another life after death
A/N: The last time I touched this chapter was August of last year. I had thought about writing a single long-shot, but then I thought to grow with this story because it is my child. Expect updates every month or so.
Notes from August 2020: I realized I haven't gotten back to this fandom in a while, so… Here I am, fresh from revising a forgotten outline to turn it into a workable story. And by story, I mean world. So let me introduce the players first, before diving into this reimagined world.
"In the end, even this garden will perish."
Fumiko Enchi, flowerbeds, and empty cathedrals.
The Orphanage Director tells her she was left here as an infant, all of them were. The stories and circumstances differ, but the one thing all children here had in common was that they were forsaken and left to be forgotten.
"A man held you in a plastic box. He was a sobbing mess, a sorry excuse for a human being."
The Director tells them they are unwanted and are better off dead, but they are just children, most of them still infants. They have no concept of life or death, they only cry when they are hungry and sleep when they are tired. There is no wondering about life and death, there is only the natural desire to survive.
But it is not only human to want to survive. It is a need, occurring even in animals and plants. It is an instinct. It is natural. But for humans, there is a want for more. There is always a want for more.
"Children like you are nothing but a burden."
She is too young–barely seven months old–to understand any of those words. But there's a searing-hot pain that spreads through her abdomen. She cries, not knowing what it is she is crying about, and then it disappears. Yet she continues to cry and wail, and then she is dropped on her head.
She cries without feeling pain, and the woman who had dropped her falls to the floor, wincing and groaning.
The men and women in the orphanage call her a cursed child, tainted by a witch or shaman, probably by her own mother, but she doesn't hear any of it. Instead, she hears the words "stop" and "stay", and learns them carefully. She learns the word "no" before the word "yes", and then the words "stop" and "stay", before even learning her own name.
They give her the name Enchi, using the characters for "circle" and "ground", and tell her that she is better than the dirt beneath their feet because she survives.
"This is going to hurt a little bit."
A man presses a needle to her skin, but it doesn't penetrate. He tries again and again, but to no avail. She sees pinpricks appear on his skin and blood trickle down his arm.
"What's that?"
Her voice is small and cracked, like she's barely croaked a word ever since, and the man gives up. He leaves and then comes back with a glass of water. He tells her to hold her breath and drink, and not breathe until she's swallowed every drop.
When she does, the taste of her mouth is foul and bitter and sour.
"Now, she might feel hot or sleepy in the next few days, but that's normal." He says to another man, "It means her body is producing antibodies."
But she doesn't. Instead, she feels like nothing's happened. Like nothing's changed. The rest of the children in the orphanage get sick, and yet she stands, sits, and eats like nothing's changed.
"Good, Enchi." The Orphanage Director says, "You are strong."
Still, they are all treated the same. They're fed the same food, given the same drink, offered the same toys, made to wear the same clothes, and sleep in the same rooms. But in the small gestures and acts, she knows she is being treated differently. Sometimes she's first in line for food or the last to be called to bed. Sometimes there's more rice or a sweeter drink, but not too much to draw the attention of other children. She doesn't ask why it happens. She doesn't ask if she deserves it. She just thinks it's just accidental.
But she notices a pattern: there are children who are given less, children who are last in line. Most of them don't notice it, but she does. There are a select few who are quieter than most, who keep to themselves and stay away from everyone else, and that is when she asks.
"Don't mind them, Enchi." A woman says.
Just eat. Just drink. Just play.
They tell her to mind herself and not anyone else. So she does as she's told because she doesn't think she has a choice. The adults here take care of her, they no longer call her forsaken and unwanted. Instead, they call her special and gifted. She doesn't fully know what they mean, but she knows they're good. She is good.
"She is a cursed child."
The echo of it is far and distant, but it is there all the same.
Once, when the adults at the orphanage leave them to play, she notices a boy smaller than her. He is huddled in a corner, surrounded by bigger children. They're hitting him and calling him names, and she's old enough to understand what those words mean. They call him a monster. They call him cursed and evil. They tell him he's better off gone.
They don't tell him he's better off dead, but she understands the meaning all the same.
"Stop!" She yells. It's the first word they learn and its meaning is embedded into their bones. "You're hurting him!"
"Hurt" is one of the words they learned only much later. It's not given any special attention, but the word itself fascinates her. It's described as "to cause pain or injury", and "injury" is described as damage or harm, and "pain" was described as suffering or discomfort. But she has never experienced either of them. She's seen children crying and wincing over small cuts or bruises, or children getting sick, but she has never experienced it.
She hasn't realized it yet, but how she does not feel pain or how cannot be injured is always at someone else's expense.
"Stop it!"
She wedges herself between the scared boy and the bigger children, and what happens next surprises all of them. They're pushed back and away, like a sudden blast of wind had come from behind her. They're shocked, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, and then they're crying, wailing loudly until an adult shows up.
"Enchi, Nakajima, stay!"
It's an order that's been instilled the same way as the word "stop." She and the boy, who's still huddled in the corner and crying, are left in the room as the rest of the children in the room are made to leave. The man who shows up tells them to explain what happened, and neither of them can speak. He pulls her aside and hits the boy, telling him that he's caused trouble again.
"Stop, he's crying!"
The man shoves her aside with a force that makes her crash against a shelf. She hears her back hit the wood, but feels nothing. Instead, it's the man who makes a sound, who holds his back and groans. She still doesn't understand what's happening, but the man's words are clear.
"You're the child!"
The look on his face is of fear and resentment, a surprised kind of anger, but she doesn't know that. All she sees is the expression the adults have when the children have done something bad, something they shouldn't have.
"I'm sorry!"
The apology is automatic. The adults have taught them that, and they've made sure the children learn it fully. But the man doesn't look like he accepts it, instead he scurries away, mumbling words she doesn't understand.
"It's the child they warned about. The cursed child. And he's the monster, the beast."
She turns to the boy and thinks he has pretty eyes. He's stopped crying, and she sits on the floor beside him.
"My name is Fumiko." She tells him, and it's the introduction they're taught to say, when they meet their adoptive parents. But since it's just the two of them, she changes the next phrase, "What's yours?"
"Atsushi." His voice is quiet and small, shaky and soft. She likes his voice too, and decides she's going to be his friend.
"It's nice to meet you, Atsushi." She smiles, wider than what they're taught to show, and hugs him.
She likes that he's warm, too.
Later, she realizes that Atsushi is quiet for a reason. He doesn't want to be in trouble so he stays out of people's way and takes what he is given. He doesn't seem to want for anything more than what there is, and he desires for very little. Still, she doesn't understand why so many want to hurt him. There's a difference, she realizes, between hurting someone and wanting to hurt them. She, for example, doesn't want to hurt–herself or anyone else–but somehow, someone else is always hurt. Because of her.
It didn't take her too long to realize that. That she can cause pain and suffering and injury. That her inexperience with the sensation is at someone else's expense. Someone else feels it for her, even without her asking. She doesn't know why or how, but she understands that she needs to be careful. She needs to be like Atsuhi, stay quiet and away from trouble. But she likes Atsushi too much to stay away from him.
She's his friend and he's hers, and if there's anything to be gained from those storybooks in the library, it's that friends stick together. Through thick and thin, as they say, no matter the storm or the flame, the wind or the wave.
"Come with me, Atsushi!"
As long as they're together.
Sometimes, she brings him to a small garden, mostly ignored by everyone else, where there's an overgrowth of plants. She lies on the grass, moist and green, and he does the same. They spend some afternoons away from everyone and everything, watching the clouds pass by and listening to the sounds around them. Here, in the space among the flowers, they are safe. Nothing will take him from her. No one will take her away from him.
"Enchi, Nakajima, what are you doing?"
An adult spots them, and her reaction is automatic. She stands and raises her arms to block him, to hide him. They can't take Atsushi away if they can't get to him. But the adult, a man, pushes her aside with a force that's strong, but restrained. He grabs Atsushi by the wrist and yanks him up.
"No, let him go!"
She's never had to fight before, but there's a basal, primal urge that bursts from within her. It's hot and fast, and it makes her cry and lash out. She uses her arms and hands, grabbing and clawing at the man to let Atsushi go, but she's still small–she and Atsushi both–and the man ignores her easily, and drags Atsushi off. Another adult comes, a woman, and pulls her aside. The woman's hold around her is tight, trapping her when she reaches out and cries for Atsushi.
"Let him go, let him go!"
That night, the Orphanage Director talks to her alone. He brings her to the same garden, and at night it looks different. The colors are muted in the dark and the air is stale and cold. The moon is big and bright in the cloudless sky, and this is the first time she's ever seen it like this. The Director stands quietly beside her; she doesn't see him glaring at the moon.
"Listen to me, Fumiko. Atsushi is dangerous."
She is quick to answer, "No, he's not."
He sighs, "You aren't listening, Fumiko."
The words "I am" are on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't want to be thought of as disobedient and naughty. She's always been good. And if she wants to be adopted, she has to stay good.
"He is dangerous because he is weak. He will hurt you, like he has hurt many others."
She doesn't fully believe him. Atsushi might be quiet and keeps to himself, but she doesn't think he's weak. Other children would crowd around him and beat him up, but why is he the dangerous one?
"No, he won't."
"Don't be defiant, Fumiko."
Defiant. She hasn't heard that word before, but the Director's narrowed gaze makes her think it means that she's being naughty, that she's being bad. She won't be adopted if she's bad. But she likes Atsushi, likes him so much that she thinks it might be okay if she can stay with him forever.
"Atsushi is my friend."
"He is a monster, and you will stay away from him."
Monster. She's only ever seen that word in scary picture books. Monsters are the dark-colored, sharp-toothed, bright-eyed things that make children cry. They're the ones who chase naughty children and eat them up. They're the ones that hurt others. Atsushi has never hurt anybody, but she has. So why is he the monster and she isn't?
"But I've hurt other people."
The Director looks away from her.
"Yes, Fumiko. But it is their fault for wanting to hurt you. It is their punishment. That is what happens when the weak try to hurt the strong."
"Why?"
"Because that is the way of the world."
A grumbling roar echoes in the distance, and she is reminded of those monsters. She steps closer to the Director.
"Do not be afraid, Fumiko. That is only for the weak. Are you one of them?"
She doesn't know what answer will make him happy. If she is weak, does that make her dangerous? If she is, will she hurt more people?
"I don't want to hurt other people."
The Director sighs. "Good, then you will stay away from him."
She wants to tell him no, but the word is stuck at the back of her throat. Another roar echoes in the distance, louder this time, and tries her best not to flinch. Monsters aren't real, maybe it's just a dog, she thinks. She'd heard dogs howling at night before. She looks to the flowers for comfort, to remember Atsushi's smiling face and pretty eyes, and does not see the Director grimace at the moon.
In this world, only the strong survive, and she is one of them.
She doesn't see Atsushi anymore. Not in the cafeteria, not in the playground, not in the halls, not even in the small garden hidden away. She doesn't hear about him, either. It's like he's disappeared. Or went away. Maybe he was adopted. She frowns at the thought. Her only friend, taken away from her. Was it by his choice? Did he want to leave? Why didn't he say anything? Why didn't anyone say anything?
"Nakajima is dangerous." A woman tells them one day, "So he is being disciplined by the Director."
Atsushi never struck her as a danger. To her, he is far from it. He is a small boy, a timid boy, a nice boy. She likes Atsushi so much that she could never think of him like them. She misses him. She misses hugging him and holding his hands, how he stared in awe at the clouds above them as they lay on the grass. She wonders how he's doing, how he's being disciplined.
"I want to see Atsushi." She tells the Director as he leads her down a corridor. "I miss him."
The Director sighs. "No, Enchi. You cannot go to Atsushi."
"I want to see him."
She knows she's becoming a pest, a brat, the very thing they told her not to be. They told her she was powerful, that she was strong, better than all the rest. They're afraid of her, and she's started realizing it. It's been weeks since she last saw him. And it's been even longer since anyone dared hurt her, even the adults are wary around her. She knows this, she's seen this. They can't stop her.
"No, Fumiko." The Director doesn't use that name often. "There is someone here to see you."
They never had visitors to the orphanage, unless it was someone who wanted to adopt. Is she getting adopted?
She stops following the Director. "I don't want to."
They stop in front of the grand doors, the doors she'd never think she'd cross, and the Director turns to her, "You don't have a choice."
She scowls defiantly and runs, pushes against everything and everyone in her way. They can't stop her. They can't make her. She's strong. They're afraid of her. She has power. She knows they can't stop her. They can't. They can't!
She reaches the garden, her only space–her and Atsushi's–but sees the adults crowding it, trampling the grass. They move to grab her, all of them all at once, and she fights back. She growls. She roars. Screams. Maybe if she acts like this, they'll treat her like Atsushi. Maybe they'll put her with him. Maybe she'll see him again.
"Stop this, Enchi."
They're struggling to control her.
"Don't act like you didn't want to be adopted."
A family.
They're taught the concept of family early. They're taught about mothers and fathers, siblings, and even relatives. They're taught about eating together at the table, and doing things together. To them, it's the same as what they've already been doing. They eat and sleep at the same time. They play with each other too. But for some reason, they're denied this idea. They're not family. They're just unwanted children, left behind to fend for themselves, and it is out of pity that the adults clothe them and feed them. They're not family, so they can only dream of having a real, genuine family.
"You all want a family, and here's your chance, Enchi."
But what makes a family, anyway?
"You are given this chance because you are strong."
Why aren't they a family?
"You have been chosen."
For some reason, she feels her entire body so slack. Suddenly, she's tired, so tired. She doesn't know why. What's happening? Is her power gone? Is she weak now?
"She's a stubborn one, isn't she?" The voice is foreign and unfamiliar. She hasn't heard it before, and she decides that she doesn't like it.
She screams, digs her small hands into the soil, and rips weeds and flowers all the same.