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You are your parents’ only child. An Inumaki by birthright, by blood, and—by the marks on your mouth and tongue.
Instead of being excited for your first words, they dreaded them. If you could speak, you could command.
So they discouraged it. Your babbling was ignored. They spoke little around you. Your enrichment came from the television and the radio, and sometimes, the hushed voices discussing your fate as you tried to sleep.
This is the world you know. Creatures that no one else can see, terrified glances from the people that are supposed to love you, and a voice going to waste.
You still speak, of course. It’s a milestone you’re quite stubborn about. Babbling soon turns into recognizable syllables, which then turn into—what they dreaded most—words.
Mama. Baba. Little hands reaching out to people who wanted little to do with you.
And this, Inumaki Toge, was your life in its infancy. I’m sorry to say that they never got much kinder to you.
◦◦◦
It’s hard being silent. You’re just a child. And, like every other child in the world, you make mistakes.
Cursed speech doesn’t care if you don’t word it as a command.
“Could I have some more juice, please?”
Your nanny freezes in place, eyes bulging, before staggering to the kitchen and getting you another juicebox.
It makes her cry. It makes you cry.
And it makes your parents so angry.
“There goes another nanny! Do you know how expensive you are? Keep quiet! Nothing good comes from you opening your mouth!”
But you’re a child. You want to talk. You’re only human. It isn’t fair. Everyone else gets to do it! They get to talk, and laugh, and interact with others!
And you’re the weird kid with a facemask, who isn’t mute but might as well be.
Maybe you would’ve been better off if you were mute. That thought crosses your mind more than once—a horrible thing for a child to think. You’re just a little boy. You didn’t ask to be born this way. In fact, if you had a choice, you wouldn’t have been born this way. What kind of fate is this, being doomed to silence? What kind of childhood is it, having your own parents despise your very existence?
The marks can’t come off. You try to scrub them away. It leaves your skin red and raw, and it makes your parents even angrier with you.
And so, you accept it. You accept that you’ll never be allowed to speak freely. You accept that you’re better seen, and not heard.
◦◦◦
But you still want to communicate. You want to speak to other people—you’re human! Carrying around a notepad is so much work. By the time you manage to scribble a response, the conversation’s already moved on.
It’s not even legible, anyways. Not when you’re writing so quickly.
◦◦◦
You figure out a system eventually. It takes a lot of trial and error. A lot of whispered words to the ants in the garden. A lot of coughing, and sore throats, from successful commands.
People pay you little mind because of how quiet you are, but you’re such a smart boy, Inumaki Toge. You really are. Practicing your abilities on insects so that you don’t scare others is very thoughtful of you. They never tell you how thoughtful you are, but please know this—you’re a caring and gentle boy.
And so, so clever!
Not many people would come up with a system like you. Assigning meanings to onigiri ingredients means that you can finally, finally talk to other people. Even if they don’t understand what you mean, you get to use your voice. It’s so wonderful to speak! Your tone, paired with a few gestures and your expressive eyes, makes it so much easier for others to get the gist of what you’re trying to say.
So now, instead of being the weird mute boy, you’re the weird boy who speaks in riceball ingredients. It’s an improvement. Kind of.
◦◦◦
But your parents don’t see it as an achievement. You’re better seen, and not heard. Never heard. It doesn’t matter what you say. It doesn’t matter if your words are harmless.
You start to wear a scarf around your mouth. It muffles your words better. And it hides the bruises.
◦◦◦
At least you can hum. They can’t take that away from you. When it’s just you, and the flowers, and the insects, it’s so peaceful.
The insects don’t fear you, even though you’re so much bigger than them. It’s a pleasant change of pace. They flit around the greenery as you tend to the plants. It fills you with peace.
You don’t know it yet, but things will get better.
I promise.