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"To the shadowy visions that crawl along my peripheral sight, I offer only my sincerest condolences. You are chimeras – pitiful illusions aborted before they were ever born.
You greet me only from hiding, for you are nothing but whispers. Whispers on the verge of vanishing."
Unreal.
Empty.
Soulless.
Ridiculous lies.
Dissociation, of all sensations, should take etiquette lessons. Why? Because it loves leaving its victims utterly exposed, completely dismembered. No courtesy. Not even a “good morning.” Is this hard to grasp? Then look closely: just minutes ago, Nagisa had two hands, two arms — all limbs intact! All it took was for madam to arrive, and suddenly they were numb, blurred beyond recognition as the boy stared at them.
It is worth noting that the attempt to “anchor his gaze” is pathetically futile. Drops of cheap varnish on the worn desk wallet took on grotesque textures. — repulsive, even. Who would’ve guessed that the techniques of the former counselor, who proudly framed his certificate reading “Practices with Oppositional Defiant Adolescents — 6-hour workload,” would be crushed beneath the dissociative fog? Certainly not Hotmart.
And if they dare come again with that tired chant of “draw a house with a tree and someone living in it,” he will eat that frame without hesitation. Chew every word of that diploma. — glass and all!
Something snaps.
Not in the walls. Not in sound.
In the skin.
Focus shifts to his fingers. Thank God, they’re all there! Dehydrated joints, cuticles chewed to near ruin? Yes. But they exist. He can see them resting on the book like ancient moths.
Feeling them, however, is another matter entirely.
Nagisa tries to ground himself, searching for comfort in each rotting piece of furniture in the classroom. Unfortunately, it’s a terrible moment to have a fluorescent-yellow teacher explaining acceleration formulas with tentacles flailing everywhere. If not for the panic, he might be laughing at the “artistic abilities” splashed across the chalkboard. Was that a rocket? No. — too round. Another aircraft, perhaps? Or...
Oh.
Wait.
The lines are blurring again...
Shit.
Words pass through him like sand through a sieve. Nothing settles. Nothing sticks. For a few moments, everything is trapped behind a filthy aquarium wall. — the kind crusted with algae. His eyes sweep across his classmates, from Kayano to Karma. Despite being polar opposites, both are equally gray through that grimy film. Christ... Dissociation isn’t just rude. It’s filthy. One hell of a nuisance.
Alright. Sight is definitely not cooperating. Hearing’s worse. What about smell? The mix of cheap cologne and deodorant should snap him back, right? Instead, sawdust seeps in, likely termite debris. Seriously, how long has it been since this room was maintained? The dampness burns his nostrils. Didn’t Chiba step away last week due to fungal sinusitis? In his head, it feels like ages ago.
“No. No. No. Focus, damn it!”
Reinhabiting his own body is a torture that starts at the extremities. Nagisa compares it to that scene in Peter Pan where he stitches his shadow back onto his feet. Oddly fitting. — dissociative scenes in movies give him chills. There’s a massive difference between feeling detached and entering an illusory world. He knows he’s here. So why does his mind feel unsafe about that fact? No answer. They were all severed the day his mother discharged him from therapy, after fulfilling the court-mandated minimum. Applauses, please.
And God, his stomach hurts. Just imagining her scowl, every wrinkle drawn tight. — anxiety braids itself through his intestines.
Right. No stalling. Koro-sensei will notice if he remains frozen, staring at pages already covered in notes. That thing is always watching, ever since that half-baked sacrificial trap. If he could rewind time, he’d drag his past self to the back rows without mercy. What was he thinking, buying into that inspector’s nonsense about “small changes, big results”? His best memories are of leaning against the cold back wall, lulled into naps.
Elementary school brings nostalgia. Even suffocated by that woman’s shouting, her cold fingers would sometimes soothe him with idle strokes through his hair. Honestly, he wants to vomit at every forgiveness wrapped in gifts, hugs, and hollow promises. — yet he can’t. He envies those who leave, who boast about easy detachment. Sometimes that envy curdles into rage.
But what can he do? No one empathizes with the image of the “spoiled little boy” his mother crafted. At best, they’ll tell him to overlook the times she bites then kisses the wound. After all, sweet-and-sour builds the walls of a home… doesn’t it?
The worst part?
Nagisa misses her.
Inhaling dust had never been part of the plan. But, as stated before, that "waking" process always begins at the extremities. First comes the hideous tingling in his fingers, like limbs waking from a coma, screaming. Fortunately, the unpleasant stabs keep him alert. Gravity, however, returns at a turtle’s pace, claws dragging his insides back into place without mercy. On the bright side, he finally locates the source of the nausea.
If there is still room for shame, Nagisa dares admit that, of all methods, pain earns points for efficiency. God, he’d rather cut off his own tongue than say it out loud, but it’s true. It’s no wonder the persistent agony in his feet, frozen in the same position for who knows how long; disperses whatever remains of the fog.
With such a meager description, it sounds simple enough, right? A breath here, a shift there… Nothing major. If not for the icy sweat glued to his back, or the veins bulging as his trachea stretches, he might almost concede to the counselor’s diagnosis of “excessive daydreaming.”
Damn day to forget drawing windows on the HTP test.
When he hears the scrape of supplies being shoved into backpacks, he slams his heels against the floor. The phantom sensation still lingers, crawling far above his petrified calves. With luck, he’ll only be rewarded with cramps tomorrow morning, waking up screaming from the stretch. Ugh. — he doesn’t even want to imagine it. At least his steps don’t falter in front of Kayano, who waves gently in the hallway. He’s about to return the gesture when something sticky clings to his shoulder.
Oh hell. If they send another note to his parents…
“Whoa there, young man! One minute!” The playful voice interrupts his silent plea. “Can we have a quick word? I promise I’ll be fast! And, hey! No assassination attempts this time, okay? I’m dying to eat Centolla in Patagonia on my break time! You’re not in a rush, are you?”
To go home? Not at all.
Depending on the topic, though, he’d rather be thrown into a lion’s den.
At least his bedroom smelled of menthol disinfectant.
“N-no… well. My bus is in twenty minutes, so–”
“Oh, perfect! Let’s sit!” Without giving him even a second to wet his dry lips, they’re seated face to face at the main desk. Sometimes Nagisa forgets that Mach 20 is nothing to this creature. “I’ll be straightforward, kid! Your mother hasn’t been attending the last few meetings, and hmm, let me see…”
In the blink of an eye, three folders land in front of him. The information is so violently layered with stamped papers and authentication seals that, for a brief moment, he ignores the elephant in the room:
Hiromi Shiota.
Nagisa has never regretted not walking Kayano home as much as he does now.
“…Here! These are all the extrajudicial notices we’ve received over the last two months!”, Koro-sensei announces, still upbeat. “Looks like I poked a hornet’s nest and accidentally woke the tigers! I know the last meeting was unpleasant, but count your blessings! Karasuma volunteered to handle the next conversation! Can you believe it? He looks gruff, sure, but that brief stint as a diplomat worked wonders, trust me!”
"Airheaded" would be an unfair adjective, but Nagisa can’t find another. Not when any mental effort leaves him in tatters.
Words separate themselves from sentences, meanings, consequences. — all of Hiromi’s dated hysterics drifting apart. Honestly? Nothing new under the sun. He’s been accustomed to her legal theatrics since kindergarten, when they refused to place him in the girls’ nursery wing. If he counted how many times lawyers were summoned, he’d need at least four people’s hands.
But this time... something twists inside him, draining warmth from his limbs. His blood evacuates his cheeks, leaving them corpse-pale. Koro-sensei instantly turns cyan-blue and sticky, earning his title as the fastest creature alive by replacing the folders with a glass of water, small salt packets and—
Epinephrine?
Okay. Right. It would be funny to develop allergies from that woman’s antics.
Impossible? Never.
“Easy there, kid, you’re not in trouble!” The erratic movements of the tentacles are making him nauseous. “Come on, drink some water, breathe, put a bit of salt under your tongue and then we’ll get back to it. We’ve got plenty of time , no rush! Just, y’know… relax. Do you really think a quiet student like you is in hot water? Please! That’s Karma’s department! Especially after grabbing the fire extinguisher and—”
The attempt to distract him with rambling chatter falls on deaf ears, sinking into the Mariana Trench of consciousness. After two deep breaths, he ignores the rancid taste of the water as it cools the burning in his chest. Two breaths. Always two. Never three or four. Last time he exhaled four times in a row, the coordinator burst in announcing three non-instructional days due to a "sudden pest control emergency.”
And just when he thought there would be rest, Hiromi arrived announcing her week-long vacation. Apparently there were issues with overtime banks, unpaid leave, reasons never fully explained. Hard to process with a migraine already knocking.
Those were the most hellish seventy-two hours of his existence.
With every reason, Nagisa wants to slam his skull against the desk just to avoid these humiliating rituals. Who limits breathing to prevent catastrophe? All this just to flee from his mother’s presence? Please. What exactly does this number superstition add? Other than making him feel stupid.
Two breaths.
Two light taps with both index fingers.
He exhales three times. But at least he doesn’t touch the glass with his left hand.
Drunk Hiromi equals brains splattered on pavement.
“Sorry.” He digs the word out, immediately drawing attention. His tongue feels rough against the roof of his mouth, his voice muffled. “I… I really didn’t know, sensei. I never agreed to anything. Anything at all. She always has these episodes, you know? And then… God, this is embarrassing.”
He runs his hands through the loose strands of his bangs, hoping to hide the burning flush. His eyes sting with unshed tears, but he forces them down. No one deserves the humiliation combo.
As he regains composure, Koro-sensei tilts his head slightly, as if expecting more. It’s hard to focus on those eyes.— they’re practically two black pools.
He’s probably impatient for the cantollas, cetollas, carrots… whatever will compensate for this headache.
“My mother has a history of sending… well, all this.” He gestures faintly to the papers clinging to the tentacles. “These ‘extrajudicial notices’ are just threats. Like the last meeting. She always withdraws them after about three weeks, before her name hits public lawsuit registries. By mid-month, they—”
“Nagisa.”
The name slices through the air, sharp and abrupt, in a tone the boy has never heard. Every vertebra locks instantly, as if hearing his name alone stole the air from his lungs.
Words burn to ash, sticking to the roof of his mouth. Then they seal his throat shut.
“Kid, I’m going to be honest with you. Just as Karasuma will be if she files another accusation against the institution.” His tone softens, losing its metallic edge. “Hiromi has hired two lawyers to force a legal agreement because we denied your transfer to Class D. My presence cannot be public, Nagisa. During that meeting, I made a single exception for phone calls. And well, you know exactly why she lost our trust.”
Yes, he knows...
That cursed phone left bruises on his forearms for five days.
“In short, we’ll attempt one last conversation on Monday. Drawing attention to me is one step away from mass hysteria. We discussed this on the first day of class, remember?”, Nagisa nods, frozen. “In our defense, we have recorded all the absurd statements she made against you during the second call. Karasuma reviewed the case. — we can forward it to Child Protective Services with minimal bureaucracy. Of course, she’ll have legal representation, but… with the institution’s contacts? I doubt it’ll take more than two weeks for your father to gain custody.”
No.
No. No. No.
What the hell?!
When did she call a second time?! Wasn’t the first humiliation enough?! And, wait, since when did his father agree to anything?! He never intervened. Not once. So why now? What did they offer him? A bribe? Stability? A house of his own? For fuck’s sake, the man hasn’t visited in months. — not even a text.
There has to be some mistake. A bluff.
Child Protective Services without bureaucracy? Tell another one.
They’re probably just throwing the threats back at her, same coin, different side. Intimidation tactics. Yeah. That has to be it.
It has to be.
Damn it, Koro-sensei is getting ready to say something else. Isn’t it time to leave for Patagonia already?!
“Well… that’s a lot to take in at once, huh?” Oh, yes, that is. His pale face says it all. “But we won’t do anything without your consent, kid. Monday will be the meeting, and until the end of next week, you’ll have time to think. If she doesn’t cooperate and causes a scene, our only option will be transferring you to Class D. That would reduce stress for both sides, understand? That’s why we suggested the change of guardianship. Separating you from your class while you carry such a big secret would only make a mess of that head of yours.”
The final words come with a friendly pat on his head, fingers ruffling his blue hair — no malice, no manipulation. Just… affection? Empathy? Hard to tell. It’s not like his past experiences offer a clear reference. This thing has eight tentacles and destroyed half the Moon — and yet chose not to grab, shake, or slap his head.
Fuck.
What a humiliating sensation.
Every organ inside him seems to wilt as he realizes he prefers the “arms” of the world’s greatest threat over his own mother’s lap.
“You have real potential here, Nagisa. And honestly, I’d hate to see you spend your final year under that woman’s control.” His color shifts again, settling into a melancholic blue. “She admitted to so many atrocities against you. Barely cared whether we were recording the calls or not. It came out so naturally that I eventually concluded your mother lives in a parallel reality. Because if we, strangers, were reduced to vermin — imagine what she does to those close to her. Or rather… no need to imagine. She spelled it out herself on the call.”
God.
What horrors did she fail to keep behind her teeth?
Throwing him out in the middle of the night was the mildest punishment when she was altered. — drunk worse still.
At least the call will be on Monday. If it were today, she’d already be in handcuffs. Two cases of beer are enough to make her playful with the limits of criminal law.
“Nagisa… are you okay?”
No. He never has been.
And with his father, he never will be.
But what choice does he have? Report his parents? Taste freedom in a shelter only to die months later? He’d rather endure the hell he’s known for seventeen years than face the truth that those eight months of joy and liberty at the institution could’ve been his life. — in some distant universe. A parallel reality without dysfunctional parents, abuse, threats.
He would die knowing what it tasted like to live, and the bitterness of not having enough time.
“Yes,” he answers, barely audible. “I’ll think about it, sensei. And… I’ll try to talk to her.”
“If you manage to convince her, that would be wonderful. But... think carefully about the guardianship issue, ok? Karasuma, Bitch-sensei, and I are all here. One word, and poof! We’ll do everything we can to keep things under control.”
Only the most celestial beings know how hard it is for Nagisa not to collapse right there, knees hitting the floor, screaming through sobs. — not just to be freed from those claws, but to beg the end of the world to be postponed until he’s sick of every inch of freedom.
Selfishness is the sole engine of human action. Feeling it there. — welling in his eyes, hammering his chest — all Nagisa can do is swallow it dry. Maybe in another reality, another universe, another life, he humbled himself before the deadliest creature on Earth.
The fog, once scattered, returns thicker, grayer. As he steps into the hallway, the teacher’s farewell muffles into something distant. Not just that — the cicadas, the chatter at the bus stop, the drunk freshmen at the back of the subway car.
He is lost.
Not on the road this time, but inside his own body.
He shouldn’t have skipped touching the right side of the porch three times at six in the morning.
__________________________
Staring at the old fingerprint smudges on the window paint, Nagisa feels that somehow his six-year-old self is still there.
There’s the stain on the carpet. The childish scribbles behind the curtains. Cruel traces that lead him to the same question every time:
Why did she never get rid of them?
Every three years, Hiromi hires urban planners, architects, contractors. — every professional imaginable to renovate her refined house. Always with the same demand: do not interfere with her beloved “child’s memories.”
Nothing lucid ever comes out of her mouth. Since when do "Hiromi” and “stability” coexist? Only when the sea grows a beard and chickens brush their teeth.
To say he tried, Nagisa turned to Kayano during summer break. Naturally, he stayed quiet about the physical violence. — the punishments, deprivation, the basics. Verbal abuse is never taken seriously without broken ribs. Especially when you’re a teenager. At best, it becomes a joke in a police station.
"Oh, kids nowadays... Denoucing their poor mother who only wants to educate them."
Passing through the pantry, he notices several empty beer cans. Friday, right? Okay, maybe it’s at least three liters of liquor.
But she deserves it, doesn’t she? Worked all week. Dealt with her “daughter’s” rebellious behavior. Orchestrated a legal scandal. Now it’s time to celebrate, cry her grievances like a misunderstood child, and finally drown him in empty apologies.
The worst part?
Nagisa would always accept them.
There is nothing he hates more than this sticky compassion. Sweet at first, sour once it dries.
Maybe he’s so starved for remnants of motherhood that he feels obligated to take care of her, hoping it’ll be reciprocal. A rare event, if not impossible.
It’s hard to explain with so many contradictions, but… when her ignorant façade melts, her tears weigh on his conscience. And not featherweight, either. Tons. Years of experience have increased the load.
He humiliated himself for a lap to cry on. Sorted pills for her hangovers. All of it, only for nausea to follow. Because no kindness ever comes free.
No.
It was the inability to sever the rope tightening around his neck. Compassion, here, was not virtue — it was submission in its most refined form.
Nagisa knows this.
He always has.
The stolen air when he hears her descending the stairs proves it.
“Already home, Nagisa?”
Her slurred voice slid down the hallway, draining all warmth from the room.
“Yes, Mom…” he murmured, avoiding her gaze. She was wearing a nightgown, which meant she’d been home for at least two hours.
Fuck.
The alcohol had already spread.
“Then come upstairs. I have something to show you.” She ordered it casually, already turning back toward the second floor.
…That’s it?
Weren’t they supposed to have the meeting?
Strange.
Very strange.
“Are you going to do it or not, Nagisa?”
Ah. There it is! Finally, something familiar. Silence never suited her.
Nearly choking on the last of his water, he didn’t even consider washing the glass before heading for the stairs. He climbed in one breath, hoping to make use of whatever fragile calm still lingered.
Those moments were always brittle. Fleeting.
At least they didn’t drown his stomach in pure anxiety.
Upstairs looked as monotonous as ever, the only distortion being the cans scattered beneath the counter. Still, everything seemed to stare at him: the lime-painted walls, cold and sterile; the table dressed with thin cloths; freshly washed cutlery; and there, at the center, resting neatly on a trivet—
Lasagna?
Did his mother… cook dinner? For both of them?!
Oh, hell. She definitely has a new boyfriend. That's the only explanation! Just what he needs — introductions today of all days. Of course. Because “it’s Friday,” right? To hell with that!
“Sit down. It’ll get cold if you take too long.” Her hoarse voice snapped him out of his thoughts as she returned to the table.
Oh. They're sitting face to face.
Wait. She's actually staying for dinner? With him? Alone? Like one of those butter commercials?
There's definitely something rotten here.
“Is this… for me?” he asked cautiously. “The lasagna. Here. In the kitchen...? Is someone coming over, or—”
“No, son. Just us.” She paused. “You can get yourself a plate. I’ll wait for the alcohol to wear off a bit.” Son. She said "son", didn’t she?! “There’s rice on the stove if you want some. Just don’t overdo it, there’s ice cream too.”
Nagisa feared his mouth was hanging open like a cartoon character’s. Lasagna? Ice cream? "Son"? If there's no romantic partner involved, only three possibilities came to mind: a psychotic episode, hallucinogens… or an unplanned pregnancy.
God, let it be drugs.
The spatula weighed three times more in his wrist. The lasagna, four. He also noticed she had set the table with her finest dishes. — probably leftovers from her old marriage, since he’d never seen plates that elegant on the shelves. Usually, he ate out of plastic containers, far from the kitchen.
There was no way she’d gotten home only two hours ago.
“Mom, did you—”
"Phrase it so she doesn’t think you’re calling her a lazy slut."
“—finish your overtime today? It’s just that… I’m usually the first one home, so—”
“They let me go early. Three in the afternoon.”
“Oh. R-right.” The dryness in her tone was still there, at least. “I almost got dismissed early too. End of the term and all…”
A lie. It was only June twentieth. But, fuck, what topic was he supposed to grab onto?
Silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. If he mentioned the lawsuits… God, she’d explode.
“So,” she said casually, filling her plate. “How was school?”
The warmth drained from him instantly, leaving his body rigid, cold.
Just hearing her ask was enough to bleed him dry.
“What…?”
“School,” she repeated, naturally. “How was it? I heard they were planning a trip for summer break. With that teacher…”
Nagisa blinked rapidly, his brain racing to decode the trap hidden in her words. They came out of her mouth, but didn’t belong there. — nothing did. How was he supposed to answer? Saying "everything was fine" without mentioning the trip might sound fake. Complaining would open the door to accusations of ingratitude.
Every word was a blade. He just had to choose which edge to sink into himself.
“It w-was normal. Professor Kuro– Karasuma.” He cleared his throat, nearly choking on the slip. “They haven’t explained anything in detail yet. They’re still talking to the administration, so… I don’t really know much.”
“Oh. I see...” Her voice stayed soft. “I thought they’d asked your father for permission again. Like the last trip.”
His fingers clenched around the cutlery.
“I’m not angry,” she continued. “But Nagisa, I want my side considered too. Who’s responsible for you?”
She stopped suddenly, lips pressed thin, brows curving into an expression of concern. Real or not, it still made his heart stutter.
“I asked you something, Nagisa. Please answer.”
Of course.
It was never just a dinner between mother and son.
“You are...” he whispered, defeated.
“That’s right. It’s me. Children never belong to their fathers when things get hard, and I hope you understand that.” She rubbed her temples. “What if you ended up in the hospital? Does your father even know about our health insurance? Or your allergy to metoclopramide?”
Silence.
“I know young people lack judgment. — I was a teenager too! But I never left my mother, who sacrificed her entire life for me, crying because of negligence. Never.”
He knew exactly what she was doing. Recognized the egocentric pattern, the way she framed parental duties as martyrdom, how she blamed him for the distrust she’d nurtured since his first steps.
And yet... What good was that knowledge?
Guilt always strangled logic. Devoured awareness. Brushed its teeth with courage.
“Is it so hard to understand that when I punish you, it’s because I don’t want to see you abandoned out there?” Her voice stayed gentle. “The first time? Ok, fine, I let it slide. But the second, third, fourth…? I realized we needed to talk. Because you, Nagisa, have lost all sense of reality.”
He wanted to snap back so badly it felt like his skull might split. There had been no conversation. No second chances. No other outings beyond the first. And that soft tone. — always unstable. One moment screaming, the next coaxing.
But he stayed quiet, chewing the bitter lasagna. Swallowed every knot lodged in his throat, one by one.
The fear of losing this “maternal” version of her erased any desire to be right.
“Do you think it doesn’t hurt a mother when she’s forced to hit her own child?” Hiromi looked away, breathing deeply as tears welled. “It hurts, Nagisa. A lot. Probably twice as much as any slap you receive.”
Ah, he wanted to vomit.
“I don’t like behaving this way, but you... I don’t know! Sometimes it feels like you enjoy pushing my limits!” She cried openly. “I’ve always done everything for us! Everything! While your father was off living comfortably, I worked myself to death to give you comfort, school, food, clothes, shoes, health insurance...”
The tears were thick. But not thick enough to hide the weight of silent demand in her gaze.
“What more do you want from me, Nagisa?” she asked softly. “Because I honestly don’t know what else to do.”
Seventeen years.
Six thousand two hundred and sixty days.
One hundred and forty-seven thousand, seventy-two hours.
Wasn’t that enough time for her to know him?
He swallowed the putrid bite of dinner, wishing he’d choke on it, humiliated, framed as the ungrateful child who broke his hardworking mother.
And this time, he dared to look at her.
The impulse to spit every truth he’d swallowed throbbed violently. In his mind, he screamed. He overturned tables, named every cruelty, exposed how her love was nothing but rusted currency tossed into the well of guilt. — how she shaped him through absence, carved him through silence, trapped him in an embrace that strangled instead of protected.
And in his head, he really did.
But when he opened his mouth, no accusations came.
Only sobs.
Ugly humiliating sobs.
His hands braced against the table barely managed to muffle the sound. He wanted to scream, to tear his skin off, to turn those frustrated tears into rage. He even imagined carving her sins into his own flesh, just to see fear on her face for once.
But there was no confrontation.
No revenge.
Only the weight of being a frightened lamb before his mother.
Oh, wait.
Something grabbed him.
Warm. Rough. Poisonous.
A hug.
Hiromi held him gently, nothing like the harshness of her words. Her body radiated a tired warmth, laced with mold and alcohol. And still, it warmed him.
Nagisa finally exhaled.
His mind thrashed, screaming how “I love you” and "shackles" shared the same number of letters. He tried to break free, to sever the invisible chains of that affection...
But his body betrayed him.
Flesh always does.
Hungry, he leaned in. Accepted the touch the way one accepts poison, knowing the bitterness, craving the hallucinated sweetness on the tongue.
She ran her fingers through his long hair in a slow, almost maternal gesture.
Each movement made his chest throb with repulsion and desire intertwined. A claustrophobic sensation. — the tighter it closed around him, the more he shrank, trying to fit inside it.
“Don’t be like that, my love… It’s over now. It’s over…”
Her whispers dripped with anesthesia. For a few seconds, he allowed himself to believe they were real. That he wasn’t swallowing shards just to finally taste what it meant to have a mother.
The numbness lingered as they shared a tub of ice cream on the couch, bathed in the low lights of the living room. Her arms moved animatedly now as she laughed, reminiscing about the last time they had a moment like this, together.
It wasn’t a funny memory.
Nagisa had been scolded for five minutes straight, crying on the pavement after failing to ride his bike. The ice cream had come only to ward off the judging stares. — not to soothe a scraped knee.
But it's fine.
Her version is easier to swallow.
So when the night let go of its last thread of light, he allowed himself to smile.
“Thank you, Mom,” he whispered, rising slowly. “I’m going to take a shower and go to bed.”
“Already? But it’s not even midnight! Tomorrow’s Saturday, Nagisa. You can sleep in.”
No. He never could.
“Kayano and I planned to work on an assignment tomorrow, so… well. I can’t fall asleep at her table.”
The woman scoffed, amused. Almost cracking the shell.
“All right, then. I won’t insist on you failing academically. That would be quite contradictory after our little talk, wouldn’t it?” she said with a smile, stepping closer to hug him again.
And this time, it lingered. More intimate.
As if she wanted to contaminate him.
He felt her cold fingers wipe away a tear he hadn’t even noticed. And then, in a gesture that felt almost unreal, she kissed his cheek.
“I love you, Nagisa.”
His throat went dry. The world blurred.
He felt a knife pierce between his ribs and, for a moment, wanted to rip it out. But before he realized it, he answered in a broken voice:
“I love you too, Mom.”
Because flesh betrays.
It always does.
__________________________
The bedroom smelled like childhood, clinging to poorly buried memories. Every object seemed to watch his arrival with quiet grief, from the lamp cracked at the base to the bookshelf covered in colorful stickers.
He opened the last drawer. The one where he used to keep his dinosaurs, his toy cars…
Instead of a pterodactyl, he pulled out two liters of alcohol and several stupid blister packs of pills.
Stupid, because they had never once altered her behavior.
Now, they would be accomplices.
The burn scorched his trachea, dulled only by the roughness of the pills. It didn’t compare to the burns of the kiss or the poison of the embrace, but slowly, his body began to give in. — right beside the bookshelf.
Behind it, his drawings still ran wild. Childish scribbles: a smiling woman and a boy sprawled open, arms stretched toward the sky.
He wanted to have been that boy.
But not even in the depths of those clumsy lines had he ever existed. They had only been swallowed by the shadow of the old shelf.
There was no overwhelming guilt.
No spectacle of remorse.
Only the naked truth, heavy as lead: no salvation is possible.
Hiromi would return to her essence the moment the mandatory supervision from child services expired. He realized it when he saw the table set, like fattening cattle before the slaughter.
In the dim light, his final vision lingered on the drawings of his childhood, hidden in a narrow corner, just like he had always been.
By fallacies.
By hunger.
By guilt.
Before the first seizure, before drowning in his own saliva, he felt something run down from the place where the kiss had landed.
A tear.
Perhaps it's the same one his mother had wiped away.
Perhaps it's new, born there.
The first and the last he ever cried for himself.