Mamo Chiba Week 2018 has officially started over on Tumblr, and I'm trying my hardest to participate in each of the prompts this year. So without further adieu, here's my first piece.
Childhood
Mamoru Chiba stood in front of the large, concrete building, squinting as he struggled to read the lettering on the side. The woman who had accompanied him from the hospital tapped her foot, eyebrow cocked as she waited for him to step forward.
"Come on now," she urged, waving her hand to hurry him along. He followed her inside, overwhelmed by the weight that settled in his gut. Children cried, and women yelled. Each room they passed was filled with beds, and the once brightly coloured walls were dull and worn with age. The woman stopped abruptly at a door labelled '5-8'.
"This is your room," she said. "Take whichever bed you'd like that's free." She grabbed a piece of paper and marker from a nearby shelf, before pulling off a piece of tape and sticking it on the back. "Write your name on here, and put above your bed. Okay?" He found an empty place near the window, and did as he was instructed.
"Dinner is at six. Wash up beforehand," she said with the shake of her finger. The boy nodded, and the woman sighed. "Welcome home."
Mamoru smiled at a little girl who had watched the exchange, his shoulders shrinking as he sat on the edge of the bed. He slipped off his backpack, setting it neatly on the floor, and took in his new surroundings.
After dinner and back in his room, Mamoru met most of his roommates, who graciously filled him in on all the times and rules. They spun tales of horror about the head caretaker, Ms. Akuzawa, and listed all the older children to avoid. Numbness crept through Mamoru's body as the information seeped into his mind – was he here to be forgotten?
"Mamoru?" the caretaker called, silencing the children's stories. "You have a visitor." The room fell silent and Mamoru swallowed. As he left the whispers started, each child with their own version of what awaited the boy, yet none were the dream of adoption. That was never a reality for someone that old.
She led him into a small office decorated with nothing but a table and two plastic chairs, and told him to take a seat. The door clicked when she closed it behind her, leaving Mamoru alone with the hum of the florescent lights. He bit his bottom lip, brows knit as he fought to find some semblance of comfort in the uneven chair and blank, grey walls. He pulled a small photo from his back pocket, fingertips tracing the faces – would he even recognize them now?
The door opened, and Mamoru jumped, shoving the picture back into its hiding place. A tall man in a charcoal suit bowed politely to the caretaker before joining Mamoru at the table.
"Do you remember me?" the man asked. Mamoru took a minute to study his features, but frowned when no memory came. He shook his head, his eyes dropping to his hands as he picked at the skin around his nails.
"It's alright," he said, lips pulled into that pitiful smile that Mamoru had become so accustomed to receiving, but wasn't quite sure what it meant. "I'm Mr. Tanaka. I was your father's financial advisor and friend."
Mamoru nodded, head tilted slightly to the side as he mulled over the words.
"I helped your father with his money," the man explained, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief he pulled from inside his suit. "Your parents were good people."
They had told him that before. The nurses and doctors at the hospital, and the few family friends that had stopped by after the accident – they had all told him what good people his parents had been. A small part of Mamoru swelled with pride at the compliment; even if he couldn't remember them he was glad they were thought of that way. "Thank you," his voice cracked, and Mr. Tanaka was struck with the realization that the person in front of him was just a child.
"I'm afraid I can't take you in," he stuttered, unable to look Mamoru in the eye as overwhelming guilt pooled in the pit of his stomach. "But I'll help you in any way that I can," he promised. "Give you a real shot." He licked his lips, eyes searching for the next thing to say. "The good news is your parents had a sizeable amount of savings, which will be yours."
Mamoru forced a half-hearted smile, feigning to understand the so-called good news.
"Mr. Tanaka?" he said, taking a breath to gather his courage. "How long do I have to stay here?"
The man's shoulders dropped, and he swallowed the lump that rose to his throat. "Just a few years," he said, knowing that instilling false hope of adoption into the boy would do more harm than good.
Mamoru's head bobbed slowly as he processed the answer, mouth opening with so many questions, but unsure where to start.
"Well, I should get going."
"Mr. Tanaka?" Panic filled Mamoru's voice; he wasn't ready to go back there. He wasn't ready to be forgotten. "Will you visit me again?" His blue eyes widened, and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears.
"Would you like me to?" he asked, and Mamoru nodded, causing a warmth lighting up Mr. Tanaka's face. "Then of course," he said, vowing in that moment to not let Mamoru Chiba become one of society's throw away children.
At first, Mr. Tanaka would visit every few weeks, bringing Mamoru a new book to enjoy. They would go for walks through the park or grab lunch at a nearby ramen shop, and he would listen to stories about his parents, stitching together the pieces in an attempt to make them whole.
He told Mr. Tanaka all about the orphanage; about the babies that screamed all through the night, and the toddlers who begged him for bedtime stories. He talked about Kentaro, an older, silver-haired boy who took him under his wing, ensuring that the bullies stayed far away. He was even learning how to fight.
"What about your studies?" Mr. Tanaka asked, concerned that
"I got an A on my test," Mamoru boasted, pulling it out of his backpack. "I brought it to show you." He handed over the paper, and Mr. Tanaka tapped with approval. "This is very good," he said, hiding his disdain for far too easy subject matter; a boy of Mamoru's age should be much further along. "How do you like classes?"
Mamoru shrugged. "They're okay. They're kind of boring."
"How about we get you a tutor," he suggested, "a smart boy like you needs a good education." He ruffled Mamoru's hair, as the boy beamed with pride.
As the years went on, the visits became less frequent, but Mr. Tanaka was always there when needed. He became the one constant in Mamoru's life, the light at the end of the tunnel, and that one piece of goodness that he clung onto. Life at the orphanage was easier for Mamoru than most, and he secretly wondered if forgetting his family was a blessing in disguise; he had no relatives to long for or memories to pine after.
When he reached middle school, he was moved from the children's care facility and into a group home. His first weeks there were rough, filled with bruises and bloody noses. His acceptance into a prestigious middle school brought about more injury, and Mamoru only ventured home to sleep.
At school he flourished, working hard, and joining clubs to keep himself as busy as possible. He made friends with peers, and at lunch with a group, but maintained all relationships at arm's reach. He observed more than engaged, but finally found a place where he mostly fit. When asked about his parents he masterfully changed the subject, only offering that they were originally from Tochigi as that's where Mr. Tanaka said his father was from.
The hours after school were spent in the library, finishing homework, and pouring over books. He stopped at the convenience store on the way home to flip through manga, taking extra care not to wrinkle the pages. On the weekends he bided his time slipping into abandoned buildings with broken windows, exploring other parts of the world that had been left behind. They didn't much care what you did as long as you were back before curfew.
A week before he started his final year of junior high, Mr. Tanaka invited him over for dinner. Mamoru followed him inside, slipping off his shoes and placing them side by side at the entrance. The apartment was bare, save a few photos on the wall and a teetering mountain of paperwork that sat at the edge of a desk.
"You can choose a few books from the shelf, if you'd like," Mr. Tanaka offered, pointing to the tall bookcase that stood at the end of the room. "I have more than I know what to do with," he said, watching as the boy approached apprehensively, and ran his fingers along a row of spines.
"Any of them?" Mamoru asked, eyes wide and brow raised.
"Any of them." Mr. Tanaka smiled, his age painted in the wrinkles on his face. "I don't know many people who share my love of books." He laughed, and Mamoru relaxed. "Go on then, I'll start cooking."
Starting at the top, Mamoru worked his way through the collection, stopping to inspect covers and leaf through pages every few books. A small piled had gathered at his feet on the floor, but he paused when he came across a photo sitting awkwardly amongst them. Mr. Tanaka was easy to recognize; he was young in the picture, his hair not yet peppered with white and grey. His arm was draped casually around the shoulder of a woman, and two young girls with toothless smiles grinned in front of them. It looked like a nice memory.
Mamoru's gaze swept of the apartment – there were no signs of that family now. Only paintings and landscapes hung on the walls, and there was no evidence of colourful toys or children's books left behind. The spare bedroom was without a bed, and instead housed a myriad of boxes, taped and forgotten with time. Maybe Mr. Tanaka had lost his family, too.
"Do you want furikake on your rice?" At the sound of Mr. Tanaka's voice, Mamoru averted his focus back to the books.
"Yes, please." He stepped into the kitchen, watching as his host hurried about.
"Could you carry these to the table?" Mr. Takana asked, gesturing to two bowls filled with rice, decorated with a mixture of seaweed, fish flakes and sesame. He set them neatly on the table, imagining that this would what living with parents would be like.
"I'm sorry it's nothing fancy," Mr. Takana said, as they settled into their meal.
"No." Mamoru shook his head, swallowing the spoonful of rice he had shovelled into his mouth. "It's great."
They bided their meal with talk of hobbies, work, books, and school. Mamoru relaxed in Mr. Tanaka's company, finding the peace of the building and unassuming conversation a welcome distraction from his normal every day. They avoided the topic of the group home; the bruises on Mamoru's arm a clear indication of what he considered his secret life.
"Why can't I live with you?" Mamoru asked, the sudden question causing Mr. Tanaka's face to pale. The boy's cheeks flushed with hurt; weren't they the same? The ones who their families had left behind.
"Mamoru," he said, "It's not…" The words failed to find their way, and he rubbed his chin in frustration. "I… I can't take care of a child," he stammered, tears welled in Mamoru's eyes.
"I'm not a child!" he shouted, hands balling into fists. "You wouldn't have to take care of me!"
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?" he choked, fighting back sobs that threatened to rack his lean frame.
"It's just not." Mr. Tanaka sighed, wanting desperately to put Mamoru's mind at ease – things would get better. "Listen, I have an idea."
"Don't send me back there," he pleaded, as years of bottled emotions boiled to the surface.
"Just give me a little time."
Mamoru relented, and silence followed. He wiped away tears with the corner of his sleeve, eyes drawn downwards, and jaw clenched tight. Mr. Tanaka pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing there was something more he could do.
"I have a box for you," he announced, breaking through the thick tension. "It has some of your parent's things." He rose from the table and headed towards the spare bedroom.
"I don't want it," Mamoru said, arms crossed over his chest.
"Mamoru, there's not much left –"
"I said I don't want it," he snapped, heat crawling up his neck to the tips of his ears. "I can't even remember them," he yelled, the chair screeching across the floor as he stood to his feet. "I have to get back."
Mamoru stood at the doorway, clutching his bag in his hands. All of his earthly possessions fit neatly into a single suitcase, and now he had an entire apartment of space to fill. While their relationship was never quite the same, Mr. Tanaka had delivered in his promise, and on the eve of his fifteenth birthday, Mamoru moved out of the group home and into his own place.
"I wish I could be there with you," Mr. Tanaka had said on the phone through a fit of coughs. He gave Mamoru the address and the pass code to the building, leaving his first set of keys inside.
In the middle of the apartment sat a box with Chiba scrawled across the side. The flaps were frail with age, and a thin layer of dust coated the top and sides. It sat there for weeks, until Mamoru had summoned enough willpower to open it. With the memory of his parents now nearly extinguished, was he ready to dive back into a past he didn't remember? His decision was interrupted with a knock at the front door.
"Hi, are you Mamoru Chiba?" A woman stood in the hallway, her hair pulled back tightly into a ponytail, and brow dewy with sweat.
"I am." His forehead wrinkled – she looked familiar.
"I'm Kaori Tanaka," she said bowing politely. "I'm just here to drop of these." She motioned to a few clear garbage bags filled with piles of books. "He wanted you to have them."
"What?" Mamoru's breath hitched in his throat.
"He was sick, I guess he had been for a long time, but the old wretch didn't tell anyone," she rattled. "He didn't have a funeral or a memorial," she continued, grasping one of the bags by the handles and dragging it inside. Mamoru stepped back, unable to reply. "He never wanted one," she said, moving back into the hall for the second bag, stopping when Mamoru took it from her hands. "But I know you meant a lot to him."
"Thank you," he sputtered, heaviness settling into his shoulders. Kaori nodded, flashing him a sympathetic smile before turning to leave. "I'm sorry," Mamoru called after her, but she did not stop and only waved in recognition.
Closing the door, Mamoru turned to the books that had spilled out before him. He sat on the ledge of the entry, head buried in his hands. "He was a good man."