Chapter Text
Satoru was bored.
He was bored of everything life had to offer him. Nothing was ever interesting or enticing enough for him. Even after moving to a new school, the prestigious Jujutsu high, everything was just the same old stuff. He knew his future was set in stone for him, that one day he’ll take over his family business as the only heir. He won’t have to worry about an uncertain future. Most people would think that as a blessing, not having to worry of what you might become, but, to Satoru, it feels more like a curse.
From the moment Satoru was born, he hadn’t known a day’s rest.
From the moment he could remember, he was thrust into a world where he had to prepare himself to become the next greatest CEO of the Gojo clan’s company, Mugen Rokumoku.
From the moment he could remember how to walk, he was already doing piano lessons, having private tutors who would teach him all sorts of knowledge, from science to math to art, and languages—he could speak German, Chinese, French, and Russian fluently by the time he was around 10 years old.
People always looked up to him. Put him on this pedestal—that he thought he was undeserving of. Parents have expressed they want their children to be like Satoru, their children adopting their parents mindset, and strive to be like him as to appease their parents. Only to one day despise Satoru as they realize they can never—even in a million years—be close to standing on the same pedestal as him. They envy him, loathe him.
But, if you ask Satoru if he wanted to be himself, he would say ‘No.’
When he was a kid—up till he was 10—he would pray to any gods that would listen to his prayers to be normal, to live a normal life where he wasn’t scrutinized every millisecond, it didn’t work. His prayers were ignored. Even when he would do good deeds to get on their good side, it was still ignored. As years went on, his faith dwindled, wavering.
When he was 10, he asked his mom, on the rare occasion they have family dinner, “Mother, am I normal?”
His mother looked at him like he’d just grown a second head, his father snorted at the question.
His mother said that, of course, he was normal. Then asked if he had hit his head on something to make him think like that.
Satoru decided not to push the topic further. Seeing as his mother’s hand was twitching, her tone layered with irritation.
Back in his room, he’d come to the conclusion that, yeah, he was normal. He was ungrateful for the things he has. He had to be normal. There was no other answer. But, the problem was deep down within his heart, he didn’t feel normal. When kids were playing outside, he was inside learning for hours on end, his back hurting, his butt aching from sitting for hours, and bored out of his mind. He was envious of the kids playing outside his window that would pass in front of his house, wanting—begging—to be like them, to join them, to be normal.
Then again, what was normal? He can’t answer, he doesn’t know. But, what he does know is that he doesn’t want to sit for hours in lessons, and play the piano—which he doesn’t even enjoy. He doesn’t want to be loathe, to be looked up to then envied. He doesn’t want to be scrutinized for everything that he does, for every mistake that he makes. He knows his mistakes, knows it makes him worthless, makes the perfect picture his family procured for him crack.
For, what is his reason to be born, except to meet his parents expectations, to be the best, to transcend above the human race. Right? At least, that’s what he’s been told by everyone around him.
Now, the question on everyone’s mind, even Satoru himself:
“Is he perfect because he’s Gojo Satoru?”
Or
“Is he Gojo Satoru because he’s perfect?”
But it wasn’t difficult to deduce that the latter was the objectively correct answer. He knew that.
Obviously, he knew that…
So, why didn't it feel right?
Maybe he’s just overreacting, overthinking things like kids always do. No need to sweat it.
When he brought his conundrum to his tutor, she gave him a reprimand of how he should feel grateful for the life he has, and how he was ungrateful for even imagining wanting more. She nagged till the end of their lesson.
Then, she tattletales on him to his parents. Satoru was lectured by his father about the same thing his tutor told him. With the added comment of how everything he’s doing now is to prepare him to take over the family’s company in the future. Though, Satoru didn’t understand. Why did he have to suffer for something he didn’t want?
When he’d asked his father that, he slapped him, hard enough to leave a hand-print for days. And, out of the corner of his eyes, he could see his mother curled up in the corner, weeping, muttering to herself.
“Look what you’ve done to your mother, you made her go mad.” his father said.
Satoru could feel a sob coming, his eyes stinging, his throat drying. He couldn’t utter a single response. That offered him another hard slap from his father, flinging him out of his chair, hitting his side onto the floor.
“I-I’m sorr–” he choked out.
His father cut him off, “Don’t ever ask stupid questions like that again, and don’t cry. It makes you weak. Got it?” he demanded.
Satoru nodded.
“Go back to your room.”
Satoru hastily got up, and walk-run out of the room.
Once in his room, Satoru glances to his mirror, his puffy red eyes, tears rolling down his cheek, and onto the floor. His cheek throbbing from the red mark in the shape of his father’s hand, littering his pale, white skin.
That night, he came to a realization—clear, certain, and undeniable—he was—has always been—normal. He should be grateful. He had everything he needed and ought to be proud of his family for giving him everything he wanted. So, he should act like it. Right?
Well, all of it won’t matter anyway. He was tired of life—more specifically bored. So, maybe he shouldn’t be mulling too much on things that don’t matter. Maybe, he’s just overthinking his existence because he has nothing else to think about. It happens from time to time.