. A sacrifice, really; a peace offering that, they’d always pray, kept the storm at bay. Maki found his every step towards the bobblehead boar feeling heavier. He felt instinct tugging at him to turn back and recoil. He felt himself bracing for the stinging pain of consequence.
And yet, the bobblehead boar bobbed back and forth rampantly. Tauntingly.
Nestled between his fingers was the envelope. Simply holding it made his stomach churn. He could see his father’s sickening smirk as he turned and sauntered off, the bobblehead boar’s throne stuffed into his pockets. He was trembling while the envelope sat interlaced within his fingers.
He didn’t know why.
He didn’t know why he still trembled at the thought of the man, or his smile;
He didn't know why the mere prospect of doing what he would do, even if it was as insignificant as holding an envelope, made him want to cry;
He didn’t know why the bobblehead boar kept on bobbing to and fro;
He didn’t know why his mother would always perch the money below it;
He didn’t know why she still did, even after she so insistently told him that his father wouldn’t find them again.
All he knew was that he . . . perhaps, he could protect it this time. Maki craned his neck to the side. There had to be a spot around here; a spot that an envelope could remain undetected. Unsuspected.
The gentle hum of the air conditioner overhead would fill the otherwise silent apartment. His eyes widened at the chance encounter and, near-frantically, Maki dug through the drawers to find a roll of packing tape. He made quick work of tearing a decently small shred from it, which he stuck onto the envelope.
The bobblehead boar watched intently as the boy flipped the lid of the overhead conditioner, standing on his toes and taping its paper throne to the inside of the flap.
He bit his lip, and he held his breath, only until he was certain of its security; then, his palms pressed the air conditioner's flap gently shut.
He prayed that, perhaps this time around, he was only being paranoid.