All the King's Men
Chapter 1
Note: nothing to do with kings.
--
Neurosurgery, thought Mikagami Tokiya, was a lousy career choice.
He lived on control, prided himself on the fact that each step he took was carefully meditated. He was rarely surprised, infrequently puzzled and never, never impulsive. He asserted some form of control over the world around him; more importantly, he was completely in control of himself.
But sometimes, sometimes, his thoughts would escape before he could rein them in and he would wonder what the hell he was doing in a field where control was the last thing he had.
He'd fought back, naturally, buying time, buying freedom, for those who came seeking it. He'd brought some form of power to a career that was inherently unpredictable, and in its own quiet way, chaotic.
And now, he thought, it was all going to hell.
- New York City one hundred and ninety minutes prior -
There were a few moments, only a few in all his years, that he thought to be cornerstones in his life. It was those moments that left indelible impressions, that remained clear even as the rest of his life washed by; sharp, stark images in a sea of blurred insignificance.
This was one of those moments.
He knew instinctively that ten years later he would remember the exact way his muscles went slack and his mind blank, the way his brain registered somehow the stillness of the air and the distant sound of New York traffic, the way time seemed to slow as he held the letter in his hands.
Registered express, postmarked Japan.
All he was able to think in that one searing heartbeat was, they found me. What he really meant was, it found me. My past has come knocking on my door.
-
Three hours later the unopened envelope sat on the far corner of his desk. For the past one hundred and eighty agonising moments he had been determinedly ignoring it, convincing himself - or trying to - that he was far too busy going through medical journals to bother with an insignificant letter.
And so there it sat, repeatedly catching his eye, taunting, teasing. He glared at it, challenging, then caught himself that he was eyeballing an inanimate object.
But then, it seemed to be staring malevolently straight back at him.
Frowning, he picked up the envelope. It was light, paper and ink and glue, but he felt like he was holding a loaded gun with his finger on the trigger. And he felt like he was aiming at his own foot. Trepidation stole through his mind; bewilderment, then the heavy onset of sorrow. He processed and filed the emotions away with characteristic precision, but somehow he couldn't clamp down on the sorrow; he felt he was trying to capture a sky of smog with a jam jar.
The possibilities seemed nearer, more real and far more dangerous now that he held the letter. And he would never admit it, never even really acknowledge it, but oh, he missed Japan. Not desperately, not wildly, but with an ever-present longing that was somehow infinitely sadder. He missed the way the snow drifted down in winter, its fragile, beautiful dance; he missed the raucous laughter of tipsy men drifting through the cool night air from the ramen store around the corner. Every corner.
He brushed his fingers gently across the smooth surface of the envelope. He was holding a piece of his homeland, he realised, and a piece of a history he'd walked away from and never intended to look back to. The envelope was Japanese and so was the stamp and even the painstakingly stencilled English letters, so stilted and awkward, like a child tracing hieroglyphs. So achingly Japanese. He found that he both loved and loathed the letter at the same time, without having read it.
The sudden burst of emotion annoyed him, a disruption in his carefully neutral state of mind. In a single fluid move he picked up a letter opener - heaven forbid he impulsively tear it open - and slit the envelope, almost choking up as he saw the strange-familiar Japanese characters.
He skimmed the words without registering them, until he recognised the delicate handwriting as Yanagi's. Then he started again from the beginning, savouring each word and hating himself for it.
-
Ten minutes and a letter later, Mikagami rather wished he'd never read the letter. It was an unethical wish, he knew, and medicine was on overall rather concerned with ethics (or was it the other way round?) but he was beyond caring about that now. It was a simple, selfish wish, and for good or for bad it could never come true.
But he could carry out little acts of self-delusion, keep hoping, wishing somehow that if he blinked the letter would disappear and take with it all implications that it now carried.
Because Yanagi was coming to New York, and she was bringing her daughter with her.
And her daughter, Hanabishi's daughter, had a brain tumour.
-tbc-
Brain tumour. How mindbogglingly clichéd. I was going to put in something cool, like Parkinson's, but the age doesn't fit; apart from customary research I'm unacquainted with rare brain disorders, and hey, what can I say? I'm a closet soap-opera-fan. Just be glad it wasn't leukemia.
Chapter 1
Note: nothing to do with kings.
--
Neurosurgery, thought Mikagami Tokiya, was a lousy career choice.
He lived on control, prided himself on the fact that each step he took was carefully meditated. He was rarely surprised, infrequently puzzled and never, never impulsive. He asserted some form of control over the world around him; more importantly, he was completely in control of himself.
But sometimes, sometimes, his thoughts would escape before he could rein them in and he would wonder what the hell he was doing in a field where control was the last thing he had.
He'd fought back, naturally, buying time, buying freedom, for those who came seeking it. He'd brought some form of power to a career that was inherently unpredictable, and in its own quiet way, chaotic.
And now, he thought, it was all going to hell.
- New York City one hundred and ninety minutes prior -
There were a few moments, only a few in all his years, that he thought to be cornerstones in his life. It was those moments that left indelible impressions, that remained clear even as the rest of his life washed by; sharp, stark images in a sea of blurred insignificance.
This was one of those moments.
He knew instinctively that ten years later he would remember the exact way his muscles went slack and his mind blank, the way his brain registered somehow the stillness of the air and the distant sound of New York traffic, the way time seemed to slow as he held the letter in his hands.
Registered express, postmarked Japan.
All he was able to think in that one searing heartbeat was, they found me. What he really meant was, it found me. My past has come knocking on my door.
-
Three hours later the unopened envelope sat on the far corner of his desk. For the past one hundred and eighty agonising moments he had been determinedly ignoring it, convincing himself - or trying to - that he was far too busy going through medical journals to bother with an insignificant letter.
And so there it sat, repeatedly catching his eye, taunting, teasing. He glared at it, challenging, then caught himself that he was eyeballing an inanimate object.
But then, it seemed to be staring malevolently straight back at him.
Frowning, he picked up the envelope. It was light, paper and ink and glue, but he felt like he was holding a loaded gun with his finger on the trigger. And he felt like he was aiming at his own foot. Trepidation stole through his mind; bewilderment, then the heavy onset of sorrow. He processed and filed the emotions away with characteristic precision, but somehow he couldn't clamp down on the sorrow; he felt he was trying to capture a sky of smog with a jam jar.
The possibilities seemed nearer, more real and far more dangerous now that he held the letter. And he would never admit it, never even really acknowledge it, but oh, he missed Japan. Not desperately, not wildly, but with an ever-present longing that was somehow infinitely sadder. He missed the way the snow drifted down in winter, its fragile, beautiful dance; he missed the raucous laughter of tipsy men drifting through the cool night air from the ramen store around the corner. Every corner.
He brushed his fingers gently across the smooth surface of the envelope. He was holding a piece of his homeland, he realised, and a piece of a history he'd walked away from and never intended to look back to. The envelope was Japanese and so was the stamp and even the painstakingly stencilled English letters, so stilted and awkward, like a child tracing hieroglyphs. So achingly Japanese. He found that he both loved and loathed the letter at the same time, without having read it.
The sudden burst of emotion annoyed him, a disruption in his carefully neutral state of mind. In a single fluid move he picked up a letter opener - heaven forbid he impulsively tear it open - and slit the envelope, almost choking up as he saw the strange-familiar Japanese characters.
He skimmed the words without registering them, until he recognised the delicate handwriting as Yanagi's. Then he started again from the beginning, savouring each word and hating himself for it.
-
Ten minutes and a letter later, Mikagami rather wished he'd never read the letter. It was an unethical wish, he knew, and medicine was on overall rather concerned with ethics (or was it the other way round?) but he was beyond caring about that now. It was a simple, selfish wish, and for good or for bad it could never come true.
But he could carry out little acts of self-delusion, keep hoping, wishing somehow that if he blinked the letter would disappear and take with it all implications that it now carried.
Because Yanagi was coming to New York, and she was bringing her daughter with her.
And her daughter, Hanabishi's daughter, had a brain tumour.
-tbc-
Brain tumour. How mindbogglingly clichéd. I was going to put in something cool, like Parkinson's, but the age doesn't fit; apart from customary research I'm unacquainted with rare brain disorders, and hey, what can I say? I'm a closet soap-opera-fan. Just be glad it wasn't leukemia.