It was about noon when the doorbell echoed throughout the small apartment that lingered in Inaba. Bright yellow police tape had been strung across the door to keep intruders out, implying it was a scene of crime — and in technicality, it was. On the inside, it was a normal apartment consisting of simple furniture and nothing out of the ordinary. But the walls were torn, the mirrors were crusted with grime and cracks were splayed across the windows. It was almost like a tornado had ripped through and destroyed the interior, and yet everything was still in its rightful place like it'd done a reverse spiral.
The bed creaked and two legs swung over the side like a pendulum for a moment, stopping once bare feet were placed on the ground. Hollow footsteps echoed in an equally hollow room, body being dragged about with no care in the world. Pale hands lifted and reddened fingers, bitten by the cold (since the heater refused to work and his landlord refused to help him with it) rubbed at dull grey hues.
Nobody had visited him since then. Nobody cared to once the news spread of his murders. He was a villain in their eyes — the type of guy who would pull a knife on a woman in an alleyway with a smile. His so-called good intentions were wiped out in a blast of smoke and conned with mirrors, and those who were aligned beside him were suddenly backstabbers. His jail cell had been one just as cold as his small room — the walls looked like as if they were ready to sink in and cave, swallowing him whole.
Maybe he deserved that. No, being let out from his empty jail cell with the empty letters he wanted to write out was enough punishment. Repentance wasn't his style — as much as he might've been sorry for what he did, what did that shit matter to anyone? He'd payed the ultimate price. He'd committed the ultimate sin. His name was written in blood, strewn across the walls of the TV world where both of those idiotic fucking women perished.
No matter what he did, there was a certain amusement to it all after everything was said and done. Those meddlesome kids had completed their task, paved their way toward the truth and grasped it with warm hearts and sirens blazing. He commended them for their efforts, their valiant success in keeping Inaba a place where people could live peacefully without nightmares of being hung upside down on a wired telephone pole after a foggy night.
The crescendo of it all had already passed. His time had already come and he could hear his own heartbeat echo with dull thuds in his ears, blood rushing. His fingers sifted through a mop of faded brown, a half-assed attempt at stirring himself further and further to the point of consciousness. Exhaustion led his body forward, and eventually, he'd rounded the corner and swung himself clumsily toward the front door. The wood had been chipped off near the edges and he always found it amusing whenever he left — it formed something of a stupid smilie face that didn't look quite complete. Usually, it warranted a chuckle out of him.
This time, he felt nothing.
His fingers latched around the doorknob and he twisted it, yanking it back and letting the door swing awkwardly, nearly hitting him clean in the face. His other hand slapped over his eye to rub at it tenderly with the heel of his palm but what he saw connected with him — and he swore he stopped breathing for a moment.
A tall box had been set in front of him, wrapped in shiny silver paper with a red bow stuck on top. He could see the envelope poking out, having been wedged underneath the extra sprigs of the curly ribbon, partially labeled 'handle with care' and underneath in neat handwriting, 'to Adachi Tohru'.
He grasped it and turned it over, plucking open the fold and tugging out the card. It was constructed of blank computer paper that was folded to look as if it had been bought from a nearby convenience store. Once he flicked it open with a solid movement of his thumb, his eyes wandered over the text inside.
This may be the first, but it's certainly not the last. Keep holding on, rookie. Happy birthday. We'll see you soon.Underneath it, two names were signed — one in rough handwriting like the note prior had been scrawled in, and the other in some sort of childish drawl, tainted pink: a girl trying too hard to write neatly. Dojima Ryotaro. Dojima Nanako.
And underneath the pink were another few strokes of black.
P.S.: Nanako misses your drawings. She baked this herself after I told her your birthday was coming up (with some help from her big bro). You'll have to come over some..But the last few words were blurred out suddenly — he hadn't realized it, but tears had conjured and were falling from his eyes, dribbling down his cheeks and off his chin.
He was always going to be the rookie.
But that empty feeling that had taken over him was suddenly painted over with contentment and warmth, knowing that someone still gave a damn about his pitiful existence.
It was enough for him.