I don't own Yu Yu Hakusho, or Mitarai.
Little Kiyoshi's first memories were of police in his house, talking to his mother. He never understood why they were there, but his mother had told him to hide whenever they came. He always made sure to listen. Mommy stayed nice when he listened. When he didn't she would yell, and that scared him. To make her happy he did his best at school and played quietly at home. Maybe if he was good and smart she'd be proud of him.
He didn't understand why they looked different. She had dark hair and eyes while his hair was blonde and his eyes were blue. He liked his eyes, but he wondered if his mother didn't. She acted strangely a lot; she would go out for hours without saying where she was going or leaving food. Then she would come back angry and with red eyes. Kiyoshi hid in his room when this happened, even if he was hungry. He didn't want to get into trouble.
He remembered the first time she hit him. One day after school (had he been four? Six?), he had sped through his homework so he could play. His teacher had let him borrow a toy car for doing well on a test. It was blue, and reminded him of rain. He loved it.
As he drove it along the hallway carpet he amused himself with soft "vroom" noises and thought. The other children in his class had seemed mad that he'd done well. Why? They each got to bring home toys when they did well. Besides, weren't they all friends? Friends were happy when good things happened to each other.
Lost in his thoughts, Kiyoshi forgot all about hiding from the police.
"Is he yours?" Kiyoshi, not recognizing the voice, looked up. His eyes widened.
"No, sir. I'm… taking care of him for a neighbor."
The officer glanced between them for a minute before relenting. "I don't recommend taking care of children in your condition, ma'am, but if your neighbor trusts you…" He stood and bowed. "I will check on you again in a few days."
Once the door had closed, his mother turned to face him with angry red eyes.
"I told you to stay hidden," she growled. Kiyoshi shrank back. She looked like a demon. He began to stammer out an apology but a stab of pain in his cheek made him freeze. Tears welled up in his eyes as he raised his hand to his stinging face.
"You listen from now on, understand?" his mother demanded. Kiyoshi nodded and scurried back to his room, the car forgotten.
When his teacher asked for the toy the next day he didn't say a word, eyes glued to the floor.
...
Kiyoshi Mitarai lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The window was open, and a cool breeze played with his bangs that refused to stay slicked back no matter how much gel he applied.
His English teacher had instructed them to pick three scenes from their childhoods and describe them. Mitarai wondered what his classmates would write about. The first thing they had done to earn a slap? To lose a meal? But he couldn't ask; you only discussed those kinds of things with your friends and he had none. He understood why now. It was because he was different, looking nothing like the other students. He was a mistake- he shouldn't have inherited his father's looks. That was why his father had left, because he was ashamed. Had this happened to any of the others?
Mitarai turned over onto his side. What kinds of memories were safe to share? Most of his earlier memories were of punishments for being disobedient. Maybe a memory of school? There had to be one that didn't include other children shunning him…
The door slammed. He bolted upright, heart pounding. His mother was home, and he'd forgotten to prepare dinner. How had he forgotten that Tuesdays were his responsibility?
Please don't let her notice…
A tense five minutes passed, then ten. Mitarai finally relaxed and sank back down into his deep blue sheets. She'd probably passed out.
He knew not all parents drank; he'd just drawn a different lot. Some smoked, others gambled… Idly he wondered what problems he and his classmates would have when they were older. He hoped he wouldn't turn to drinking. It didn't seem to agree with one's stomach.