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If there was one thing that influenced Kiyoomi for most of his life, it was the horrifying death of his older sister.
He was only six. He was actually a “normal” kid back then- his whole family had been considered “normal” people, if society was to be believed with their definition of the word when applied to people. But his mother… she was a bit strange. He wouldn’t know what the little white pills in orange bottles were until years later, when he’d finally learn how many times they’ve kept his mom from breaking down, from screaming, from doing whatever the problem had been trying to solve in the first place. They never did solve the problem….
His sister, she was eight years older than him. Even with the age gap, they were close. They shared the same black hair, even though her eyes were a warm brown rather than the soulless black he’s heard many describe his as once he started high school.
She was what one could say, rebellious. And one day, the behavior seemed to snap something in their mother. She’d been snarky to their mother while she walked down the hallway to the stairs to leave at school, Kiyoomi trotting behind her. He doesn’t remember the exact words, but all of a sudden, the yelling had grown louder, the topic changing. Kiyoomi had been pushed away from his sister, his sister pushed away from him-
And unlike him, landing safely on his bum, she screamed as she fell down the stairs, the sound abruptly stopping. There was a short, loud crack. So fast, he almost didn’t process it, his busy mind already too busy registering the fact that her sister disappeared over the edge of the staircase.
Their mother, she stood at the top of the stairs. Then she looked at Kiyoomi with a strange look in her eyes.
“You’re sister has decided to take a very long nap” she said without a flash of emotion in her voice. She said it as if Kiyoomi hadn’t learned of death from his sister. “Please make sure her eyes are closed.” Then she walked back down the hall, to the direction of his parents bedroom, the door closing as if this were any other day.
And he looked over the stairs, at the still body at the foot of it, the splayed black hair, the unblinking open eyes that look like the glass eyes in his stuffed animals. He quietly walked down the stairs and closed her eyes. He didn’t cry. He never cries. Not when his mother moved his sister’s body to her room, head tilting unnaturally, position her as if she died in her sloop. Not even when his father came home from work, saw his sister to call her down for dinner, and immediately deduced part of what happened. Not when he and his mom fought not even five minutes later. Not even when the police came and took her away. Not even when Kiyoomi was sent away a year later to live with his cousin Komori after his father feel down a tunnel of madness and had to be sent to a mental facility.
No, he’ll never cry.