"I don't need anyone to hold me, I can hold my own."

― Ani DiFranco

Title: Familiarity

Type: Oneshot

Rating: T

Warnings: Mentions of domestic abuse and self-harm. Story has not been beta-ed.

Genre: Family / Hurt/Comfort

Plot: "Like the father I never had."

Notes: This one is just bleh.

Familiarity

Mother never loved me.

Some say—and by "some", I mean my inner conscience trying to be unreasonably logical despite the fact that I refuse to listen to what it's trying to tell me—that, at one point or another, Mother did love me. Past tense. Not present tense, conscience.

Would a mother who loved her daughter break everything ever sentimental to said daughter? Would a loving mother yell profanity at her daughter? Would a sensible mother try to slit her throat in an attempt to commit suicide? Would a caring mother purposefully poison her daughter's lunch? Would an understanding mother kick her daughter out at midnight? Would a protective mother not give any damns about whether or not her daughter was missing? Would a reliable mother forget to lock the doors at night? Would a kind mother not care if her violent husband visited and turned our house upside down?

Would a loving mother tell her daughter straight to her face that she never loved her?

That the daughter was just a sick mistake?

I don't think so, and I didn't know why she hated me, like my life was a burden on her shoulders.

So, that's why I, this day, approximately a year ago, ran away from home.

As in ran away from home.

Not some wimpy trail a couple of blocks from her house.

No.

I ran all the way to a different area all together.

With nothing but the clothes on my back and my kangaroo teddy, I met him on the bridge entering the town. Just leaning against the railings, tipping over and testing gravity, was him. I later learned his name was Po, after he was convinced I wasn't a fourteen year old mugger. (It took a lot of quizzes to persuade him.)

Po is just about thirty, like Mother. Comes from Hokkaido, transferred south for better education, works in a noodle bar—but that's all I found out about him. Strangely, my conscience obnoxiously wanted to know more. However, Po's a secretive guy, that's why his hair is so big and long; because that's where he keeps his secrets.

After the first night of running away, and inevitably failing after realising I forgot to bring money, I had no choice but to return home. As expected, Mother didn't care. She probably didn't even notice I was missing as she was sprawled on our couch, drowning her sorrows of her miserable life away in a hurricane of sake and tears.

I continued visiting Po on that bridge.

One night, he had asked, "Why did you run away from home?" And I said, "Because mother hates me." He seemed surprised. "Did you do something wrong?" I admitted, "I think it was because I was born." After that our conversation ended, and we simultaneously and silently slipped back into the night.

Constantly, almost every night, I visited Po. Night after night, always, on the bridge. We'd chat, talk, not including personal information, of course, but close enough to admit things we'd probably never tell other people.

The jokes he'd say, the endless stories of his rather bland life but were told as if they were exciting adventures, his broad and bright smile. The little presents he'd give to me—sweets, treats, magazines, teddies, glitter, shiny rocks, fake pearls, half-empty perfumes, withering flowers, and everything in-between. The hours of talking and experiencing. The nights of familiarity and closeness. It was love, absolutely, but not romantically. Romance was way over my head, anyway. Besides, I have never experienced family love, never mind romance.

It felt like I experienced a decade's worth of memories in a span of three months.

It was nice, being with Po. Like the father I never had.

One night, Po asked for my full name. I only ever said my name was "Luka", nothing more, nothing less. I told him, finding myself trusting him, "Sakine Luka."

He was shocked, almost flabbergasted. When a minute or five of silence passed, Po mumbled under his breath, "Now the reason why you ran away makes sense."

Three weeks after that rather weird incident, I was digging around in our house's attic in an attempt to salvage any sentimental belongings of mine after Mother had gone on a crazy rampage trying to destroy them all. In the end, I only managed to find Mother's old yearbook from highschool.

As I flipped through the pages of the dusty yearbook, I realised Mother was not active in anything. It wasn't until I saw the students photos did I see her face.

Mother was a lot youthful-looking, obviously, but still had the same choppy bob-cut back then. Aside from her hair, Mother had changed drastically. Her once bright eyes are now empty, her once full cheeks are now sullen, her once glowing skin is now ghastly, her once curvaceous form is now worryingly thin, her once cheerful smile is now a scornful grimace.

I found Father's face, too.

Just like Mother, Father was younger and youthful. His pink hair remained the same until now, but his smile and features turned terribly angry. Maybe, when he was that age, Father had other emotions aside from fury and madness. But now, that's all he ever feels. That's what he's made of; rage, with a side serving of insanity.

When my heart started acting weirdly, pounding loudly in my chest, and I decided to close the yearbook, another face caught my eye. A familiar face, one that belonged to a peculiar man that loitered on the rails of a bridge entering another province.

Po.

Subconsciously, I slid my finger across of the surface of his picture, thinking. Like my parents, he was a lot younger. Although his smile never lost its brightness, it did have the habit of becoming bitter and almost regretful whenever I met him on that bridge. His hair was shorter too, choppy, like Mother's. Coincidentally, he was in Mother's class all throughout highschool. Weird.

Underneath the picture of Po, read, "Kamui Gakupo. Class 2-C."

Stupidly, I realised Po wasn't his real name. Oh well. Po suited him better, in my opinion.

Anyway, asking Mother about Po was the next significant thing that happened after the yearbook discovery. It wasn't exactly logical or well-thought out, but the curiosity was killing me. I simply approached her on the rare occasion she was sober, when she was a heap of hangover headaches and sore throat syndrome on our couch watching TV, and casually asked, "Who's Kamui Gakupo?"

Mother raised a balding eyebrow and lazily changed channels, not making eye contact. "The number one wuss of all time, that's who."

I was unconvinced. "Mother, who is he?"

This time, Mother sent me an irritated glance, then focused back on her listless channel surfing adventure. "He was a guy in my class in highschool. Just another blurry face in a sea of blurry faces." She paused, to think, or to hesitate, I didn't know, "Great. Another sudden memory to drink out of my system."

Mother's vagueness gave me my suspicions. The way she acted was weird. Usually, even if Mother was terribly sober, she would not have given me more than one sentence of an answer. Normally, it was a glare, or an incoming vase, but not a vague explanation.

That night, I planned on confronting Po about his relations with Mother, but, unexpectedly, his state was rather odd.

Po was drunk.

That night, his body was hanging over the railing a little too far, his body a little too unbalanced. That night, his usually bright smile with its hidden secrets was darkened to form a lazy smirk. That night, his scent wasn't floral, but reeked of booze and cigarettes. That night, Po wasn't Po.

"Don't lean too far," was what I greeted him with, tracing my hand on the curve of his back, to balance him, or so I wanted to believe. "You're too young to die."

"Luka!" He grinned broadly, revealing food-stained teeth and releasing booze breath. "You're here again!"

My heart hurt, seeing him messed up beyond logic. Like Mother when Father first started his furious outbursts. "I have no choice, do I? I'm the reason you don't fall to your death into the river."

Po chuckled, deep and throaty. "You're the reason I've ever wanted to jump anyway."

His sudden confession caught my breath, and my lungs ached. "What do you mean?"

"Meiko...just had to get knocked up, huh, with Yuuma's child... You," Po grumbled under his breath, irritated, "She could've had my child, but nooooooo. Yuuma loves her more, Yuuma's hair is prettier, Yuuma's going to a good college. Absolute BS."

About a thousand emotions were pulsing in my veins, yet I still managed to ask, "What were you to Mother?"

Po looked me straight in the eye for the first time that night, and solemnly said, "Meiko's backup plan, her booty call or whatever... Not husband-material, obviously..."

"You were Mother's..." I forced myself to not hesitate— "...lover?"

He sighed. "It's not that simple."

"So," I stepped backwards, retreating, "Mother hates me because she regrets choosing Father over you, and you hate me because Mother had me with Father?"

After a thoughtful silence, Po answered with another sigh, "I don't...hate you, Luka." He leaned forward, testing his chances with death, and said, "You make me sad, with you being a reminder of what I screwed up a long time ago."

"Then I should go," I said, hurriedly fixing my attire, readying myself to leave, "We should have never met."

Before I could swivel around and allow the night's shadows to engulf me whole, Po suddenly yelled, hanging more than half of his body over the railings, looking determined yet desperate, "If you go, I'll jump for real!"

It was tempting to run back to him, the seriousness in his eyes was nothing to joke about, but Po was drunk. Po was not Po. Po would not jump. I frowned coldly. "Then, jump. What's the point in staying if you hate life? It's better drowning in water then sadness."

"Are you really going to go, after all we've been through?" Po asked, helplessly desperate. "All the nights of chatting? The nights of happiness?"

I swallowed back excuses. "True, the reason I'm happy is because of you, but the reason you're sad is because of me."

"But my sadness isn't your fault, Luka!" Po pleaded, begging, "You're the only person that's ever cared, the only one who showed concern when I hung around the bridge!"

It might have been true, what Po was saying. Maybe I was the only person decent enough to be concerned about his well-being and odd habit of hanging over railings—but the thought of me, being the person who drove him to this state, made my heart clench with guilt.

I was the product of an unwanted marriage, a hurried and hasty marriage. A marriage made not out of love, but from pressure. I was the daily reminder of everything Mother screwed up, being the mirror image of Father, except for my structure and rather plump lips. I was the reason Father couldn't live his ever-so bright future. I was the reason Mother hated life. I was the reason Po wanted to jump.

My existence was a complete mistake, a nuisance.

If Po wanted to jump, fine. It wasn't like we could go back in time and stop Mother from falling for Father anyway. With this mindset, I turned away from the purple-haired man on the railings, threatening, testing gravity. However, I wasn't heartless enough to leave without some final words. "Goodbye," I whisper, but loud enough to be heard, "Gakupo."

And I disappeared into the night, allowing the shadows to engulf me.

If a happy ending was what you are looking for, it's not here. Nothing is blatantly happy nor has anything ended.

My life continues, and even if I didn't, others would continue. The "end" you're searching for hasn't arrived, yet, never mind it being happy.

Things have definitely changed, though.

Father is officially starting college again, after abandoning the idea of it after impregnating Mother near the end of highschool, and rarely rages anymore. Mother has finally come to her senses, upon seeing Father alight with happiness, for the first time in about six years, and is starting to attend support groups for her drinking problems and has gotten a job as a cashier. It's not much, but it's definitely something.

This all happened because I confronted them, cried, yelled, screamed. If I was the reason why your lives are so pathetically miserable, then why aren't you trying to fix it? Why are you shouldering me as if I were a burden? This is my life! You have no right to act as if it's a nuisance, just because you two were reckless! It's not my fault, but it's not yours either! Now get up and stop living in the past!

This made them wake up. Made them snap and realise. Realise that our lives were a mess, and they weren't trying to fix it at all. Realise booze and anger won't solve anything. Realise hating and neglecting their daughter, each other, was not the way to fix it.

Me? I am finally facing reality.

This day, approximately a year ago, I ran away from home.

As in ran away from home.

Not some wimpy trail a couple of blocks from my house.

No.

I ran all the way to a different area all together.

With nothing but the clothes on my back and my kangaroo teddy, I met him on the bridge entering the town. Just leaning against the railings, tipping over and testing gravity, was him. I later learned his name was Po—and, in the spur of a drunken haze, he told me the reason why Mother hated me.

He is the father I never had.

Who listened, who talked, who revealed secrets. Made me laugh, brought me presents, and opened my eyes to the truth.

I never got the chance to thank him, for everything. For making me realise, for helping me make my parents realise.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I will be fifteen. Nothing exciting, really, but it's some sort of milestone.

I am at the bridge. The only difference is it is daytime, and I am no longer fourteen, with a determined mindset and an ambition of running away from my broken home. Some things have remained the same, though.

I am still Sakine Luka, a child from a healing marriage.

And Kamui Gakupo, the man who never chased after his one and only love out of cowardice, being the infamous "number one wuss of all time", as Mother said, is still draped over the railings, testing gravity, testing death. Wanting to fall, but too scared to do it.

His did not jump. He did not die.

Maybe, maybe, he will forgive me for walking away that night, a year ago. Maybe, maybe, he would want to start over with me, as a fatherly acquaintance. A father who is not my Father.

I step forward, and breathe in. I place a small smile on my face as I reach out and trace the curve of his back, to balance him, or so I believe. I don't want him to fall, and my intentions are still unclear, but I definitely don't want him to jump. Especially since I've realised wounds can heal, people can make mistakes but try again.

In a form of a greeting, I whisper, "Don't lean too far. You're too young to die."

He turns around, surprised, but then smiles. "You're here."

I smile back. "I'm the reason you don't fall to your death into the river."

Unlike last time, he nods and smiles. No secretive chuckle and drunken confession. "You're the reason I don't want to jump."

My smile lengthens. "I know."

The "end" you're searching for isn't here, yet, but right now, I am definitely happy.