All characters from the Viewfinder Series are the property of Yamane Ayano or that of her publishers/subsidiaries. No profit is made from this fanfiction.
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He watched as the driver loaded a lone suitcase into the trunk of a car. The suitcase contained some clothes, a small case with personal items such as a toothbrush and comb... and nothing more. He almost didn't even take those things, but was forced to do so by the old woman. Had he the choice, he would have taken nothing. He wanted no piece of the place he was leaving behind. Had he the presence of mind, he would have burned it down and destroyed all that it contained. Made it so it no longer existed. Never existed. And then...
The 'and then' hovered in his thoughts. And then, what? Revenge, of course. But what can a 14-year-old boy do? I should be dead, the boy thought. I should have taken the gun. Taken it and run away. Found that person and killed them. And then...
And then? Turned the gun on himself, he supposed. Finish what was meant to be.
. . . . .
The boy rode in the backseat of the fancy, black car. Next to him sat a tiny woman. She was old, thin, and frail. You could say just a mere breeze could blow her away, except even the wind wouldn't dare push this woman around. As tiny as she was, she radiated an aura of power and her fierce eyes would make even the most powerful men feel compelled to bow to her. The boy never liked the old woman much and he bristled when she came to him and claimed him as if he was a piece of property. He would be damned if he would ever bow to her.
Ever.
. . . . .
Nishi... that was the name of the short, balding, and slightly overweight older man. The name of the driver. And now, he was... a what? A butler? The boy sat at a low table and Nishi served him a cup of tea. The boy placed his hands on either side of the cup, and was surprised to feel an uncomfortable heat burn his fingers. It was the first time in a long time that he could recall feeling any sensation on his skin. He suddenly felt very tired. When was the last time he slept? He couldn't remember sleeping, but he also couldn't remember if he remembered NOT sleeping. The whole world has gone insane, except I'm the only sane person left in it.
"Ryuichi."
Hearing his name jarred him as he realized he had nodded off while sitting at the table. The old woman was now sitting across from him, staring at him with her fierce eyes. The boy was unsettled by her gaze. He felt that same compulsion to bow before her. He thought if he showed her any weakness, she would swallow him alive. "You have yet to shed tears, I've been told. Tell me, when do you plan to mourn?"
Such a personal thing to ask! His words came out more forcefully and sharply than he intended. "There is nothing to mourn."
"Ah, rage... that is how you have been getting by. Unfortunately, your coping mechanism is nothing more than a childish tantrum. It will not sustain you for much longer." The old woman tilted her head slightly and looked at him as if she was analyzing an interesting artifact. "Tell me, my child, who is the target of your rage?"
"I am no child, much less YOURS," he spat.
"Oh, but you are mine, and I have the papers to prove it. Like it or not, you now belong to me."
"LIKE HELL, I DO!"
"Don't raise your voice at your elders. It's unseemly." Her calm statement disarmed him easily and effectively. "Though your dislike of me is apparent, I do not believe I am the target of your rage. Who is, then? Is it your father?"
A memory threatened to surface. He tamped it down immediately. "No..." he answered, not quite sure of himself.
"Yourself, perhaps?"
"Kurosawa," he replied softly.
The old woman glanced at Nishi meaningfully. Nishi nodded as some secret communication passed between them. She leaned her elbows onto the table and rested her chin on top of her folded hands. "Where does this name, 'Kurosawa', come from?"
"I think... he is the one responsible."
"I don't recall you mentioning any names to the police. How exactly is he responsible? This 'Kurosawa' is not the one who pulled the trigger, is he?"
The boy thought he knew where the old lady was going with this, and he was not going to allow her to manipulate him like that. He rudely placed his elbows on the table, rested his chin on top of his folded hands and glared at her, in a deliberate attempt to mock her.
His grandmother's piercing gaze never wavered. Suddenly his eyelids felt heavy and he tried to blink, except once his eyes closed it was impossible to open them again.
. . . . .
Blood. The normally ordered and spotless house was splattered everywhere with blood, it seemed. He was sitting in an odd position on the ground and noticed there were even spots of blood on him. There was a gun on the ground beside him. His father seemed to having trouble walking and he stumbled. His father fell face down right in front of him, and the boy watched his father convulse as a puddle of blood spread on the ground beneath his body. The boy gasped...
... and awoke in a soft futon. The window was open and a soft breeze was blowing into the room. He knew by the light that it was an early morning sun that was streaming through the window. He heard the sound of birds. It felt so peaceful. The boy threw back the covers and saw he was dressed in pyjamas. How did I end up in these? He must have fallen asleep so deeply that someone was able to dress him and put him to bed without him waking.
He got up and looked around his room. There was a low dresser against the wall. Opening the drawers he found the clothes that had been in his suitcase had been neatly placed in the dresser. On top of the dresser were a single set of folded clothes, apparently clothes for the day for him to change into. Nishi, he guessed.
He ignored the clothes and opened the sliding door to the room. He slowly padded down the long hallway looking around everywhere. He was in an old, traditional Japanese house. It was the first time he had ever been to his grandmother's house and so he took his time exploring and peeking into various rooms. One room was distinctly feminine. Curious, he entered the room and examined the pictures on the wall and the objects on the dresser. My mother's childhood room, he realized. One of the pictures was that of a young child, maybe 6 years old. It was strange to see his mother in the face of the child's. He suddenly saw a different face. It was nearly unrecognizable, as part of the face was missing... except for the empty eyes that seem to stare nowhere. He knew, without a doubt, the face belonged to his mother.
"No!" He shook his head to clear the vision and backed out of the room, stumbling in the doorway on his way out.
Back in the hall again, he realized he was breathing hard. He heard the ticking of a clock somewhere nearby and he used the sound to help him calm his breathing. He heard another sound and followed its source until he entered a kitchen. Nishi was in there, cooking.
"Have a seat at the table. I am almost finished making your meal."
The boy didn't move. The thought of eating didn't appeal to him at all. "I'm not hungry."
Nishi turned and gave him a stern look. "Then, a cup of tea will be sufficient?"
The boy shrugged nonchalantly and sat down at the table. A cup of tea was placed in front of him. As he drank the tea, he heard a bowl being placed next to him. "If you can drink tea, then surely you can have a little soup as well."
To be polite, he tried the soup and was amazed how good it tasted. As he ate the soup, a bowl of rice was also placed down, then pickled vegetables, eggs, fish... the dishes just kept coming and the boy found that he could not stop eating.
Finally, he sat back and watched as Nishi cleared away all the dishes. He realized that his mind was beginning to clear. He hadn't felt this good in days, like almost normal again. He knew he owed something to this man. "Thank you, it was very good."
Nishi looked pleased. "I am happy you enjoyed it," he replied, pouring the boy another cup of tea.
It felt strange to have this man serving him. "Where is my grandmother?"
"She has gone into town to take care of some legal matters, having to do with you."
Legal matters. He mulled the words over in his head, I must be in trouble after all. He wondered why Nishi was not with her. Isn't he her driver? He doubted the old woman could drive that large car, much less see over the steering wheel. He smiled slightly trying to picture it.
"We have learned..." Nishi hesitated, and then changed the subject. "You'll be going out to lunch with your grandmother and her lawyer when she returns. In the meantime, do you like to read? You'll find a very good collection of books in her studio. You are welcome to borrow whatever you like."
"Where is it?"
"At the end of the hallway." Nishi turned to the sink and began washing up.
He returned to the long hallway and followed it to the end. He slid the door open and found himself in a room with a collection of paintings on one side and a large bookshelf on the other. He walked up to an easel that held one of the paintings that was in progress. It was beautiful watercolor of bluebirds perched on a branch with pink blossoms. She paints? He carefully examined all the paintings. All of them were either flowers or birds, or both. He looked at the signature on the paintings: Asami Kimiko. So, that is her name.
He turned to the bookshelf next. Nishi was right, it is a good collection. He chose a book and pulled it from the shelf. As he began thumbing through it, he heard a car start up from the distance. He looked out the window and saw the black car pull out, with Nishi driving. He realized Nishi must have driven his grandmother to where she needed to go, then returned to make him breakfast, and now was leaving to pick her up again. All this trouble... for me?
The boy placed the book back on the shelf. This was not where he should be. It was merely a distraction from what he needed to do.
. . . . .
He returned to his room and dressed in the clothes that were laid out for him. He found his wallet in another drawer and checked it. He had been carrying a good amount of money before and it was still there. He remembered seeing a train station nearby and he thought he had enough money to travel for as far as he needed to go.
His shoes were near the front door. As he slipped on his shoes, he noticed another watercolor hanging near the entrance. This one was not flowers or birds but a painting of the house itself. He exited the house, closing the door behind him. He turned around to take one last look at the house. This is would have been nice dream, but I am not destined to go down this path. The path I choose is nearly at an end.
He noticed a brass nameplate by the door that read, ASAMI. The boy traced the name with his fingers.
He turned away from the house and took the path that led to the train station.
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This piece is just an experiment in writing an original Viewfinder drama. It speculates on what kind of background and experiences might have given rise to a man like Asami. He is a man that appears to have come from a wealthy family (given his tastes, manners, and high level of education), but he also a man with violent tendencies who is perfectly at home within the criminal world. The story goes on the assumption that he has a good reason for wanting to hide and/or protect his past, as well as a different original family name.