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Chapter Text

01

冬木立

のうしろに

赤き入り日かな

Behind the stand

Of winter trees

Is a red sunset

Ah.

You're awake.

Do you want a story so you'll fall back to sleep?

Let me tell you a story, then.

Do you know that man? Yes, that man in that relic. He was a man, once, like you. See the fatigue in his drooping shoulders? Smell the fear in his freezing breath? Feel the tension in his ever-widening eyes? You must know of him, at the very least, or else you won't be interested in this story. 

This is a story about him too.

—+—+—+—+—+—

It was December. 

You were six going on seven when you first met a curse. Though then you didn't know yet that the creature you met belonged to that name. You didn’t even know it wasn’t like you at first. 

It was just a trembling, cold little thing, a fistful of cowering shadows in a dried-up well, you wouldn't have even noticed it if you weren't helping a classmate find a lost bracelet. You don't remember that classmate's name or how they looked or if you were close or merely acquainted with them. You don’t even remember what you were doing before you started to help them look for the remains of their bracelet. You only remember the said bracelet made up of large heavy beads, perfectly round, dark brown translucent beads you find in a neat little line leading up to the mouth of the well. 

You don’t remember leaning over the edge to look for more of those beads, your little fingers brushing against the moss growing between the coarse bricks, your little toes straining to hold you up. Neither do you remember squinting into black belly of the well, trying to see a glint or a tiny shape nestled in the darker shadows, as your left fist tightens around the beads you have collected. 

But you remember being in that position, your torso laid on its cracking lip, your head mindless of the dangerously swinging winch above it. It was all so poetical, now in hindsight, but the aesthetics of it was lost then on your six-going-on-seven mind. 

You remember staring at the pitch-black darkness and you remember blinking when that pitch-black darkness blinked back at you.

“ Help,” was what the shadows at the bottom of the dried-up well whispered, the word floating up from the swelling void and into your young ears, “It’s cold here, and I can’t see and it’s so cold and— ”

It crawled to your brain, dropping like a vice around your heart before taking possession of your right arm.

“Help,” was what the shadows at the bottom of the dried-up well whispered, so you reached out your right hand and the pitch-black darkness reached out for you too. 

Your hands of flesh and blood and bone met its hands like the shrivelled branches of winter trees and it twisted just so and—

—+—+—+—+—+—

Here’s another thing you don’t remember:

You were standing in front of a dried up well, its bricks cracked and moss growing from those cracks to push out the bricks and consume what it couldn’t manage to dislodge. It was late in the afternoon, the sun setting just beyond the grove of trees surrounding this well of yours. Your young mind was aware there was something else you must be doing but your body objected to moving from your spot. The susurrus of the branches of the trees swaying with the biting winds were telling you something you could no longer understand.

What you understood was this: 

Your left hand was empty but your right hand was not.

It was transpicuous, was it not? Much more so than the warning whispers of barren trees unimportant to this story.

You had never seen it before, this thing you were holding. The closest thing it resembled was a bead, an enormous bead. The bead was a perfect sphere of darkness, translucent just enough to help you make out the roiling shadows that seemed to beat in time with your heartbeat.

You rolled it between your thumb and forefinger, measuring it up against the changing sky. The dying sunlight cast it with a bloody amber shell and you see the darkness within compressed the more you gazed at it, curling upon itself as if in terrible pain. It reminded you of those little squirming eggs your teacher once brought to class to explain the life cycle of frogs. Of youth spent in water, of adulthood survived on land.

The little dark bead slipped between your fingers.

Your mouth opened on its own and—

—+—+—+—+—+—

—it tastes, inexplicably, like stagnant water rushing into your nose and mouth, just like a— 

—+—+—+—+—+—

“—curse you! Oi, Suguru, where’s my cake?”

This is a different December, a loose part of the puzzle that is this story. You cannot find where it fits. You only know it is December and it is snowing and there is another boy somewhere in front of you. You cannot remember his name but you remember his hair as white as the fluttering snow, his laugh as reckless as yours from when you six going on seven, playing tag recklessly in another December within a thicket of winter trees, just right before another long-forgotten classmate comes up to you crying about broken bracelets and lost beads.

“Suguru,” he repeats, whines, as you catch up with him, “it’s my birthday. Where’s my cake?”

“You go fucking buy your own cake,” you grouse. You hate him, this boy, his rudeness and the all too truthful way he enacts his views in life, (no, you liar, you don’t, you really, really don’t) and because you hate him you hit his arm with the heavy plastic bag you’ve been conscientiously carrying for the past half hour to bring him.

He laughs it off, taking the plastic from your hands. His fingers are warm as they rest over yours for a moment before drawing away to get busy with opening the bag. His eyes, slivers of a glittering ocean above the rim of his pitch-black sunglasses that slipped down his dainty nose, widen in delight as he peers and rummages inside what you gave him.

“Mochi,” he exclaims like a little kid, bringing one of the delicately wrapped confections up for a quick inspection before tearing into it with his teeth like a feral feline, “mochi ice cream!”

You watch him, shaking your head slightly at the giddy, slightly manic way he eats the rice cake. It’s getting late, the sun is setting behind the mountains, casting everything in its reddish-orange hue. The cold blue of the snow fights it, lighting his snow-white hair in interesting tones of red and blue. He hasn’t even swallowed the mochi completely as he beams at you with teeth refracting the shades of a snowy sunset, “This is so delicious, have you tasted it?”

You scoff, “I don’t like sweet things—”

But he’s not listening at all, already opening another one and tossing the ball of glutinous rice towards you like one would toss a treat to a beloved dog, “Oh, don’t be a spoilsport, you.”

And you, instinctively, tilt your head back and your mouth opens on its own and—

—+—+—+—+—+—

—you swallowed.

(you don’t remember what it tastes like)

02

行年を

故郷人と

酌みかはす

End of the year;

Sharing wine with him

From my hometown

You may have heard of this story before, once upon a time.

—+—+—+—+—+—

Your parents brought you to a Buddhist monk when the nightmares got too much despite of—or perhaps because of—your mother being a non-practising Catholic and your father being brought up in Shinto beliefs. They told him your story, how you were found passed out next to a dried up well, how you don't remember anything after volunteering to help find your classmate's lost bracelet after class, how pale you were when you woke up after a few days in a coma, how you refused solid food for the first few days after waking up, how you screamed and gasped as if you were drowning during the nights after. 

They told him things you only remember by virtue of being told that those things happened to you. 

You do not interject anything into their story, not even a nod of assent. You are busy looking at the monk's clothes for you have never been this close to one in person. It felt like something you should remember on your own.

“この布は☐☐の袈裟と呼ばれていま,” said the monk, apropos of nothing.

Your head snapped up towards him, blinking. Your incomprehension must have shown on your face for he points at the panelled cloth over his torso you were looking at.

“This piece of cloth is called g҉҉҉̸҉҉҉͂҉҉҉̦҉҉҉͉҉҉҉͉҉҉҉̡҉҉҉o҉҉҉̵҉҉҉͋҉҉҉̾҉҉҉̌҉҉҉͒҉҉҉̆҉҉҉̌҉҉҉͐҉҉҉̉҉҉҉̈́҉҉҉̹҉҉҉̱҉҉҉̙҉҉҉̢҉҉҉͙҉҉҉̧҉҉҉̙҉҉҉j҉҉҉̸҉҉҉̉҉҉҉̂҉҉҉̈҉҉҉̂҉҉҉̽҉҉҉͒҉҉҉̃҉҉҉́҉҉҉̞҉҉҉͎҉҉҉̜҉҉҉͍҉҉҉̝҉҉҉͉҉҉҉o҉҉҉̶҉҉҉̄҉҉҉͝҉҉҉̉҉҉҉͠҉҉҉̓҉҉҉̏҉҉҉̊҉҉҉̈҉҉҉̕҉҉҉̈҉҉҉͔҉҉҉̻҉҉҉̲҉҉҉͕҉҉҉̭҉҉҉ no kesa,” he repeated, his smile that folded his face into one big wrinkle calming you despite your earlier apprehension, “you seemed very interested in it.”

You nodded hesitantly.

“It’s a surplice,” he explained at what must have looked to him some further confusion on your face, “a vestment to symbolise the virtue of poverty and freedom from desire.”

“Are you then?” You ask, your six-going-on-seven years old voice not breaking despite the little roiling mass inside your stomach, a little heartbeat a few centimetres below your navel, “free from desire?”

“The hunger will never go away,” the old man kept smiling at you, something kind but not quite happy in his eyes, “but we learn to fill our stomach with things better than want.”

—+—+—+—+—+—

It was February, spring sleeping soundly beneath winter’s heavy blanket of white, when you were told you will be staying with the monks for some time.

“There’s a meaning to this,” was what you remember your mother saying, her fingers running through your hair as you cried into her shoulder, “you must understand, there is a reason why this has happened to you, to us, and one day we will all see it.”

Your mother’s hair was long, its ends tickling your face as she leaned down to kiss your forehead. Your father’s hand was heavy, his fingers not quite shaking but neither steady as he clasped your shoulders. You are not certain if your memory serves you right and their cheeks were wet or if this is kind sophistry on your mind’s side.

They bought you books because the monks discouraged the toys and the lavish food. From your father, a volume of books about martial arts because you were just starting judo last year and he wanted to see you in his own uniform when he was your age. From your mother, a set of her favourite haiku and fiction books with her own little notes for you inscribed on the front page. 

You picked a random one from her basket and read out the title, “ノルウェイの森?” 

She nodded, arms tight around you and you couldn’t see her face with her thick, black hair down like a curtain,  “that’s my most favourite one.”

You did not cry, but you tucked your face on her bosom, calming yourself with the beats of her heart. Your own once beat in time with hers, her flesh and blood sustaining yours before you brought out into this world. You looked at her most favourite book again and mumbled, “The kanji looks similar to my name.”

“That’s because they share the ki bushu, see?” She drew your name, the name she’d given you, and the kanji in the title on the dust at your feet, “they both have trees in them but this kanji means forest while yours means…?”

“Excellence,” you answered, finally looking up at them.

“You will excel in all things,” your father assured you, ruffling your hair, “in this, most of all.”

“They will teach you what to do, how to live with this,” your mother told you with another kiss on your forehead, “they know better than your father and I how to keep you safe.”

“We will visit you,” your father promised, another squeeze on your shoulder, “and once you are better at controlling your gift you can go out and we can live together again.”

And your parents did visit you on the weekends, both of them for the first years, but then just your mother mostly for the rest of the half-decade, then the weekly visits became monthly before tapering into sometimes or none at all.

You don’t hate your parents for this. You understand them. It was okay. There was a meaning to all of this.

It was the third day of that February. 

You were finally seven years old.

—+—+—+—+—+—

You were taught the basics of curses and exorcising of curses.

You were taught how to use your ability, your gift, to help people. Your hands moved because your sinew must shield people from harm, your mouth spoke because your words must uplift people from misery, your feet kicked because your heel must strike against the evil on this earth. Your strength existed because there were people too vulnerable without it. 

You must exist to protect those weaker than you.

You believed this–

(—yes, oh how you did believe—)

—and so you—

There was a girl, older than you simply by a handful of years, who came into the temple and she sat kneeling with her parents as still as the Inari’s foxes guarding the torii of your father’s favourite shrine. She stared at your feet, bare but clean with each toenail trimmed perfectly just before the quick, as her parents talked about her nightmares, how she screamed and screamed at night about the hands grasping at her thighs and the teeth gnawing at her neck. She offered no interjection at all, no personal account of her haunting, just listlessly stared at your toes which you restrained from wiggling as you, in turn, stared at the monster snuggled at her back, its many hands possessive on her thighs and the mouth with black teeth chomping on her fragile swan-like neck.

“What do you think, my child,” the monk asked you, “is there something you can do to help her?”

You nodded, reaching out for her and pulling and pulling until you heard the monster scream and felt it twist into your palm. The orb fitted your palm as if made for it but the shadows moving oil-like inside rebels at your touch. 

Your mouth opened on its own and you—

Then, there was a man, older than your mother but younger than your father, and he was crying at the monk’s feet and yours. He wanted to be saved, please please save him and he would no longer do the things he used to do just please save him but you baulked at the woman, no, at the thing embracing him. Its long, long black hair was wound around his throat as its needlelike nails scraped his cheeks in an affectionate caress. You couldn’t see anything on its face that could be called its eyes but its mouth was large, filled with more fingers ending in needle sharp nails. 

There were hair-thin welts on his cheeks, even on his arms and neck extending well beyond the skin outlined by his clothes.

Am I still beautiful, it moaned into the man’s unhearing ears, am I still your only one?

“You are a bodhisattva,” the monk softly reminded you, “enlightenment at your fingertips but you reach out to the suffering instead.”

And so, you were. 

Your knees trembled but the monk gently helped you up and you pulled and then there was a heavy thing in your hand and then your mouth opened on its own and you—

Then, there was a boy, so much younger than you were when you first met a curse, and his grandfather was bowing at your feet asking for your help and you truly did want to help but your belly was full of ever-expanding turbulent things and it hurt and you never liked how your mouth smells after you exorcise these curses but the boy was crying too and you saw the swarm of little things with large eyes and sharp teeth pinching and sucking on his cheeks and suddenly your hand was heavy with a familiar weight and your mouth opened on its own and you—

—+—+—+—+—+—

“—re still awake? Oi, don’t drown in the school fountain, Suguru.”

There’s something cold held against your nape and you gulp down several mouthfuls of water before you bat it away unseeingly. Fingers move over yours to wrap them around the very thing you were just trying to remove from your nape.

It’s just cold bottled water. 

It’s just him. 

(Could anything really ever be 'just' with him?)

He grins at you as if he made some sort of great joke. The bottle gets shifted around from his hand to yours, his fingers lingering over yours as five points of heat before getting consumed by the chill of the water. You itch to keep the warmth inside your skin longer.

He’s always been so warm.

High Quality Spring Water, says the label when you finally deign to look at it. 

“The fuck is this?” You hear yourself grumble.

He tilts his head, mouth in a disappointed moue, why is he so infuriating, why won’t anyone come to save you from the urge to punch his pretty face in, “isn’t it obvious? It’s my gift to you!”

“This is bottled spring water,” you respond, eyebrows twitching, “from the vending machine.”

“No”, his forefinger taps your nose, “this is bottled spring water from the vending machine bought by me, the great G̸̷̷̷̶̷̷̶̴̷̴̸̵̨̨̛͖̦̘͚͈̜̫͍̤̬̰͔̼͈̓̆̎̑̂̈́̈͑͐̓̔̃̈́̎̑̚͜o̶̴̷̴̵̶̷̧̰̩̦̯͑́́͗̓̎͛͌͋͜͜ǰ̶̴̷̸̴̴̸̸̷̷̷̸̨̠͉̗̲͙̮̺̤̝̮̪͕͍̜͂͊̌͊́̒̉͆͒̎͗͒̇̽͝o̸̴̴̶̶̸̴̷̡͉͓͔̟͉̹̼̊̈́̈͂͑̀͌̽͋͊͜ ̶̴̶̸̵̸̴̴̯͚̲͍̥̫̖̰̍̊͆̈́̌̌̎̈́̓̈́̔S̶̷̶̸̴̸̸̴̡̫͎͓̜̭̝̳̝̠̒̐͆̍͗̓̇͘ͅa̶̴̷̵̸̸̷̵̢̻̦͇͕̻̻̟͈̖̭͋͐̓̍̈́̓̀͘ț̸̴̷̴̸̶̶̵̷̷̢̡̛̲͓͉̝̲͙̖̤̿̔̔͊͌̂͌̈́̋̑̐͛͝ơ̵̶̴̵̷̵̶̶̴̧̛̦̭̻͈̦͍̙̆̔̂̿̂͆̔̔͋̓̍͜r̷̷̴̵̵̷̵̴̴̵̷̴̛̪̥͉̙̜̭͔̗̲̙̙̱̿̄͋̓̊͌̒͋́̒̐͒͂͜͜͠ͅͅủ̴̴̶̸̸̵̷̵̶̶̸̢̺͕̳͇͙͈̯̠̟̳̦̥͔̂̐̈́̍̈̈́͂̑̚͘͝͝͝and delivered to you personally. Isn’t that the greatest gift of all?”

You bop the bottle on his forehead before sighing and twisting the cap open, “You’re the greatest idiot that’s for sure.”

You drink it and honestly the fountain water tastes better but it reminds you of the water you were used to as a child and you unthinkingly finish most of it before you even realise. The half-empty bottle gets passed around again, this time from you to him and he takes a long swig from its plastic lips without any hesitation. You watch his Adam's apple bob as he drinks. The sunlight glinting off from the snow around you as well as the remaining water in the clear bottle decorates his white hair and triangle of a face like jewels and you feel your own Adam’s apple bob as you drink this sight in.

You look away.

There is a pause and then his shoulder bumps into yours, “how does it taste like?”

“The water?” You ask, “not bad, reminds me of the spring water I used to drink all the time when I was a child. That one was connected to a hot spring they can only thaw in summer, its surface moves a bit like oil and—”

A chin tucking into your shoulder, summer sky blue eyes above midnight glasses looking up at you, his face very much close to yours. His lips are a bit chapped from the cold but they are in an arguably much better shape than your own ones.

“ Stuuuuuupid, I meant the curses. You swallowed a lot today, right?”

Your throat constricts, as if a hand is gripping it tight, and the heartbeats in your stomach pulse, once, twice, then thrice.

How do you explain the taste of loss and regret and anger and pain and horror and hunger and helplessness and guilt and fear and loneliness and emptiness and failure and jealousy and shame and rejection to someone who probably never experienced any of those before?

“You don’t want to know,” you shrug and tip the bottle again into your open mouth and you—

—+—+—+—+—+—

— swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed and it all tastes like—

(vomit and salt in your mouth)

Chapter Text

03

春の水

石をめぐりて

流れけり

Spring water

Detoured by rocks

Flows on

Once upon a time, there was a boy, a hallowed one, enlightened and rising high above others, a one and only boy.

—+—+—+—+—+—

Then it was March going into April, your twelfth one of those merged months you can never keep track of.

This was when they scouted you.

Though scouted might not be the right word to use, for what happened was this:

The monks brought you to The School.

You did not hold the old man's hand or the edges of his robes, its five stripes of parallel streets busy with swirls for busier people, as you once saw a scared little kid do. What you did was follow him silently, walking by his left hand with your back stiff and arms straight down your sides. You did not glance at each other very much.

But you'd grown way beyond our capacity to teach, they said. 

They would know better than us on how to help you help more people in need, they added.

You won't be attending until you're fifteen, they clarified, but it's important to go and see for yourself.

It makes sense, you thought, your nose chilled by the early spring breeze. What you saw for yourself was that, despite the fancy-looking vending machines and the elegant rock gardens with its koi ponds, the empty school is more of a temple than the place where the monks taught you. Perhaps that was important for you to know.

The old monk busied himself with an older-looking grandfather who, to your twelve-year-old memory, sports a great white beard that reaches the floor like a sleeker inverse of spilt ink. 

Another man, much younger than the grandfather but with a greater bulk than anyone you’ve ever met, hunched before you while you were watching the old monk whisper purposefully into the older man’s ear. He’s carrying an ugly-looking little doll in his big paw of a hand, like a panda clutching its malformed cub. You almost wobbled back in surprise when the doll levels you with a flinty look but when the man spoke, his voice was almost soft. Sad, perhaps.

“Hey, kid,” he said, “heard you want to join us.”

“Yes,” you answered, though in hindsight it might have sounded more like a question.

“Why?” He prodded.

Why? Isn’t that something you’d also like to know?

There’s a meaning to this , your mother once told you one distant winter morning ago.

"I want to help people," you replied simply, hands dropping into your pockets. Your eyes fixed themselves on the earth between your feet, light tufts of green peeking out beneath the thinning blanket of snow. For a moment, the man just looked at the silent you. 

But then, a heartbeat later—

He sighed, scratching the back of his head before standing up, "that's good enough, I guess."

It has to be good enough somehow, right? 

It would be best if you believed in that.

—+—+—+—+—+—

Here’s a memory that got lost sometime between then and now:

You and the old monk are walking back, no longer inside The School but not quite outside it either when you meet him . 

Though meet might not be the right word for it because what happens is this:

You are made aware of him in snapshots as if your senses were something waking up from a long winter nap and he were the call of spring just behind the mountains. 

First, the scent of the sea and summer, like the one time before all of this that your father took you and your mother to the beach and the aquarium and you were still small enough to sleep undisturbed in your mother’s arms on your way back home, dreaming to the steady beats of her heart and the echoes of the waves in your ears. 

So distracted are you by this recollection that the second one takes you completely by surprise—the touch of his shoulder against yours. Barely a graze but the half-second contact is enough to wake up the tiny squirming things inside your stomach and the shock of them pounding in panic on the walls of your body had you almost doubling in pain. 

You have to take a breath or two to understand the third thing. He says, “What the hell have you been eating?”

The incredulity in his voice is bordering on rude, the expression on his face disgusted. 

He is how you’ve imagined kids your age would react once they are made aware of the whole truth of you. Something scratches the back of your throat, stings the edges of your eyes. You dislike kids like him, you should have turned away from him in that instant but—

You see his eyes, the fourth part of him you are made aware of, and they are blue. As blue as the sea and the sky reflecting many a scattered light, those eyes of his are looking at you and you can’t—you can’t look away from him. His eyes are so blue . When you manage to look away, the sight of him leaves an imprint on the back of your eyelids, as if you stared too long at the summer sun. There is a light scoff from the other boy, and then his footsteps fade away.

(The fifth thing is this: there is blood on your tongue. It’s from your teeth accidentally cutting the insides of your cheeks in surprise, in pain, and you are grateful you never associated him with the taste of vomit and salt despite the roiling things inside your stomach at his touch. Though it would have been much easier for you if that were the case.)

When you open your eyes again, he’s turned away from you, walking under an older woman’s umbrella. The pattern on their yukata matches. You are left watching the back of his head, his snow-white hair fluttering softly with the breeze. You feel, inexplicably, lost.

A hand settles on your head, almost as thin and wizened as some of the curses you have consumed. You do not look up, you don’t need to. The monk softly asks you, "What seems to be the matter?"

Finally, you look up at the monk—and you now just remember that you do not remember his face anymore, all time left were strips of him, just like the five columns of his robes—and asks, "who is he?"

The old monk shrugs without lifting his shoulders, "an important young master, it appears."

You swallow air, throat bobbing.

Well…he wasn't wrong.

—+—+—+—+—+—

You meet him on your fifteenth April.

You were watching your parents’ back as they were escorted out of the dorms by Yaga Masamichi, one hand on your room’s door, the other still on your cheek where the warmth of your mother’s palm lingers. Yaga-sensei, a man without any imagination aside from creating those nightmare-inducing dolls, would probably lead them through the same winding paths the monk had led you along those years ago. It’s a scenic tour, though you suppose it wasn’t meant to be. Your parents would see the zen gardens and koi ponds with its waters detouring around larger rocks. 

The shadowy figures wriggling below the water’s surface, they won’t see.

Perhaps your mother would look back at the dorm, trying to discern your room from the countless identical windows. She gave you her favourite books again, the same ones she bundled up when you stayed with the monks. Does she think those books could substitute for her absence? Maybe so. But you do not question her sincerity, for when you parted her cheeks were wet with tears, perhaps even yours too. 

Though that doesn’t make sense, you have grown familiar with the separation, so it should haven’t bothered you.

“Yuck!”

Someone exclaims and you are jolted back to your present, to the cold of the doorknob in your hands, of one of your feet already outside its outdoor shoe and its socked heel pressing hard on the wooden floor of the room’s threshold, and the cool but stagnant feel of your bedroom’s air welcoming you from its ajar door.

Your head twists to the side, to the source of that rude voice.

And you see him.

He’s leaning against his own door which stands right next to yours, his black shirt loose around his neck but tight on his waist. The tinted glasses he’s wearing have slipped down the bridge of his nose to reveal his eyes. His blue, so blue eyes remind you of the sea and the summer sky and all the things in nature that are blue but only because they reflect many a scattered light. 

“I can’t believe I’m sleeping next to a mama’s boy.” 

His face, otherwise beautiful even for a boy, is contorted to a disgusted mien, his tongue out like a little boy on the playground who’d eaten something he shouldn’t have.

Your hand twitches.

You realise with a violent aplomb that you want to rip that expression from his face.

But you are, indeed, your mother’s child. So, you tilted your head and smiled at him instead, playing dumb, closing your eyes until you couldn’t see his disgusting face.

“Pardon?” You bullshit courtesy, offering a hand because you’re not a heathen like him, “I’m Getō Suguru. You?”

“You even use boku, like a real mama’s boy,” he says but he takes your hand. And you would have let this pass but instead of shaking it like a proper, civilised person would, he turned it over and peered at your palm, thumbnail digging into your lifeline.

Then he says with even more disgust, “shit, what trash have you been holding and eating, Suguru?”

You did not take kindly to that.

Since both of you ended up destroying the boy’s dorm that day, you and a handful of grumbling senpais had to sleep the night in the common area of the girls’ dormitories. This is where you met the other first year, though she takes a look at the both of you and sighs deeply. When she finishes healing you, or rather, reversing the damage you both wrought on each other—because apparently that’s her technique, don’t you wish you got a handy one like that too—she stands up and goes back to her room with nary a word to either of you.

“Yo,” A shoulder bumping against yours, something white like December snow flutters at the edge of your vision, “that was fun! Let’s do that again.”

You turn to glare at him.

You never glared at anybody before this.

The girl couldn’t fully reverse the imprint your knuckles made on his cheek when he destroyed the child made up of twisting shadows and brittle bones, your oldest companion, you deployed at him. He shredded through the poor thing like sunlight breaking through the crown of trees. He tried reaching after you then and you reacted in the basest way your body knows. 

“I’m Ǵ̵̷̶̷̵̷̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̵̴̶̷̵̵̴̸̴̵̴̸̴̷̷̵̷̵̷̴̴̸̴̵̸̷̶̴̴̴̸̷̵̸̷̶̷̵̴̸̶̸̴̶̵̷̸̴̵̶̵̶̸̴̵̸̷̷̴̴̶̴̸̶̷̸̢͇̹͎̹̝̬̺̟̽̍̑̓̑̚o̸̷̶̷̶̸̶̴̶̷̷̶̶̸̷̴̶̸̷̴̸̴̴̶̶̷̷̵̸̷̵̶̶̴̵̷̵̸̸̶̶̵̷̴̷̶̵̸̴̷̶̸̴͔͎̮͚̦̿̏̃̾͋j̴̵̸̸̴̵̶̸̴̸̸̶̷̶̴̶̶̴̶̴̸̶̶̷̵̴̶̶̵̸̵̶̸̵̶̵̶̷̴̸̸̶̴̶̷̵̵̸̷̸̶̴̸̴̴̵̸̶̸̸̴̵̶̵̵̷̷̵̸̷̷̵̶̸̷̶̶̷̷̶̸̵̷̶̶̶̵̴̴̴̴̸̧̛̱̠͈̮̺̫̯̪͌̍͌̏͐̃̄̀͠ǭ̷̶̶̸̴̸̷̵̶̸̶̵̶̷̵̴̸̶̸̷̸̵̴̶̶̸̷̷̷̷̴̴̶̵̸̴̸̷̶̶̸̷̵̸̴̷̶̶̵̸̵̴̴̵̸̵̶̵̷̶̷̶̶̸̴̶̸̶̶̸̵̷̸̸̵̷̸̴̵̶̴̸̶̸̵̷̸̸̸̷̶̸̴̴̸̶̸̶̵̴̵̴̴̸̸̨̛̛̗͎͓̭̖̲̹̹̆͋̾̇̈̉̅͘͝ͅ ̵̴̸̵̵̵̶̷̴̵̷̷̷̶̴̴̸̸̴̶̵̷̶̵̸̵̸̶̴̵̸̵̶̶̸̴̶̶̶̸̷̴̴̷̷̸̴̵̷̴̷̷̶̷̵̵̸̵̶̵̴̴̴̷̶̵̷̴̸̸̷̶̶̵̸̵̸̶̴̣̘̮̲͓̯̞͙̦͛̎̆͒́͝͝S̸̸̸̴̴̶̶̸̶̷̵̸̸̷̶̴̸̶̸̵̶̶̸̷̷̴̴̵̵̵̷̵̸̸̷̸̷̸̸̶̵̷̸̸̵̷̸̸̶̵̸̵̶̸̶̸̵̸̸̷̷̸̷̴̷̶̜̘͈̼͖̣̭̄͆̀̈́̀͗ą̷̴̶̸̸̸̷̸̷̷̴̸̷̵̵̸̷̷̷̸̵̵̶̷̴̷̴̵̵̶̴̵̸̷̴̷̴̵̵̸̴̸̴̷̵̸̵̸̴̸̷̷̸̶̴̷̵̸̵̵̶̵̴̸̸̶̮͚̦͕̖͈̑̆͒̒̀͠t̶̴̶̸̸̵̴̵̶̵̵̴̵̷̸̸̷̸̵̵̶̸̷̷̴̸̶̷̷̷̸̶̵̶̷̸̵̴̴̶̸̴̸̶̴̶̷̵̷̶̸̴̴̸̴̵̶̸̶̵̸̴̸̵̴̴͚͍̦͈͇̤̊͗͋̃́̅͝o̵̸̴̸̷̷̸̶̷̵̴̷̷̷̷̸̵̶̶̶̵̵̴̷̸̵̶̶̴̵̸̶̸̸̴̷̸̴̷̷̵̸̴̷̴̶̴̶̵̴̸̵̶̷̷̴̷̷̴̸̵̷̴̸̷̸̼͙̞͕͕̙̓̾̄̏͐̒͠r̸̵̶̴̴̵̶̷̶̴̸̷̶̸̸̶̴̷̶̶̴̵̷̵̵̴̶̴̵̸̸̷̶̶̸̵̴̸̸̵̷̴̴̵̷̸̵̴̸̵̶̷̵̴̸̸̶̴̷̸̴̵̷̸̸̶̶̸̴̶̷̷̶̶̸̶̸̸̴̶̶̵̷̷̴̵̸̶̷̴̴̴̹̝͉̥͕̹͚͚̟̍̒̈́͗̓̽͗̆̉͘ứ̸̸̴̸̴̸̷̴̴̵̵̸̴̴̵̵̴̴̸̴̸̶̸̴̴̸̵̸̸̶̶̷̶̵̶̵̷̴̴̴̵̷̶̴̴̴̷̷̶̵̶̵̸̵̵̶̶̷̶̵̷̸̵̸̸̴̶̶̷̴̶̵̸̸̵̷̸̸̸̵̴̸̵̷̸̶̸̴̶̸̸̸̸̵̸̸̵̶̵̴̵̷̵̷̴̢̗͇̬̤͕̥͔̯̘̳͐̍̒̽̍̏̊̕̚.” He takes your hand from your injured sides and starts to vigorously shake it. 

“Let’s do that again, Suguru!”

“Fuck you,” you spit out at him, shaking his hand harder because somehow even that became a competition between you two.

He tips his head back, and without those blue, blue eyes leaving yours, he laughs and laughs and laughs—

04

静かさは

砂吹きあぐる

泉かな

Silence welling 

In the sands

Of the spring

This is a story you might remember, for you knew it well once upon a time.

—+—+—+—+—+—

You are released to your parents for the following three years. An inverse of your setup the past five years, with you visiting the monks and their faithful first on a weekly basis then a monthly one before tapering into once every few months until you relieved them of your presence completely. You don’t know which one of you is more assuaged with the setup, you or the monks. Perhaps, both. 

They are neither neglectful nor harmful people, but you do not like remembering your years with them either way.

Your parents try to act as if those five years apart did not happen, as if you weren’t the wrong height now for everything you’ve left behind in this house of yours, as if your clean bare feet with its nails cut to the quick still fit in what were once your favourite slippers. 

Your father, with his hair prematurely streaked with silver cut high up his nape, prattles on about all the martial arts classes you could join. He’ll take you there personally to enrol, he says. You agree with his plans, stirring the zaru soba your mother made for you into its store-bought dipping sauce. It would be better to eat it cold in the summer but you deserve a treat, she tells you with a conspiratorial wink that makes her look so much younger than she is. The taste of the noodles almost makes you forget about the other tastes that etched themselves on your tongue.

You close your eyes and breathe out a smile.

You are content, you tell yourself, no longer hungry for things not meant to be held in your palms.

The years go by in blinks. 

You grow taller, learn to kick and punch stronger. You hear about the history of the country you are living in, you study betta fishes and how the males cannot exist in the same aquarium with each other, and you taste other children’s cooking. Sometimes you eat your mother’s cold soba in the summer, sometimes in winter. Sometimes you eat curses that latched onto your classmates during childish tests of courage done in the night, sometimes the curses lunge at you in the middle of the school day and you have to make up a story about how you’re practising judo or aikido or whatever current martial arts your father has signed you up for. Your mouth aches with the size of your lies. But the chanting of the monks and the chimes of the bells almost fade away, like ink dispersing in water. 

Your tongue still knows the taste of your time there, for nothing about that changed here, just the frequency of your consumption.

You are thirteen, you are fourteen, then you are fifteen.

On your fifteenth March, you wave goodbye to the children you spent three years with, the ones that called you a friend but who you’ve held at an arm's length. One of them, you think, has a bracelet made up of perfectly round, dark brown translucent beads. You do not ask for their phone numbers, they do not ask for yours. 

This is also the March when the old monk with the surplice called g҉҉҉̸҉҉҉͂҉҉҉̦҉҉҉͉҉҉҉͉҉҉҉̡҉҉҉o҉҉҉̵҉҉҉͋҉҉҉̾҉҉҉̌҉҉҉͒҉҉҉̆҉҉҉̌҉҉҉͐҉҉҉̉҉҉҉̈́҉҉҉̹҉҉҉̱҉҉҉̙҉҉҉̢҉҉҉͙҉҉҉̧҉҉҉̙҉҉҉j҉҉҉̸҉҉҉̉҉҉҉̂҉҉҉̈҉҉҉̂҉҉҉̽҉҉҉͒҉҉҉̃҉҉҉́҉҉҉̞҉҉҉͎҉҉҉̜҉҉҉͍҉҉҉̝҉҉҉͉҉҉҉o҉҉҉̶҉҉҉̄҉҉҉͝҉҉҉̉҉҉҉͠҉҉҉̓҉҉҉̏҉҉҉̊҉҉҉̈҉҉҉̕҉҉҉̈҉҉҉͔҉҉҉̻҉҉҉̲҉҉҉͕҉҉҉̭҉҉҉ no kesa dies.

Apparently, your parents have been keeping in touch with him. You did not know this until they broke the news of his death to you. They must have expected you to be affected by this.

Are you? 

(How could you not be? He taught some of the most important things in your meagre, puny life.)

The hunger will never go away, the old monk once said with something kind but not quite happy in his eyes, but we learn to fill our stomach with things better than want.

—what have you been eating, Suguru?

So, you are brought back to the monk, to the temple, where you watch the other monks burn his belongings among other things, where you listen to them chant his soul to peace.

You wonder if he does reach the nirvana he wants, he deserves to.

Then, you go home.

The three of you—your father with his hands loose on the wheel, your mother with her hands on your father’s shoulder, and you with your hands busy with the heavy weight of something invisible to both of them—are all silent on the drive back to your house.

“What do you want to eat, Suguru?” Your mother asks as your father manoeuvres the car into the driveway, gravel crackling under the rubber tires.

“Soba,” you chirp, hoping the wasabi and soy sauce dip would cleanse the newest foul taste in your mouth.

So you all settle on the rhythm of a normal family, the few last moments you’ll have together before you’ll be going away again to another place, another life in April. Your mother putters in the kitchen, your father yawns into the morning’s newspaper he couldn’t finish at breakfast, and you who still smells the incense and subtle sweet decay on your clothes duck your head into one of your mother's books, not one of those she gave you but just one you picked up randomly from her bookshelf you could barely reach before.

It’s a biology book.

You read about muscles and sinew, about cells dividing but also multiplying, about how you spent nine months in the waters of your mother’s womb before you could stumble out of her and walk on land.

You were a heart first, a little clump of beating blood dividing and multiplying inside your mother, before the truth of you elongated and wriggled across the walls of her womb. You're told that a fetus' arms, the left one first most of the time before the right, grow almost as soon as its heart is formed, alongside the complex development of the brain and the spinal cord. This all happens in the first few weeks after your conception, while your mother just knows you as a heartbeat a few centimetres below her navel.

The heart quickens, jerking the little arm to move even before the brain begins to understand what's happening.

Is there meaning to this sequence?

There must be.

There must be meaning in everything, else why is it all happening the way it does?

—+—+—+—+—+—

“Ne~! Suguru let’s ride a bike.”

A bump on your shoulder, a hand around your neck. A finger prodding your cheek. Somewhere between your first spring in the school and your second, this has become the norm for both of you.

You flip another page of Norwegian Wood. Without looking up from another page of Toru and Midori flirting with each other despite the latter having her own boyfriend, you reply, “double riding is illegal.”

“Haibara has a bike!” He reasons, as if that makes sense.

 “Haibara isn’t pillion riding with anyone,” you sigh, putting the book down, which you realise was what he wanted all along, “besides don’t you have to finish that mission report Yaga-sensei told you to finish a week ago?”

He pokes his tongue out, another childish gesture.

Your memory, if examined with a coroner’s objectivity, will reveal thousands of snapshots of him with that kind of hyperactive child face. 

“But that’s too boring!”

He squeezes into your space even more, the sides of your thighs separated only by your uniform pants, “let’s make a bet, if you answer this riddle correctly, I won’t bother you with the bike riding anymore.”

You glare at him.

He interlocks his pinky with yours. 

He’s really been reading too many shoujo mangas recently. 

“I promise,” he says, like a liar. You know he would just look for a more convenient time to bother you with this. Most probably waking you at some dead ass hour in the night to go bike riding with him. For all he teases you to be a spoiled, mama’s boy, you know he’s more cosseted than you, not only by his clan but more by the nature of his cursed technique. Nothing he doesn’t want can touch him. Bike riding with someone would truly be an experience for him

You choose the saner path, closing your book and putting it under your desk.

“Fine, what’s the riddle?”

He grins, and you feel the bottom of your stomach drop.

You tell yourself it’s the dread. 

(Liar.) 

Nothing comes out good with that grin of his, after all. 

He makes a grand gesture at the window where a bare tree has its branches still hidden beneath a layer of early April snow. It’s early in the morning, you both should be in class but Yaga-sensei’s out on a personal leave. A pastel blue sky is starting to peek out between the heavy tufts of white and grey clouds.

“When the winter snow melts, what does it become?”

Your mouth opens before you even know what it will say. 

“Water.”

His cheeks flush red with the raspberry he blows you.

“Wrong! We’re going bike riding!”

His palm is warm around your wrist as he tugs you up and away from your seat.  

At the end of the corridor he’s rushing you both through, you can hear the murmur of your juniors’ voices. Nanami always waits for Haibara at the school gates. Somehow, neither of them ever ends up late, unlike you and him.

“What’s the answer?”

You ask, letting him half-pull, half-carry you to the grounds where you know Haibara always parks his bike. He doesn’t stop moving, even as he turns around to face you with a wide, white grin. His hair a shock of white, his eyes a universal blue of reflected light.

He bends forward, letting go of your hands so he can contort himself into the worst angles and let his breath fan across your cheeks as he laughs, “idiot!”

He looks like a little kid, insouciant and irreverent, smiling at you like that. This is how you want to remember him.

 “Winter snow melts into Spring, of course!”

You open your mouth to laugh and laugh and laugh and—

His breath tastes, inexplicably, like spun sugar and honey on your tongue.

And in that moment, you know this:

Though he likes to pretend as a great omnipotent being, G̸̷̷̷̶̷̷̶̴̷̴̸̵̨̨̛͖̦̘͚͈̜̫͍̤̬̰͔̼͈̓̆̎̑̂̈́̈͑͐̓̔̃̈́̎̑̚͜o̶̴̷̴̵̶̷̧̰̩̦̯͑́́͗̓̎͛͌͋͜͜ǰ̶̴̷̸̴̴̸̸̷̷̷̸̨̠͉̗̲͙̮̺̤̝̮̪͕͍̜͂͊̌͊́̒̉͆͒̎͗͒̇̽͝o̸̴̴̶̶̸̴̷̡͉͓͔̟͉̹̼̊̈́̈͂͑̀͌̽͋͊͜ ̶̴̶̸̵̸̴̴̯͚̲͍̥̫̖̰̍̊͆̈́̌̌̎̈́̓̈́̔S̶̷̶̸̴̸̸̴̡̫͎͓̜̭̝̳̝̠̒̐͆̍͗̓̇͘ͅa̶̴̷̵̸̸̷̵̢̻̦͇͕̻̻̟͈̖̭͋͐̓̍̈́̓̀͘ț̸̴̷̴̸̶̶̵̷̷̢̡̛̲͓͉̝̲͙̖̤̿̔̔͊͌̂͌̈́̋̑̐͛͝ơ̵̶̴̵̷̵̶̶̴̧̛̦̭̻͈̦͍̙̆̔̂̿̂͆̔̔͋̓̍͜r̷̷̴̵̵̷̵̴̴̵̷̴̛̪̥͉̙̜̭͔̗̲̙̙̱̿̄͋̓̊͌̒͋́̒̐͒͂͜͜͠ͅͅủ̴̴̶̸̸̵̷̵̶̶̸̢̺͕̳͇͙͈̯̠̟̳̦̥͔̂̐̈́̍̈̈́͂̑̚͘͝͝͝ is not a God, not yet. But He will be and you think (you know) that you will be the first to kneel in worship and offer Him your blood, your flesh. Build Him a temple inside the circle of your arms until He sinks inside your ribcage, there to dwell safe and sound.

But before that, someone has to keep him in line, keep him tethered to the earth. 

You are starting to learn that someone might be you. 

Your heart quickens with this thought and your arm jerks without thinking towards him-

You hold his hand—

Chapter Text

05

絶えず人

いこう夏野の

石一つ

Always, people rest

On this single stone

Of the summer field

Pay attention, now.

This is a story about how the boy—the Hallowed one, the enlightenment of all, the one who rose high above others, the one and only—fell.

—+—+—+—+—+—

You write to your parents: summers are stressful.

The heat alone makes you indolent, makes you want to drown yourself in the shower just to get back into the water. Like a frog fancying itself a tadpole still. You wriggle out of your loose clothes (Suguru, you look—) and worm ( Mama? ) your way into the showers twice a day now. 

You do not include this in the letters to your parents: summers are when the curses are more persistent, stronger, bigger.

Your mouth aches.

Your throat aches.

Your belly aches.

You lay your hand on the flat of your stomach and feel the rolling heartbeats inside swell against your touch, rebelling. 

Your mother replies in her neat, curling letters: it's the summer stress, as always.

—+—+—+—+—+—

You had exactly three summers in The School. 

A perfect triptych of memories soaked in blue and white, both the impossible reflection and culmination of all the colors you can see. It's a painting that tells a tale as neat as any bedtime story, one that ends in three acts of comedy.

At sixteen, you are soaring across sky blue, something white always at the edges of your vision. It's the white of a summer cloud but also the white of drifting snow, it's the white glinting off the thawing ice above a spring that only flows in summer. You are laughing at another boy, your only equal, hallowed as he is in your heart. You are both invincible little creatures, enlightened by each other.

At seventeen, you are walking through deep sea blue and there's a girl in white and deeper blues skipping in front of you and him. There’s the white glint of sunlight off a fish’s fin, off a dear someone’s hair, off their teeth in its gleeful grins. You smile at blue eyes which are tired but determined, and that act alone strengthens you like a prayer, encourages you to think, ‘everything’s going to be okay’ .

At eighteen, you are standing under the cold blue light of a morgue, looking at the paper white face of one of your friends. There are violent blue bruises on his face, on whatever patch of skin that peeks beneath the sterile white blanket they covered him with. The comfortable white of melting snow is nowhere near you. You look up at a blank blue sky and feel, quite unfairly, that in his holy grace God has deserted you.

Yes , you laugh at yourself, summers have always been stressful.

—+—+—+—+—+—

Here's a story you don't want to remember, a piece of the puzzle you've buried deep inside your chest until it grew into another ribcage which pierced you from inside out:

Once upon a time, at some place where it’s always summer on a beach, there was a girl. A princess falling from a burning tower, one you caught and cradled in your arms like a mother would their own beloved child. You tucked her close to your heart and, without realising until the end, sincerely wished for her happiness.

She was going to live, she was going to live, she was—

Bam!

Her universe ended with a bang while yours slowly unravelled with barely silenced whimpers.

The story went on just with the princess you promised to protect dead in front of your eyes, her crown of blood a splatter of dark stars on the white tiles. 

A perfect inverse of the night sky you love so much. 

And still, you didn't understand. 

Perhaps rather similar to the tone of a parent who lost a child, you question yourself.

What did this all mean? 

Why? 

Why? 

Why?

She was going to live.

She wanted to live.

—+—+—+—+—+—

Summers, it seems, are reserved for you to find little girls in metaphorical and literal littler cages. Wings clipped, voice muted, all to ensure they are ready to be made a willing sacrifice for beings they don't truly understand. The sight of The Twins makes something inside your stomach simmer and broil. It twisted and shoots up your heart, taking hold of your arm and—

Before you even know it, your heart is beating fast and your arm is reaching out and—

You pull them up and out from the shadows.

Somewhere, a bell rings.

It signals the end of a race. It signals you closing the door of your empty church. It signals you crossing the river between Childhood and Parenthood. 

It signals the end of a village and it signals the start of your Family.

—+—+—+—+—+—

You find The Twins crying, of all places, in a book cafe over a novel whose cover is a striking blue sky with wintry clouds splashed across. 

The Song of Achilles, the title says.

“What happened now,” you sigh, sinking down the cafe’s horrid pink plush chair as you slide towards them the tray laden with their atrociously pricey orders of ice cream and waffles. You’ll buy them a second set if they want. Money is truly a necessary evil.

“Their story is so sad,” Mimiko cries, red nose stuck between the crisp pages of their new book. “Achilles and Patroclus deserved so much more!”

Nanako, though her eyes are still puffy with tears, had enough mind to snap a photo of their snacks and then another of your dark, roiling coffee (bitter black without sugar, just like you always drank it). Knowing her, it's angled such that at least half of your face shows up in an ‘aesthetically pleasing’ manner in one of its sides or corners. You roll your eyes at her.

“It's Mimiko’s fault,” she starts but then amends herself after the other girl pulls on her hair with a wet sniff, “it's achilles2006’s fault who Mimiko allowed to follow our insta account.”

You raise an eyebrow, stirring your coffee with a lazy hand.

Mimiko tries to take over the storytelling, “it's this dude that keeps on liking our photographs.”

“He just likes the photos. But then this one time he commented and it got Mimiko curious who the fuck they were talking about.”

Nanako brandishes her brand-new phone in front of your face, guiding your thumb to scroll through a long reel of photos and videos. 

“Language,” you chastise half-heartedly, letting her show you their posts.

Indeed, someone named achilles2006 really did like all your daughters’ photos. 

Except for one. Whereas Nanako’s usual photos has both or either of them smiling at the camera with some part of you—a blurry hand, a slope for a shoulder, the edges of a sandaled feet with toenails trimmed neatly, a frozen flip of long ink black hair—included, one of them has captured you in full: you're not in your kesa but the simple cashmere turtleneck you've taken to wearing at home. A red novel is in your hands, something worn but silky to the touch and you’ve memorized it already so long ago. In the photograph you are looking somewhere to the left, not at the book, not at the camera itself. 

You are bathed in the soft golden glow of a summer afternoon.

The photo has few likes and even fewer comments, in fact just has the one and only comment.

Under your photo, achilles2006 simply wrote:

Found you, Patroclus (⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧

They're both looking at you but Mimiko is the one who asks softly, “do you know him, Geto-sama? Is he your friend?”

You don't grimace as you press the phone back into Nanako’s palm. It doesn't feel hot in your hand. You just sip on your coffee and tell the girls airily, “don't talk to strangers online.”

06

紫陽花や

きのうの誠

きょうの嘘

Hydrangea blooms

Today's truth

Tomorrow's lie

Did you pay attention? 

I told you to, didn’t I? 

—+—+—+—+—+—

From years eighteen and onwards, you have entered Parenthood. 

Parenthood suits you, you think.

Being both mother and father to not only your two girls but also this wounded broken family of cursed people is stressful in the same way only a perpetual summer can be stressful. 

But parenthood suits you, you decide as your hand softly pats the softer plains of your torso. 

Parenthood shows off the curves of your successes while hiding the jagged lines of your failures, just like the familiar kesa you now wear suits you.

The surplice with its intersections like busy crowded streets is supposed to signify you're free from desires. And you are, in a way, empty of any want. For what could live inside the deep shadowed well of your stomach except the wildly pulsing heartbeats you have been eating all this time?

Resentment is not desire. 

Whose resentment fills you up no longer matters at this point.

You take all of them in anyway, nourish them within the temple that is your body until each talon precisely hooks up what you need, until each mouth accurately spews something hateful at your target, until each foot kicks with the same measured strength you had to fight your evil with their evil.

You are Bodhisattva, enlightenment at your fingertips but you chose to—

But you are also both Mother and Father. And you protect your children even at the cost of the rest of the world. Even at the cost of yourself.

You imagine writing to your parents: Did you love me the same way I love them?

You imagine them writing back: of course, we did. We’re so proud of you. Of course, you excel even in this. 

—+—+—+—+—+—

But good parenthood requires money.

It's not something you ever expected but a lesson you quickly learned during life after The School.

The girls needed their pretty dresses, the rest of the family needed their food to grow, and you needed your books and other familiar comforts from your own childhood to survive this parenthood.

So you needed the monkeys. More specifically you needed them to perform well for you to earn the money needed for Good Parenthood. 

So you must tolerate them, belly full of anger be damned, their extinction can wait for now.

Their problems remain the same, all banal and tedious. It's a cycle of these monkeys kneeling in front of you, reciting their lies for innocence, and you, mouth opened to—

There's a girl, almost as old as you if not older by a handful of years, wrapped up in a heavy tangle of coveting, lecherous eyes and while you don't feel pity anymore for such animal you reach out and—

— you swallow and —

There's a man, so much older than you, a grandfather at this point perhaps, half-eaten by obsessive, jealous mouths and you shudder but you reach out and—

— you swallow —

And then, there's a boy , so much younger than you, but carrying such a rare, beautiful mess of a powerful curse—

—and you swall–

Oh?

There's a boy with an interesting curse.

He loves and fears her in equal measure. She just loves him.  Or at least she loves him in whatever capacity loves presently means for her twisted cursed self.

The epiphany comes down like a shower of high pressure water around you, like a curtain of giddy claps celebrating the end of a girl who didn't want to end. Like the wordless desperate cries of hardworking ants crushed underfoot at the height of summer. Like a mother’s confused, pained cry.

You can do so much with something like that. You can hollow out yourself and fill your dried-up well of a stomach with her instead. Your fingers twitch, just imagining what havoc she could wreak upon the world as guided by your excellence. You don't need a God that has left you in the dust, if you could birth one in Her image instead and—

Of course, you laugh to yourself as you pick up the boy’s identification card, it makes more sense this way. Very neat, like a bedtime story perfectly bookmarked from beginning to end. Like a never ending cycle.

The boy is one of His children.

You and Him had always walked perpendicular lives, meeting briefly at intersections of crowded streets only to pull away.

You have been building a Family, and it seems so has he with his congregation of strong-armed relay sacrifices.

Of course.

You pocket the card, children lose their belongings so easily, and your mind works how to balance parenthood and excellence once again.

It's exciting to think of intruding into His church for a little while. 

What has He done to the altars made of your flesh and bone? And you—

You also wanted to be part of a perfectly structured narrative, once upon a time.

—+—+—+—+—+—

This is a footnote to the story:

It was August, no maybe September, it couldn’t be past October February (let us say February, to lend symmetry to the narrative but you know which month it actually was, don’t you? Just as summer welcomes autumn inside her with a whimper) when you visited your parents for the last time. You took a train back to your hometown and the hours swiftly passed you by the way the locomotive passed through trees readying to shed its leaves. You fancied seeing a well, dried up and unused, somewhere beyond the groves and then perhaps a small shadow, more of an imprint of a child beside it, holding up something small but heavy to the red dimming sky. 

You walked from the station to the house, passing by an elementary school you barely remember. That was understandable, barely anyone here remembered you either. You opened the gate hiding rust beneath the fresh layer of paint and let your school shoes crunched against the new, sharp gravel of the garden. You knocked on the door of your childhood house and everything seemed so smaller and older than the images in your mind. 

This place didn’t know you anymore but it was home once upon a time.

It was your father who opened the door. You could see in his face that it took him a few moments to recognize you even though you looked like him just with your mother’s long hair. But then his eyes lit up and then he clasped you by your shoulders even as you moved to shake his hand for a greeting. He exclaimed how you should have called, your mother would have prepared something for you, something to fill what must be an empty stomach. 

Your mother had cut her hair up to her shoulders and what had been once raven black was now coal threaded with silver. On her lap, a bright red book (Masaoka Shiki: Selected Poems, a younger twin to the one you had left in another bedroom, another home, another life) opened but unread as she ran a finger on the downy head of a little bird that must had strayed close to her elbow. Her lips dropped in a shocked ‘O’ but then it curved up into toothy, wide ‘D’ of a smile as she called out your name, the name she had given you, the name that meant excellence, among other things.

“Suguru,” she cried into your shoulder because you were taller now than both of them.

“Mother. Father.” You ran your fingers through her hair as you continued, “I’ve come to say goodbye.”

They blinked at you, confused.

They didn’t see the curses you brought forth, they never could, but they must have felt the teeth and the claws and the pain. What was the difference between the one who was cursed and the one who casted it? Nothing really, just a degree of separation between the days they will die.

Your parents could not see or hear curses. 

They blinked at you, confused.

They just saw you.

And there was an instant, the split second before the light left your mother’s eyes that you truly hated her for not having even an ounce of cursed energy. If she did, then perhaps you could have killed her in another way and then the utter horror and incomprehension in her eyes could have transformed her, made her into a curse herself and then you could have pulled her into your embrace and cradled her in your palms. 

You could have swallowed her whole. 

You could have kept her safe inside your belly as a little heartbeat a few centimetres below your navel as she did for you all those years ago.

But she didn’t, so you couldn’t. 

And—

“There’s meaning to that,” you promised the empty air inside your childhood house.

The dead silence agreed, your parents' eyes wide open and unblinking. 

Confused in their implicit understanding, maybe.

Your cheeks were wet, you were sure this time. 

You just didn’t know with what .

—+—+—+—+—+—

If you were ever asked of your most memorable time with him, you would probably lie and spout some nonsense about a random time he did something stupid—and there’s a lot, current predicament you two find yourselves in included—or maybe you would say it was the first time you met if you were feeling particularly sentimental and whoever asked would soon die by your hand if not only for your embarrassment, let alone the gall to ask you such personal a question.

Either way you would be lying, because you will never tell anyone this:

Never mind the exact hour, the exact day or the exact month, you couldn’t even remember the year, but you knew it was a summer afternoon. The both of you skipped classes, and when asked later, would lie to Shoko and tell her you went to the arcade but really you just lazed in an unused classroom reading books, you finishing the last pages of the tattered copy of Murakami Haruki’s Norwegian Wood picked up from your mother’s collection and him flipping nonchalantly through that borrowed book about foreign gods and heroes.

“What a waste,” he remarks after some time, tossing the book uncaringly two desks away and continuing without regard to your input, “he lost his cool because his best friend died. He’ll probably die too in the end.”

You peered at him over the top of your own book, the breath escaping your lips an uncontrollable sigh, “isn’t that expected? It’s his best friend, after all.”

He makes a disgusted face, the one that pulls on the lines of your own face to make an answering equivalent look of revulsion. 

Bleh.

“It’s weak,” he practically whines against your shoulder, “I’m not gonna end up like Achilles, son of Peleus.”

He pauses, sunglasses dipping down low his nose to reveal his eyes in sky blue slivers framed by his cheeks lighted in warm hues by the weak setting sun filtering from the open classroom windows.

“We’re not gonna end up like them,” he smiles up at you and the corners of your own lips lift up in response, “because we’re the strongest. We’re gonna live as if we’re seventeen forever.”

And you, who had just consumed the last words of this sad book your mother once loved, answered with a smaller smile and a non sequitur, fondness dripping from your tongue even as you fretted with the thought how you would spend a lifetime with this glorious idiot.

“S̷͍͎͔̪̯̘̥̊̽̂̽̀̆̍̓͐̀̒̒̕̕a̸̧̟̦͕̳̻̓́̀ͅt̸̬͚̖̝͎͉͊̉̐͑́̀͊̍̚ͅͅō̸̥̝̠̖̻̼̺͖̼̠̾̌̄̀̿̋́̿̆̔͒̚̕r̴̛͚͓̩͎͕̰͈͙̤̍͗̂̓̃̈͆͘̚͠u̷̢̧̧̥̤̪̲̲̞̱̜͍̜̱͌̒̋͒̌̉̎́̎͌͘ͅ, only the dead stay seventeen forever.”

—+—+—+—+—+—

The human brain seeks patterns and rules, for stories in things it doesn't understand. It wants to see the shapes in the clouds, the face hiding within the dark swirls of the wooden floor beneath their pale feet.  When there is no meaning to be found, it will invent some.

One must wonder…what great context, what meaningful purpose, have you derived from this story?