His mother.
That man's wife.
His movement was shaky as he threw down his schoolbag.
"MOM!" he knelt down behind the lifeless form, checking, with trembling fingers, the pulse on her slim wrist. A faint pounding. He could have died of relief. Hauling her up onto his shoulders, he ran out of the house.
He never wanted to return, but that was just wishful thinking on his part.
"How is she, doctor?"
"Stable. She didn't sustain too many serious injuries, but she did break a rib and suffered minor concussion. What happened?"
"I… don't know. I think it was an accident" He hated himself for it, not knowing what always happened while he was gone. He knew it was him. Why was his mother defending that wretched bastard of a man? Why was he himself defending him as well? He hated himself. Pure loathing. And worse thing was, he could not hide. The truth of it was displayed right before him, mocking, taunting. His mother, unconscious.
"It would be best if she stayed here for a few days, for observation. Just to be safe. We do not know if she suffered permanent mental trauma" The doctor looked at him closely, observing his reaction.
He looked at his mother, torn between the two things at hand, they were already barely holding on by the finest of slivers in their economic situation, but his mother looked so frail, so vulnerable. And surely that man couldn't reach her while she was in here?
"How much does it cost?" he asked at last.
"About one hundred and fifty per night, depends. Do you have insurance coverage?"
Lowering his head in shame, he replied softly, "No."
"Then one hundred and fifty."
"Per night?" He confirmed, just to be sure.
"Yes, per night."
He squeezed his hands around the visa card in his coat pocket. Just one swipe, and his mother's safety would be granted, for as much as their funds would allow. But one fifty? One fifty? He needed the money. He couldn't possibly…
"I'm sorry," he croaked, "I'm really sorry, she needs to get home by today."
"Ah, I see," The doctor surveyed the young boyish teen and sighed. As if the faded jeans and tattered coat wasn't enough proof already. He wasn't there to provide charity, though his mind screamed at him to do so. If he helped every single financially challenged patient who came along, he would wind up broke.
"Yes, when can she be discharged?"
"I would say in about two hours or so. We need to wait till the anesthetic has worn off slightly."
"Okay."
"You can wait over there, we'll call you."
"Thank you very much doctor."
"You're welcome."
He sat down, disjointed thoughts flashing through his messed up brain. Judging by the amount of money he had, he had hardly enough even to file a lawsuit, let alone a get lawyer. Burying his face in his hands, he let sheer frustration and anger take hold of him, letting hot tears roll down to stain his already sweaty palms. His watch started ringing. Nine thirty. He had to skip his job today. Hopefully, his boss would understand.
God. Why god? Wasn't he supposed to help? He had spent countless hours, praying. First to his mothers, then every other deity he could think of. Why could she not just get a divorce? Did she really love that man that much? Did she even love him at all?
Why why why why why?
That was the question everyone wanted answered.
In his confused, wearied and aggravated state, he soon found solace in slumber.
"Excuse me? Young man, could you wake up now?"
"Huh?"
"Your mother can be discharged now."
"Oh! Right, okay."
"Ryoma?" Her speech was slightly slurred from the anesthetics administered to her, "We can go now."
"Yeah," He stood up to help his mother to her feet, careful not to let her put any pressure on her injuries, "does it hurt?"
"No, no," she smiled weakly and waved off his helping hands, "I'm fine. I can manage."
The same words she spoke just before he left that morning. He wasn't convinced in the least, but he let the matter drop, at least for the moment.
"Come on, let's go home." It wasn't home. It was a prison.
"Yeah, let's go home."
With one arm around her shoulders, the other supporting her back, the two of them teetered out of the hospital, walking step by step, inch by inch, slowly moving together towards their worst nightmare.
And something they couldn't possibly have even dreamed of.
"Ryoma," he wanted to land a punch into his face, beat the life out of him. The lips that were not worthy enough to speak his name, eyes that were not worthy to land a single glance on him and his mother, feet that were not worthy to step within the hundred meter boundary he wished he could build around his mother to protect her. Protect him. But he knew that he would come back. He always came back. And his mother. She wouldn't approve. Love. A juvenile, stupid feeling. Driving all logic and common sense away. Love.
He hated the word.
"Ryoma, where is your mother?" He turned around to meet that revolting face, repulsive black hair and sullen expression, greasy skin and bushy black eyebrows. One look at him was enough to give him the urge to regurgitate all of his meager lunch, and yet he played along. This sick game.
"She is in her room," he replied, his voice even, "she's quite tired, I think she fell down while cleaning."
"I see. Well then, I'd better go take care of her then."
He was disgusted at himself, his weakness, cowardice. If he had enough courage, he could easily call the hotline. There was bound to be one around somewhere. But no. Love.
Love always got in the way. Why could he not report this to the police? Because his mother loved him. And he was sorry to say, at one point, he himself did as well.
And he loathed himself even more for it.
As crashes resounded from the room next door, Ryoma willed his ears to block out the sound. This he could not hear, would not hear. And yet when heard his mother's cry of pain, he couldn't help it.
He was glad he wrote in pencil.
"I'm home." He called out. It was late, but he did beg his boss for an extra shift after all.
"Go to your room, don't come out until I tell you to."
Why. The word formed so easily on his tongue. And he felt it escape his lips before he could stop himself. The sharp pain on his neck said it all. With willing submission he just could not forgive himself for, he bowed and entered his room as instructed, closing and locking the door behind him.
There had been days of actual happiness between them. When that man had been courting his mother, who had been mourning. What had changed since then? He screamed into his pillow. What happened? They fell in love and got married. That was what happened. Love and marriage. Two things he swore never to get involved in ever.
Systems had inputs and outputs. Misery was the only output for this one.
He felt the sudden urge to cry. Crying was useless. Crying was dumb. He was a boy, a man. He could get through this without tears. And yet no matter how many times he told himself this, he never, ever got through a single day in that household without any. And that today was no exception.
"MOM! Why don't you just get a divorce? Why make this so hard?" He kneeled at her bedside. Begging her, just to stop her own torment.
"Why?" his mother had replied, "I made a vow. To be together with him, in sickness, in health, good times, bad times, joy, sorrow… A vow with god. I can't just break it."
"But… but… this is beyond what—"
"Say no more Ryoma," his mother had said sternly, "I do not regret my decision, nor will I ever. Besides," she added, "I love him dearly."
She was a fool. Played by the hands of whatever forces controlled the earth they lived on.
More scuffle broke out in the room next door. Why did he not just stand and stop him? Why stay in his room like a pawn for this demon. Why so docile? Why was he such a coward? Such a… a… he could not even find the words describe himself. So utterly nauseatingly weak. A fresh wave of tears came to his eyes as another cry was heard. Pleadings.
He had his hands on the small plush toy his father had given him before he left. With a rip, he tore it to shreds, imagining the face of his tormentor on its felted surface, the button eyes, the embroidered flat smile. All gone. He hated him. Hated him so much, so much. Hate was too mellow a word for it. Hate could not even begin to describe how he felt towards that man. His absolute detest. And if hate was what he felt for that man, it was what he felt for himself as well.
"Echizen-kun, there's someone calling for you." It was math class. His favorite class. Complicated equations took his mind off reality, if only just for a while.
"Hai." He got up, following the teacher who had asked for him, wondering what could possibly have happened. With a sudden rush of happiness, he realized that maybe, just maybe, that man had been caught and detained and…
"Ryoma!" That man was standing in the middle of the office, tears streaking his face. He stood up and locked Ryoma in a tight embrace. Ryoma flinched. That man was touching him. Those hands, which inflicted so much pain upon his mother was now around his body.
"Ryoma I'm sorry," What was he apologizing for? He, of all people, should know that his actions were beyond all atonement. Did he think an apology would suffice?
"I'm so sorry, I couldn't stop her in time, I'm sorry."
He pushed that man off him, "what?"
At this, he broke down, crocodile tears, but for what?
"Echizen, we are very sorry to tell you, but your mother has been involved in a car accident today. She sustained… serious injuries."
"And?" Ryoma asked, dreading the answer he knew, deep down, that the principle was going to give.
"She didn't make it."
Four words. Just four words. And funny how it could make your whole world go wrong, more wrong than it already was.
"No."
"I'm afraid it's true Ryoma," she held out a hand to comfort him.
"No." he felt his legs weaken.
"It's all my fault." Came the sniveling comment from that man, that murderer, " I couldn't—"
"Yes it was!" He screamed, "It's all your fault! It is! You killed her," he grabbed his collar and shook him as hard as his small frame could allow him, "YOU KILLED MY MOTHER! KILLED HER! KILLED HER!"
"Echizen! Echizen!" someone was calling his name, someone was pulling him back. But he didn't care. The only thing he wanted to do was to inflict immeasurable pain on the killer before him.
"Someone hold him down!" Ryoma balled his fists and flailed them around, not knowing, not caring where they landed. Just as long as one of those blows landed on that monster, he was satisfied. He heard a cry of pain, and took relish. Finally, he could feel what his mother had been feeling, taste the blood in his mouth.
"IF YOU DIDN'T DO WHAT YOU DID EVERY DAY, SHE COULD HAVE GOT AWAY IN TIME! WHY?" His shriek was heard outside the office and more teachers were flooding in to restrain him, he was torn away from that monster. He could feel his knuckles bleeding from all those punches he threw, his nails breaking as he scratched at everything in his path. His eyes were blind to all but the bruised face of that man, ears deaf to all but the cries of this man before him, body numb to all but the small unsatisfying crunches he felt as he sunk his fists into that man. That beast.
I was feeling depressed when I wrote this.
Angsty. I know. That is probably quite different from what I usually write, and I'm sorry. My head is just really messed up at the moment and I just don't know what to do. Anyway, since I don't want to end up half crazed like Ryoma is, I will take out my anger on this word document, and hopefully it will suffice as a oneshot. Maybe I'll continue it when I'm in the same mood again?
BTW, there are some references to religion in this fic. I don't mean anything by it, please do not take those parts to heart.
Oh well, hope you angst lovers enjoyed it!
MC