Untitled Misery

Warnings: Implication of rape, murder, child abuse, etc… Don't read if you know you can't take it.

But like I said, it's implied.

Summary: He cannot smile without reason. He cannot laugh just for the heck of it. He cannot be a child without a motive, without a cause. There has to be a reason. Through that mask that he cautiously wears, a man, distant from it all, sees through it—everything, the raw emotions, the motives, the reason. In this song, he finds out the bitterness kept in those eyes, the pain that he endured, and of course, what he can do in the midst of it all.

Prologue: The Art of Escape

I sat in my small bedroom, reading a book. No, it was boot a fairy-tale book; it was not a book about fantasy, and those other things—

I was reading a History book.

Now, just in case you're wondering why a 12-year-old boy like me would read about complex Japanese history, ask the school. Ask my classmates. Ask anyone except my parents.

Of course, you must already know the reason. This is what my parents expect of me. They expect their son to be the best.

I was at the top of my class. The teachers admire me, the students hate me, and my parents—well, let's just say that my parents are less than proud-and-happy.

Well, about them. They want me, their son, to be perfect. They want me to excel in academics. They want me to be some doll that can be manipulated and set to satisfy them. They want me to be just like them when I grow up—the rich, 'happy', "social", smart, know-it-alls that we all know they are. And what's worse, no matter how much I know about everything, they want me to be apathetic about it. I wouldn't call that something that I would want to be.

When I was somewhere around four, I remember singing in front of the television, and soon enough, my mother shut it off, and yeah… the bruise is still in my left cheek. I don't know what is up with them. They don't want me to excel in the arts. They don't want me to sing. They want me to be smart. They don't want application.

Every night, when I would get a test paper with a 98-and-below written on it, my parents would scream at me. They would slap me, they would… I don't know. I would get punished. Yeah. There.

And so I try my best. I don't want to go through the suffering I do every time I disappoint them. And so I study. I aim at marks of 100. I try to win every contest I join. I try to be perfect, like what they want me to be.

When you ask someone who knew my 'academic' childhood about my academics (or rather, if I had any education at all), they'll laugh at you for telling my stupidity on them.

They'd just exclaim, "Sakuma? Hell? Are you sure? He's the top of my class! Kinda wondered if his brain cracked, though,"

Every friend that I made, my parents would reject. I wouldn't dare question why, though. That would be my suicide. Of course, that meant that I had very little friends. Then again, even that handful of friends would befriend me for the sake of using me. Around this time, I got used to it.

Love was never an option for me. I was never loved; therefore, I do not know how to love. Maybe the closest thing to 'love' that I ever experienced was with him. Yes. Him.

I still remember him vividly: he was Caucasian, platinum-blonde, grey eyes. I remember his voice, how he would tutor me, his teaching style.

You guessed it: I had a major childhood crush on my tutor. He was actually my Music teacher at school, except that he insisted to tutor me since he thought that I had 'potential'. My parents were reluctant (as a matter of fact, it was a straight-no at first), but then again, since the A- on my card looked bad, they let me take it.

He (my Music teacher) was great with the piano. He would sing about just anything. He taught me how to listen to true music, how to sing, how to play, how to do all those things that he does. Somehow, this—music—is my escape. I could never have been happier about it. I used it to escape from my parents whenever I get punished. I used it during an exam. I used it whenever I can.

Until, of course, that happened.

I still have some traces of it in my memory, much as I wanted to forget about it. It was another Saturday afternoon. He was supposed to come.

I sat there patiently, waiting for him. Sure, what did a few 10 minutes matter?

He came in, looking like he always did. He apologized, and we sat for our lessons. Around 15 minutes has passed when there was a knock on the door. My sensei answered the door, but then he was knocked out by the force that the door hit on his head. I heard a gunshot.

I ran to the door to see who was there. To my surprise, two more men pinned me to the wall. What the hell was happening?

I heard some ripping noises. Then I saw the man. I couldn't remember his features, though; like I said, I chose to forget.

And so he ripped my shirt. He traced his finger on my bare chest. He mumbled a few words, and I was set free. I heard someone scream 'run', and a gunshot followed that.

Then silence. That silence didn't last long, though; the man stripped me of all my clothing, and he pushed himself to me. He did all sorts of things to me, things that I do not want to remember, that I do not wish to remember.

Soon after that, I was at my room. My parents were there with a stern face. I still remember mother's screams, father's slaps, their words.

"YOU IDIOT OF A SLUT! WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?"

What the hell? But didn't you see that I was—

And yet, they didn't. So I can prove nothing. Now they think that I'm a slut.

"HOW DARE YOU LET SOMEONE—IN MY HOUSE, AT THAT—ENTER? WHAT AUTHORITY DO YOU THINK YOU HAVE, YOU FUCKING FAGGOT?"

Another slap.

I just wanted to escape in all this. I just wanted to listen to the music of this all. No matter how much I tried, all there was is pure silence.

It was later that day that I found out that my Music teacher was killed. All assumed that it was me. All I can do was run away, for now; run away and escape.

Not now. No. Not yet. I have to know what I was doing first.

And so I stay here in this house, reading a History book, trying to figure out how I can escape and not end up dead. No, I can't die. Not yet. Everyone needed to know the truth. I need to find those people. I need to do so many things…

As of now, this—music—is my only escape.

My teacher once told me that there is no such thing as silence in the world. Everything makes a sound. If not, everything would be dead.

So for now, I try to find light in this much darkness, and soon enough, I will discover the music in the silence.

I am Ryuichi Sakuma. If I lived up until now as Ryuichi Sakuma, then I will make it. I have to live. I have to learn much more than what I know.

I have to… I know that I just have to. For me. For my parents. For my sensei...

...For music.

A/N: I know… I'm torturing him too much. I don't know if I'll continue on this, but that is my initial plan. If not, this can be a standalone. I know that I'm a really sucky writer. I know that this isn't very much, and that it's not as well-written as the other fiction out here… and that is why I need your comments, suggestions, etc! I just want to know what I can do! So thanks. Flaming is accepted. Thanks.

By the way, my condition is that please don't flame me. Flame the story, because that's more reasonable, and that's less childish.

And no, I don't like hurting Ryu-chan! WHY SHOULD I? He's my fave character. This suddenly just came up. In my head. So there.

Riko-chan