When you're young, the concept of imprisonment seems pretty abstract. You go from being this kid; someone who knows little of change, except that when it happens; the life you once knew isn't only altered – it is permanently behind you. You're an entity which is the absolute embodiment; a perfect metaphor, of freedom and irresponsibility. You have no cage; like some unfortunate creature in a zoo – and you live your life knowing that your misdeeds will be compensated for by adults sticking up for you. You often don't realise how lucky you are when you're living that life until it's over and gone – and you're left, as most people are, in a rundown apartment, working a crappy job and listening to soul music whilst downing hard spirits, alone.
I was still a child, not quite yet thirteen – and Juvie was that cage; that limitation of my freedom that I could never have imagined. Six months to me, when I used to eagerly count down the days between one birthday to the next, was an awfully long time even normally – and I had some notion that it was going to feel far longer a time than it actually was.
I was actually pretty lucky that I got six months. The length of my sentence wasn't really due to burglary; as usually, as I often found as I got older, that youths simply get weekly terms or reprimands on such a charge. The basis of my sentence was, quoted by the judge that sentenced me, that I: 'with intent to harm or maim the defendant without conscience or forethought, attacked him with a bladed weapon'. The only reason really as to why I wasn't sentenced to a longer term was due to a 'monetary embellishment' from my Father; along with a subtle, complimentary threat that if I was made to do 'too much' time, her brains, instead of my Father's signature, would be on the cheque. He told me this flatly during his first visit; which was understandably awkward, as well as adding equally as bluntly that he wasn't bailing me out. That if I was going to be 'fucking stupid', then I ought to learn a lesson; so that I'd grow up and not show him up again. Oh course, I pleaded against this, even breaking into sobs, but my Father ignored me and left with little more than a low grunt.
I knew he was angry about what I'd done. I'd embarrassed him in front of his superiors – exhibiting that I acted without forethought and was therefore unpredictable. Such actions, especially when one had the skills and access to weapons which I did – could be very dangerous indeed. My Father knew this, but more importantly so did Toshio Souma. I was pretty sure, as I examined him and how he wasn't looking in my eyes, that some extremely harsh words had been thrown around in that office about me; between my Father, the Oyabun and Kiriyama-dono. So I knew, to some extent, that I was being very selfish by crying; as I already knew that this was difficult enough for my Father to deal with as it was, but back then, I didn't care.
I hated that place.
I appreciate the lessons it taught me, when I went there; as I mentioned to you earlier – but the experience, in itself, was beyond monstrous.
The first few weeks, up until my Father's first visit, were the hardest, though. They were the silent ones, where I had nobody I could turn to. Hanging in the exercise yard, eating my meals - I lived alone, avoiding everybody as a frightened little introvert. It made it even worse when I passed the larger boys; the more dangerous ones I'd seen being punished for their misbehaviour and heard them whispering as I passed them. I took one look at them, saw their smirks and knew – with acceptance rather than paranoia – that they were talking about me. About what, I couldn't hear; but I gained some idea of it when the 'bullying' started around two weeks after I arrived.
In a sense, I was an ideal prisoner – one which showed nothing but respect, was polite to the authorities who controlled him and obeyed every command. I was often put on laundry duty; a job that was tedious and irritating, but ate up the hours of time that I was being forced to spend here quite nicely. Unfortunately for me, though; some of the older kids worked alongside me. Even more so, they found it equally, if not more so, as boring as I did and, unlike me –
(Hold the bastard down that's right squeal)
– they tended to act on their boredom. Combine that ability with a dose of hormones, upper body strength greater than my own (over time when you get better at self defence techniques, that 'upper body strength' doesn't really mean anything at all; but my progress with Kitano-Sensei had not yet fully expanded upon the consequences of that fact), sizeable numbers and a couple of blind spots in the room where the cameras couldn't reach, and –
(Sadamu your go open your mouth or we'll break it motherfucker)
– you get the idea.
As with everything, the first time's always the worst. Age meant nothing to them, at all; in fact, they preferred young detainees, because they're the most fun to hunt down and pick on, as well as being the 'tightest'. The first time, I screamed an awful lot and struggled – but I ended up just getting beaten up and it happened, anyway. Since I had nobody to turn to and I was terrified of the things that they might do to me if I told the guards about what was going on, I simply kept quiet and took it – and, after a few weeks, it didn't hurt as much anymore. Same old pain, same old sounds; same old smells of poison oak and old sweat.
I never screamed or cried again when they did it. After the initial struggle as I tried to keep my dignity came to a sharp; rather rude close, I would often try to leave my body instead; letting my mind wander to other places, away from this crude satire of so called 'justice'. I kept at it as long as I could when it happened – and sometimes, it almost worked. I was back at home with my Sister and Mother around the dinner table; complaining about the lateness of my Father. We often laughed in these visions and would eat her delicious cooking, as I closed my eyes and pretended the thing that had been forced in my mouth was something tolerable to masticate, than something that tasted sour with lust and evil.
They didn't like me doing it though. They liked me to stay conscious of what was happening, because they got more satisfaction out of the power it gave them. So if I started to drift, they'd often take their fists to my 'pretty face' and leave me stranded and alone afterwards on the dusty floor; anointed with sweat, come and my own blood. Sometimes it took me a while to drag myself up and I could go on, away from them. Other times I'd get taken to the infirmary and they'd ask me about who it was, trying to get some sense out of me; so that they could protect me from them. It was a kindly, human thing to want to do, but I never said anything. I couldn't have brought myself to say their names, even if I wanted to (for some reason, I'm not able to now, either). These people were not inside this place, where the dangers and the snakes lie in wait, everywhere. There were no consequences on their part for punishing the boys who were doing these things to me – for they were impervious, and could not be touched by them; whereas I was in that pit of snakes, that coliseum full of creatures called humans who take pleasure in pain.
Oh yes, I did not scream, my dear.
That doesn't mean to say however, that I didn't cry: because I did. Good God almighty, did I cry.
Crying was another thing I kept to myself. I accredited myself with being strong during the day as I spent my life alone in that place for that awful first while; so, in a sense, letting go was my reward for being strong. Letting free the pain and humiliation of the day; in an oddly similar way to how I used to cry when I fell over and cut my knees. My sleep was poor because of the discomfort my pillow gave me during the nights I wept; soaked through with tears which had a dual nature of being sticky and irritating my childish, sensitive skin. But that was alright; as I never really had any good dreams anyway. Only consistent nightmares, to which I'd wake up, after being torn apart by something unspeakable; by the kind of demon that is easily invented in the minds of the young with their bottomless, wonderful imaginations, in gasps and cold sweat to only find that reality was worse.
In the midst of all this, this bullshit; was when I met Saga Sakamoto. Do you remember him? He was the skinny brown haired guy with the babyish face and the soft voice, when we met the Nines earlier.
I'd seen him around the place, too. I often saw him with similar bruises to my own. You see, I may have given you the wrong impression about the boys who were hurting me – because it wasn't, in the strictest sense of the word, exactly personal. I figured that they just liked Saga for the same reasons they liked me; because he was young, kept to himself and they found him attractive. So I watched him as he scurried around doing his tasks inside, in the exercise yard, or on the field where they'd make us play games (the season was coming to an end however, as it was nearly autumn) and thought to myself sadly: I know what you're going through, friend.
We never talked through, until Saga found me after they'd gotten to me first. I was in pretty bad shape, that time. It had been a really hot day and I'd taken a shower, alone – which was pretty fucking dumb, really. Sometimes it ended quickly when there was footsteps and they'd spring apart from me and cover up the damage, but nobody was around – all either outside cooling off if they were on a break, like the guards all were; sipping cold glasses of lemonade when the young men panted in the heat and drank their tasteless water, or, eating lunch.
After they'd finished with me, they left me on the tiles with the water pouring over my face. To wash away the evidence, they said, because the runt's attracting more and more attention these days. I was quietly grateful for it and closed my eyes; the heat of the water slowly creeping away to a lukewarm trickle. I wished it would end, more than anything. I thought back to the man whom I had sliced open and began sobbing, helplessly.
Was I sorry for what I had done?
Oh yes. Every goddamn day – so, in a sense, the judicial system had indeed succeeded in the case of Reita Suzuki. But it made no difference – no fucking difference at all – because I was here, I could not get out because my Father was not going to bail me out – and I would be staying until I was deemed safe to enter society again. Was this how that man felt, when I cut him open? That he was helpless and alone, with nobody to help him? I tried to think those thoughts and I felt a little better in my guilt – that I was genuinely sorry for what I had done to my victim, rather than me being the victim of something else as a consequence of my actions, and thus sorry only for myself.
Halfway through another sob, laying there on my side on the floor; teeth grinding against the tiles as I hiccupped and whined, the footsteps that I had not heard over the pattering of the water were suddenly close beside me – and my breath stopped in my throat.
(Oh God help me they're back)
I tried to get into as small a ball as I could, but before I could curl into myself, a pair of arms linked under my shoulders and I was dragged out of the shower. I knew what was coming, so I simply opened my mouth with a sigh; too broken to bother trying to fight, this time. But instead of what I anticipated, water was pouring into my mouth which shocked me so much, that I spluttered and coughed up much of what I had swallowed. I looked up, shivering from the new change in temperature and from shock; and looking down at me was the semi-familiar face, a bruise on its right cheek, which I'd casually observed and pitied.
"Are you alright kid?"
I didn't know what to do, as I looked up at Saga; his features kind and concerned, so I broke my internal, personal unwritten rule about being strong, and completely let go. I sobbed and he held me to him and I clung to his clothes, his uniform; wet from the shower which he'd dragged me from enveloping me in a shroud that today I can only describe as motherly.
"Shhh..." he soothed, his voice with a tinge of discomfort; typical of most men when a male cries around them; but I could sense the underlying tones of understanding and knew that he was trying. He seemed to comprehend that I was finding it very difficult to speak, so he did most of it for me.
"I saw them leaving the mess after you left," he said to me, handing me the plastic cup which contained the water he'd brought. "If I'd gotten here sooner..."
He trailed off, guiltily and there was quiet for a little while as he held me. I didn't know the name attached to the face, but it did not matter. I had a quiet adoration for him and the kindness he had shown towards me that was far, far too great for me to understand. Sometimes, that childish idolisation I think's something to do with how close we got in the coming months. Thinking of our current relationship now, as it is; makes me pretty sad. Because, if it hadn't been for him, I really truly would have gone on believing that Juvie, as it was when I attended, was an accurate representation of the nature of men.
Sometimes, after all, the people we least expect are the ones which really affect us in our being, and give us hope.
A/N: Had to edit chapter 34 a bit, so I'd go back and read it :'] (my bad)