The name 'Razor' came and stuck with me just over a year later – and would last as my alias until the charade we were all living collapsed around us like a deck of cards. It was how they all knew me; how they all addressed me – just 'Razor' – not 'Razor-kun' or anything else. Why they did so is a mystery to me; whether or not it was because that they had a lack of respect for me, or, conversely, a great respect for me; due to the perplexing nature of the Japanese naming system. But it was the way and after a while of it being the case, I quickly became used to it.
In all fairness, as a matter of fact; 'Razor' became what I was known for two reasons. The reason, I suppose, why it became mainstream amongst my colleagues and peers of whom I worked beside was the fact that I liked, back then, to use a traditional-style razor to shape my lines. Last time I indulged my addiction, I used a playing card; the ace of spades, as it has some relevance to me. Its edge is fine, but not quite as much so as the ivory-handled, magnificent tool I used to use. I intend not to tell you this to encourage you to follow in my footsteps, au contraire, as a matter of fact; but you can never get a line that's as thin and dense as you can if you use something with a really sharp edge. It means the blow goes down easier, the burn's less and the Rush, the Rush seems somehow longer and the taste seems stronger – that lemon-sugar taste that pure coke has – giving the illusion that what I was snorting was almost the high-class stuff; the junk the top businessmen do at their office parties – not one parts coke, ten parts ground up aspirin, or whatever. And when you're in this crummy business – when you know you're low and what you do is low, but you choose to ignore it and do what you do anyway – any single little touch or taste of class, you gotta scrounge for; in order to keep telling yourself that it's not so bad. That you're not so bad – and neither are the people with whom you work – because any Psychologist will tell you that you can up anyone's esteem or 'id', as it's called in their medi-speak – by doing so; as its pretty much at least mostly established by what the individual tells themselves. When one lies enough to themselves, repeatedly and frantically; the mind really does start to believe it. It's why we all had to do it; to lie to ourselves about good things; to block out the insults given to us by our superiors, again and again; day in, day out.
After all, what good is a Shatei who doubts himself and what he can do for the Oyabun, or for the Family to whom he belongs?
Reverting back to my original point; I suppose the main basis why my nickname was coined was because it had something to do with the reasons behind my first stint in Juvie. As you can probably imagine; when I got sent away to that godforsaken place for committing a godforsaken crime, my Family; especially, naturally my Father (though for different reasons, of course), were not best pleased with me. It was a burglary crime, coupled with assault that I had been thrown in for; which meant my training was going to take longer – which meant, more importantly, of course – that it was going to cost them more money. I had not spoken to him, but when I saw Kiriyama-dono's face in the courtroom, leering across from my own, I knew that I was to be punished when I got out – so, in an odd sense, I felt myself looking forward to the good six months that I'd been sentenced.
In all fairness, it wasn't my fault that I'd gotten caught, that time; but, as I was of course the quietest amongst the Shatei; who kept to himself in that first, awful year, I got the blame for it. I got the blame an awful lot for everything, before I came back to the world from the youth-prison. Cigarettes missing from Kotaro-san's pocket? Reita-kun took them. Someone spilt Kitano-Sensei's tea? Reita-kun was clumsy. Tomasu-kun (a.k.a, 'The Faggot That Screams At Night') has a broken nose? Reita-kun lost his temper. On and on it went; up mounted the bruises and everyone was happy.
Except, of course; for Reita-kun himself, who was feeling more than a little bit low by then. Had that bullshit gone on, I think that it would probably have gotten the best of me, in the end. In some ways, I'm even happy that I went to Juvie; because such an experience teaches you a lot about yourself that you didn't know before. After going to Juvie, my mouth opened – and I could fight back. I could socialise. I could climb the ladder over the masses as they looked up to me as their brother and their friend. I fraternised with those bastards, after I came out from that place and although I couldn't say it did me any good, it sure as hell, for the most part, kept me going.
But when the owner of the residence was sobbing at my feet, weeping as he nursed his bleeding hand and I was standing over him; a vision in black, with a shaved head and wide eyes, little good that fact was going to do me; because I didn't know it yet. He was a meek, frightened little creature; mid fifties, I would say. I didn't know his name when I became involved in the struggle with him, but it didn't make him any less real. I looked at my hands as the man, paling due to his blood loss, slumped over against the bathtub and the razor I had used to cut him stared back at me; a single slice of silver through the sticky red winking at me; as if it was laughing.
His name, as I found out when they processed and questioned me; was Isamu Motobuchi – and we had broken into his house at a quarter to ten that evening. We had chosen his particular property after some observation because he lived alone, wasn't physically very strong by his appearance and he had a lot of what looked like very interesting little trinkets littering his room. Ivory ornaments from Africa. Lacquer boxes, classic pens – all kinds of junk that could fetch a pretty penny on any black market in the city; of which, due to our connections, we knew plenty. But the main pride of place which Kotaro-san had his eye on had been a jewellery box on a shelf in his room; fat with all kinds of valuables.
The deal was, that for doing this job, we'd each get a cut of the money. Peanuts, of course, as we were only kids; but money was money and we figured that a bit was certainly better than none at all. Six of the members of my group, along with me, were chosen for it; because, as Kotaro-san said, it was easy money, it was a minimal job – and we were the kids who needed the practice above the others. We weren't rookies or bad, you understand – we'd each had at least half a dozen jobs or more and done them well; but we were the youngest – and the youngest tend to become the most arrogant unless such behaviour is caught and reprimanded early. This was no exception.
The break in went smoothly; through the bathroom window. Kotaro had mentioned this as a convenient entrance point and I have to admit, he had been right. We were far away enough from the owner's bedroom to sneak in quietly, but still on the top floor of the house; due to the harsh, climbing branches of the crab-apple tree which just touched the windowframe outside. The seven of us arrived inside with barely any sound; each one sensible enough to be careful to avoid knocking over anything into the washbasin as we landed feet-first on the expensive-looking, marble effect tiles with our soft-soled shoes.
The theft went well, too. The man slept like a child when we entered his room and took his things. When I did so I felt nothing. No guilt – but no fear of getting caught, either. All that did exist was the thrill of the game we were playing. Would we get away with it? If so, what would be our reward – and how better in the eyes of others would it make us? So easily impressionable we were; that I'm surprised any of us were able to think for ourselves at all. Thinking of it now and what happened next makes me feel very ill.
As I mentioned, all had gone well until we went back into the bathroom together; smiling like smug little bastards who had just won a race at the track – and we began to fill up our packs with whatever goodies we hadn't put in already. I personally had taken a lacquer box, a small wall scroll and an oak-embellished razor. We did it quietly and surprisingly respectfully; wrapping the ivory and the other more delicate items in toilet paper to keep them safe. Yes, it had been an in-out job and we knew, smirking at each other like the idiots we were, that Kotaro-san would be pleased with us.
Then, music started to circulate throughout the room – and the man groaned loudly.
At first, none of us were sure we were really hearing anything. I saw a couple of the Shatei looking around, but nobody really hearing, really listening, or taking it in. It only really struck me that yes, a tune was being played (and quite loudly too) when I recognised it and started absent-mindedly humming along. I recognised it, I realised afterward, because my elder sister had the exact same tune in her jewellery box; namely the main theme from the film 'Love Story'.
We all looked around to one boy, Maru-kun, who was the one who had taken the jewellery box itself and, sure enough, he had opened it and was staring into its glistening contents catatonically. I rarely say this and truly mean it, but out of all of us in our group of 'vigilantes'; he was the only one who was really truly stupid and without common sense. He was the sort of child who all of us, in a sense; wished to be and not to be – as he was able to appreciate the world without being able to break it down into little components, but, at the same time, what use was such a gift where, at any moment, he might mistake rat poison for sherbet?
I ran over to the idiot and shut the lid with a tambourine sound of wood against metal; but it was too late. Cries were coming from the man's room and I could hear heavy footsteps coming our way; which, as soon as we all realised that we could be caught, instigated immediate and utter panic amongst us. I ran to the door without thinking and held it shut as the others clambered through the window and left me by myself. I dropped my pack; its contents spilling out onto the floor and I used the freedom to brace it back with my hands.
The resistance stopped and I heard that man's voice become shaky as he fumbled noisily with something. That thing was his phone and the recipient was the police. I realised rather quickly that I had to get out of there, fast – or else.
It still all didn't seem real to me though. It wasn't real when I took his things, or when I released the door and he struck his head, very hard on the sink. It didn't even make it real when I looked into his eyes; those frightened things with, due to the very large head injury he had sustained, one pupil a little bigger than the other. It must certainly have made him dumb enough to try to fight with me, the poor man. He tried to lash out at me, to keep me there or get revenge – whatever reasons people hit out at each other – and it was all I could do to hit back just as hard. I was quicker than him and his reactions were slow due to the blow to his head, so it was without trouble, but he kept at it – and I found myself becoming more and more, well, scared. I did not want to be around this 'scary' man; nor did I want to be caught by the police. I was not particularly claustrophobic, but I hated this feeling of being trapped.
What really made it real for me was when the man whose name I then didn't even know, came running at me – and I cut him.
Then, all of it became very real indeed. I could feel everything, then. As I looked down at the sobbing, terrified middle aged man; it made me sickened to see that I had made such a prestigious gentleman look so pathetic in his pain. I looked around; seeing red everywhere – that never-ending feeling of sickness creeping up – and releasing itself in a bout of sanity and realisation. I had taken what was essentially a knife to this man. A man who had done nothing personal to me, but to defend his home and his property. I had stolen his things, I had essentially made a mockery of him – and I had hurt him, probably, if the depth of the wound was as much as I thought, very badly.
I remember slumping over; the razor dropping from my hand – and sinking deep into the folds of my enveloping conscience that was devouring me from the inside out; the man's sounds swirling around in my head as I sank... and I sank...
I did not resist when the police took me away.
A/N: Hey guys! Hope you don't feel I've been neglecting this too much :'] Reason I've been updating my other main story a bit more in the past couple of weeks was because I hadn't in literally months and I was feeling bad about it XD
Next chapter's gonna focus on Reita's time in Juvie, where he meets Saga for the first time :]