Chapter Text
Niragi never thought his life would end like this. Not in a shootout, not in an expensive car accident, not at the hands of a business rival. But in a stinking detention center, where a chilly Tokyo wind blows through the bars, and sitting in front of him is a cop with the face of a man who doesn't give a shit about anything alive.
— You need a mental hospital, you freak. — the cop said, not even looking at him, flipping through papers.
Niragi didn't answer, although he really wanted to say: "Go fuck yourself, pig." He clenched his jaw so hard his cheekbones cracked. Kept quiet. Because if he opened his mouth now — they wouldn't just send him to the nuthouse, they'd put him in solitary at the detention center, and then still to the nuthouse, but broken.
He looked at his hands folded on the table. Beautiful hands. Well-groomed. His expensive watch had been gone for a week — they took it when he was arrested. And right before his eyes, his life was falling the fuck apart.
Why? The fuck knows. Well, he hit a prostitute a couple of times. Well, that's what she's a whore for, she takes money — she endures. Well, he threatened someone over business... but he never actually did anything! Words are just words. But the pigs dug through his affairs, found some old sins, and here's the result — a psychiatric institution.
Fuck.
Niragi sighed and lowered his head. Ashamed? Yes. But not for what he did. Ashamed that he got caught so stupidly.
---
Arisu didn't understand.
That was the main feeling in his life. Or not a feeling. He didn't really understand what feelings were. People around him were always feeling something — anger, joy, resentment. And he just... existed. Like a fish in an aquarium. He looked at the world through glass, but the glass was murky, and the fish didn't give a shit.
At school, they pointed fingers. Insulted him. Shoved him in the hallway. But they didn't hit him. Or did they? Arisu couldn't say for sure. He didn't feel pain. Well, physically he understood it was pain, but his brain seemed to turn off that signal, made it quieter than the sound of a fan in an old computer.
Even his brother. God, that bastard. His own brother, who was supposed to protect him, never missed a chance to snicker when Arisu froze in the middle of the room because the light bulb was flickering at the wrong frequency. His father? His father didn't give a shit. His father didn't even notice his existence as long as Arisu didn't bother him watching TV.
Today, something snapped.
Arisu stood in the kitchen and looked at the knife. His brother had sharpened it recently — Arisu remembered the disgusting screech of metal on stone, which made his teeth ache. The knife gleamed. Beautiful.
He took it and went to the bathroom.
Turned on the hot water. Steam filled the room, droplets settled on the mirror, erasing his reflection. Arisu rubbed his arm with a washcloth. Hard. Thoroughly. Until scratches, until red stripes, until the point where the skin starts to burn. But he didn't feel it. He just watched the color change.
Then he took the knife.
Stuck it into the crook of his elbow.
Not sharply. Slowly. Like into butter.
Blood ran down his arm. Warm. Arisu watched it, fascinated, like a child watching a New Year's garland. Beautiful. Very beautiful. Red on white skin. He wanted to drag it from the entry point to his wrist, open his whole arm, see what was inside.
The door swung open.
— Are you crazy?!
Father. Standing in the doorway, eyes bulging. Grabbed the knife. Arisu hadn't even been holding it tight — he just let it be taken.
Blood dripped onto the tiles. Onto the sink. Onto the floor. Arisu watched it and said nothing. His head was empty.
Father yelled. Something about shame, about the hospital, about how he always knew his son was a retard. The words hit his ears, but Arisu didn't listen. He heard the volume. Father's screams were too loud. They caused pain. Physical. Real. Not like the knife, but like an electric shock to the eardrums.
He covered his ears. Squeezed his eyes shut. Curled into a ball right on the floor, in a puddle of his own blood. Started shaking.
Then something broke. Arisu screamed back. Not words — just sound. High-pitched, vibrating, animalistic. He wasn't controlling it. His body decided on its own.
Father recoiled.
Then came the ambulance. Shots. White ceiling. Strangers' hands.
Then Arisu stood at the entrance to a psychiatric institution. The building was old, grey, with bars on the windows. Inside, it smelled like every place with lots of people and little money smells — of medicine, sweat, despair.
— Well, you're fucked, bro. — his brother said.
Arisu looked at him. There was no pity in his voice. Nothing. Emptiness. As always.
— Father will be happy. He hopes you're here for a long time.
Arisu was silent. He examined the room. Screams somewhere in the distance. Tiles on the floor — little squares, they formed a pattern if you looked at a certain angle. Interesting.
They reached his room. Someone was already there. A guy about his age or a little older, with a pale face and empty eyes. He sat on the bed and stared at the wall.
— This is Angi. — the nurse said indifferently. — You'll be with him.
Arisu got scared. Real, animal fear twisted his stomach. A stranger. In the same room. He backed away, but his brother pushed him forward and left without even looking back.
—
Five days in isolation is fucking hell even by Niragi's standards.
He didn't think he was capable of going crazy from boredom and rage, but these five days proved otherwise. White walls. A bed bolted to the floor. A door with a peephole someone looked through every fifteen minutes. Shots. Pills. Questions you couldn't answer truthfully, because the truth meant nothing here.
On the fifth day, he was transferred to a ward.
General. Four beds. Three roommates — an old man who talked to the TV, though there was no TV in the room; a guy with bandaged wrists who cried all the time; and a silent type who just lay face to the wall and didn't move.
Niragi chose the bed by the window. Looked at the bars. Sighed.
Morning started like shit. Woken up at six, though he'd fallen asleep at three because the old man's howling kept him awake. Taken to the cafeteria. Niragi trailed last — why rush, nowhere to go anyway.
He took a tray. Porridge. God, I hate porridge. A cheese sandwich that looked like it had already been chewed. Winced.
Started looking for a seat.
All taken.
Well, fuck.
He scanned the room. Patients were eating, staff watching them like cattle. And then he saw him. A guy sat alone at a table in the corner, just staring at his plate. No — through the plate. Eyes empty, hands folded on his knees, body tense, like he was expecting a blow.
— What an idiot? — Niragi thought out loud.
He was about to sit next to a tattooed guy by the window, when a orderly appeared in front of him. Blond, with a disgusting smirk that made Niragi want to knock his teeth out. Niragi read the badge: "Shuntaro."
— Excuse me. — Shuntaro started slickly. — Could you sit over there with that guy?
Niragi followed his gaze. That empty one again.
— You could help him. And us. — Shuntaro smiled like a teacher offering a child to share toys. — You know, he's sick. Autistic. Doesn't eat. Maybe you can help him? Just right, kindred spirits.
Niragi clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms. Calm. If you hit him — isolation again. If you hit him — more shots. If you hit him — they win.
— Of course. — Niragi replied, stretching his lips into a slick smile. — With pleasure.
He sat down next to the guy. Slammed his tray down, deliberately loud. The guy didn't even flinch. Niragi leaned back, making the chair creak pathetically.
— Hey. — he started. — You like, Oti? Can't eat?
Silence.
Niragi knocked on the table with his knuckles. Once. Twice. Three times.
The guy looked up. His pupils dilated like a cat's in the dark. For a second, Niragi saw something alive in those eyes — fear? — but then the guy turned away and stared at the wall.
— Hi. — the guy said. His voice was quiet, flat, without intonation. His eyes looked at the lamp, the wall, the tray, anything but Niragi.
Niragi grimaced.
— Wow, Oti, you can talk. And I thought you were a total cripple. — He leaned forward, closing the distance. — They told me I have to feed you. Like a little kid. Can you imagine?
Niragi laughed. Loud. Exaggerated. Several people turned around.
The guy was silent. He twisted a strand of hair around his finger — over and over, the same motion. Mechanical. Like a wound-up toy.
Niragi picked up the spoon. Scooped up a heap of porridge. Held it out.
— Open wide.
The guy didn't react.
Niragi poked the spoon into his cheek. Porridge smeared on his skin.
— Wake up, moron! Time to eat! Come on, for mommy...
The guy screamed.
It wasn't an ordinary scream. Not scared, not angry. A high, piercing, vibrating sound that made Niragi's ears ring. He recoiled, nearly falling off his chair. The spoon clattered to the floor.
The scream stopped as abruptly as it started.
The guy sat there, staring blankly ahead. Breathing fast, shallow. Hands trembling.
— Are you crazy?! — Niragi hissed, lowering his voice because the orderlies were already looking. — The fuck are you screaming for?
Silence.
Then the guy spoke. Just as flatly, as if he hadn't been shrieking through the whole cafeteria.
— I don't have a mom.
Niragi froze.
— What?
— You said "for mommy." I don't have a mom.
Niragi opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. This was the first time in a long while he genuinely didn't know what to say.
— Well, fuck you then, — he muttered finally, looking away. — Freak.
He took his sandwich and started chewing, staring at the wall. But out of the corner of his eye, he watched the guy.
He sat motionless. Then slowly, very slowly, picked up the spoon. Scooped up porridge. Looked at it. Put it in his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed.
And so — spoonful after spoonful — he ate it all.
Niragi watched this and felt something strange. Not pity — fuck that. Rather, annoyance mixed with curiosity. What's in this guy's head? Why does he scream first, then do what he's supposed to? And most importantly — why doesn't he give a shit that Niragi humiliated him?
Normal people react to humiliation. Get angry. Cry. Make excuses. This one just... ate his porridge.
— Hey. — Niragi nudged him with his elbow. — What's your name?
The guy looked at him. This time — in the eyes. Just for a second. Then looked away again.
— Arisu.
— Arisu? — Niragi smirked. — Like Alice in Wonderland? You a girl or what?
— Alice is a girl. I'm Arisu. — the guy corrected with deadly seriousness. — It's a name.
Niragi wanted to sneer, but suddenly realized arguing with this was pointless. It was like arguing with a wall.
— Fine, Arisu. I'm Niragi. — He bit into his sandwich. — You here for what? Deck someone too?
Arisu shook his head.
— I cut my arm.
— A suicide, huh? — Niragi whistled. — Weaklings always cut. Real men hang themselves or jump under a train.
— I didn't want to die. — Arisu said quietly. — I wanted to see what's inside.
Niragi choked on his sandwich.
— What?
— Inside my arm. What's there. How it works.
Niragi stared at him. Then burst out laughing. Loud, genuine, for the first time in days.
— You're a fucking retard, Arisu! — he gasped, wiping tears. — A real retard! Who cuts their arm to see what's inside? Buy an anatomy textbook, dumbass!
Arisu was silent. But Niragi thought he saw something like hurt flicker in those empty eyes?