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I always knew not to get attached. It was a bad idea. Mori made sure to remind me as well. He couldn’t bear the thought of his beloved little Demon Prodigy being human. Not that I ever was. I’m sure of it. Mori isn’t stupid nor idiotic. If he were that old man wouldn’t be the Port Mafia boss. Nor would I stick beside him if it were the case. Even with all his… eccentricities, he is still my boss, and reliable… most of the time. So long as that little brat Elise isn’t in the equation.
I know many things. And I know those many things incredibly well. So well they are all second nature. The lack of attachments being what I am most proficient in. What I was most proficient in. Until him. Sakunosuke Oda. Odasaku. A nickname. A non-malicious nickname that he lovingly let me use for him. One that I couldn’t shake from using even when talking about him to other people. Even just that detail. I talked about him to others. At first I had wondered what was wrong with me. Then I didn’t. I’d spend nights awake confused and annoyed at myself in that dingy container I’d never once complained about before. I’d felt. And then I kept feeling. And then I started complaining. And then those nights turned into cozy little nights in Oda’s apartment. Not in my shipping container. At home.
One dumb little happening of meeting a man in a bar I shouldn’t have been at legally speaking, and it lead to an attachment. One that I was happy about. I was happy. That dumb idiot wormed his way into my heart. A heart I had long believed was dead and empty. Yet he forced his way in and made himself right at home in the deepest crevice that I couldn’t tear him from. And I accepted it. Let him make his way in. Get comfortable.
And then I wondered why it hurt when he was forcible ripped out of his spot. His spot. In my heart. Because that’s what it was. He was supposed to be there. Right there. He fit so well. He completed me. And then he was taken from me. Like a perpetually bleeding wound. He was ripped from his home. And my home was ripped from me.
My home.
Mine.
He was the one thing I could call mine.
The one thing I could’ve been selfish about.
And now he’s gone.
Sitting at a grave doesn’t feel right. Doesn’t feel like his arms did.
That’s where I should be.
He always reprimanded me for any mentions of suicide or even attempts of it. He’s such a dad. Was always such a dad. Till he wasn’t. But he should’ve known… Had to have known that him dying would’ve made me want to follow him. I would’ve followed him to the end of the Earth. And now I can’t. Tears are such a rare thing to fall from my eyes that I often find myself wondering if they’re really his instead of mine. Because maybe then I could reason that even if he wasn’t in his rightful place in my heart anymore, the rest of him was still somewhere in me. Even if it’s his tears.
Even if I’m wrong.
My eyes are heavy. Last I remembered I was at his grave. Now I’m not there. I don’t quite remember where I am. Maybe if I close my eyes they won’t open again. Then I’ll see him again.
Yeah.
That might be nice.
One long nap.
One big dream.
Even if it’s a bit early.
6:48pm is a good enough time to sleep; that was what he called bedtime. Ha, guess he was right. I am just one big kid.