Chapter 2 - The Beginning of Isolation
The first two years of my life passed peacefully. My parents soon left me to my own devices under the care of Florence, when their work commitments once again took control of their lives. However, I was a quiet and well- behaved child, and I was contented to be with Florence who loved me like her own son. My mother tried to spend as much time as she could with me, which was probably only about two months or so per year. Yet, I appreciated her efforts because I could see how busy she was, constantly typing on her notebook, sending e-mails, faxes and answering a thousand and one phone calls whilst being in the same room as me. I loved the times when she let me sit on her lap as she typed on the keyboard, both arms surrounding me safely like the sides of the cot. She had the habit of speaking her thoughts aloud as she typed, probably hoping that I would be tricked into thinking that she was talking to me, not knowing that I was able to understand everything she said. However, those reading lessons that she inadvertently gave me probably explained why reading came as naturally to me as breathing. It was not something I had to learn. However because I never enjoyed showing off, I did not give any outward sign of my reading abilities. Unfortunately, these sessions became less frequent as our expanding business required her to travel more frequently.
When I was three, an incident happened that scarred me permanently and changed the entire course of my life, much the same way a row of dominoes would collapse once the first domino is knocked down. I had woken up feeling feverish and achy after spending the entire night tossing and turning. Somehow, I managed to climb out of bed and head for Florence's room, suspecting that I had caught a chill. Her room was downstairs next to the kitchen and I hoped that I could make it without any mishap, for it was a long trip for my short legs even when I was in the pink of health. As I was passing my father's study, I noticed that the heavy oaken door was slightly open, and I heard my father's voice. I decided to stop and rest for a moment, partly because I was rather exhausted from the walk, and partly because I was curious. My dad had strictly forbidden anyone to disturb him in the study whenever he was with any visitors. Leaning against the wall, I caught wisps of the conversation.
". .Please Hanazawa san, it'll kill my old parents if I have to go to jail, not to say . . wife and kids . ."
" . you should have thought of that before . ."
"I am begging you . ."
". . some more and the police . . drag you . . felony and get ready to spend twenty years in jail . ." The voices grew louder, then the door was flung wide open as a man in a rumpled suit stormed out. There was a wild look in his eyes as he turned back to my father.
"You will regret this, Hanazawa. One day I will make sure you regret this, you heartless bastard . ."
"I await your return with great anticipation." I almost did not recognize my father in the doorway. His usually warm blue eyes were cold and hard, and I had never heard him speak in that infuriatingly polite drawl with the malicious undertones before. I shivered involuntarily. With a snarl, the man spun around and then paused abruptly as his eyes fell on me. With a quick movement, he scooped me off the floor and swung me over the barrister. I clutched his arms tightly even though his tight grip was bruising my ribs. Peering down, I saw that my feet were dangling about fifty-feet above the ground and started bawling in fear.
"Put my son down." I heard my father order harshly.
"As you wish." I found myself dangling from one side as one of his hands loosened its hold on me. I screamed loudly.
"Stop! Let go of my son!" I heard my mother screaming too - apparently she heard the commotion and had rushed out of her room.
"I told you, you will regret your decision . ." Then, the hand holding me let go, and I felt myself starting to fall. The last sound I recalled hearing was the horror in my father voice as he shouted my mother's name . .
"He's awake!" I heard an unfamiliar voice saying when I opened my eyes. I blinked as the room came into focus, and found myself looking at an elderly gentleman who was prodding me gently all over. I turned my head and saw my father standing on the other side of my bed, his face pale and haggard. His eyes were bloodshot and there was what appeared to be several days' growth of beard on his chin. I blinked again, shocked to see my usually impeccably dressed and clean shaven father looking so disheveled. Only when he mumbled something in reply, did I realize that the elderly gentleman was still speaking to him.
" . . physically fine," the gentleman was saying. "However, I don't know if he will be traumatized by this experience. Let me know if he starts reacting different, for example if he starts clinging to you or his nanny, crying, whimpering, or screaming for no reason. Also, he may remain motionless for long periods or make aimless movements. He may also regress to sucking his thumb, wetting his bed or be scared of darkness." He paused for a while as my father bowed his head, taking all this in silently. "However . . his actions may also result from him losing his mother . . I'm sorry about your wife . ." My head snapped up at these words and a cold sense of dread filled me. What happened to my mother? What happened to her?
"Father? Father?" My voice was squeaky. They looked at me quickly, surprise evident on both faces. Apparently, they had forgotten that I was listening. "Where's mother?" My parents had trained me to speak proper Japanese even at a young age. I saw a look of pain pass fleetingly over my father's face before he looked at gentleman and made a gesture asking him to leave both of us alone. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat and looked apprehensively at my father as he sat down on the edge of my bed.
"You need to be brave," his voice was hoarse, almost as if he had a cold. No, a voice was shrieking in my head, no, no, no, no . . "Your mother is in hospital. Do you remember what happened?" I shook my head dumbly.
"Do you remember falling down from the fifth floor?" I shivered at the memory and nodded. "Do you remember your mother lunging after you? She caught you and protected you with her body as you both fell . . However, she hit her head . ." his voice died as he turned away, too choked up to continue. Mother . . my lips started trembling and I curled into a ball, as a soft whimpering sound came from my throat. I felt my father petting my head and cringed inwardly from his touch. Somehow, I had to blame someone for the accident and blaming my father was easier than blaming myself wasn't it? Just then, my father's handphone started ringing.
"Hello?" I heard a long pause and then.
". . Is there no more hope?"
". . I understand . . I will go to the hospital immediately . ."
" . . yes you have my permission to . . to go ahead . .. and . and make the necessary arrangements . ."
". . yes, I . . I will sign . ." I had uncurled my body and was looking fearfully at my dad the moment I heard the word hospital, my face still wet with tears. He was breathing heavily and his hand was shaking when he disconnected. I saw that his face was deathly white.
"Dammit!" He suddenly screamed as he flung his handphone against the wall with all his strength. I watched, paralyzed with shock, as the handphone shattered against the wall and the broken pieces scattered onto the floor, resembling the pieces of my broken life. Then he turned and stumbled blindly out of my room, leaving Florence to find me huddled in one corner of my bed, rocking myself to and fro. I learnt sometime later from the conversation between two servants that my mother had been declared a vegetable. My father had gone to hospital to sign his consent for the doctors to pull the plug, and to see to the necessary arrangements for the funeral. I did not see my father again until the day of the funeral.
Did they not say that it is always raining when you put a loved one to rest? The sun was blazing brightly when my mother's coffin was lowered into the earth. It almost seemed that even the heavens were against me. If it had been raining, I would at least have had the luxury of crying as the raindrops would have camouflaged my tears. Instead, as the fates would have it, I had to stand up straight next to my father, holding back my tears as we both said our farewells to my mother in front of the masses - the price to pay for being rich and relatively famous. I had been drilled again and again by Florence that the Hanazawas have never and will never shed tears in public as a matter of family pride. It was fortunately that I managed to hold onto my self-control until I reached the sanctity of my room. I cried alone in my bed for my mother every night for goodness knows how long.
After the funeral, I retreated into my own shell and refused to come out, ignoring all the psychologists that my father employed. They diagnosed me as having a less severe case of autism, but eventually gave up when I refused to respond to treatment. They told my father that I would hopefully grow out of it by myself. Little did they know that I had surfaced the net for the symptoms, committed them to memory and then carefully displayed all the symptoms in front of them. It was not all acting because I felt extremely guilty for playing a major part in my mother's death and was dealing with it in my own way. Somehow, I felt that had I not been eavesdropping outside the door, the man would not have caught me and everything would have been fine. (Between he was convicted by a panel of jury and sentenced to the electric chair.) I also blamed my father in part for pushing the man to taking such drastic measures against him. It only made things worse when he married another woman only six months after my mother's death. Although it was yet another business marriage and she was relatively kind to me, I secretly resented both of them - my father for replacing my mother so soon, and my stepmother for taking the rightful position of my mother. I learnt another lesson - the adaptability of human beings - when the rest of the world soon forgot about my mother, and some people even though that the second Mrs Hanazawa was my mother. There were only two things that I grew to be grateful for - that my father was fortunately sensible enough to choose a bride closer to his age than mine (unlike Akira's father who married a very young woman), and that my stepmother was indeed a sensible and decent woman. Some years later, we eventually became friends, but then I'm jumping the gun . .
Dear All: Thanks for reading and leaving your comments. If there are any suggestions with regards to how to improve my writing, characterisation, grammar, spelling etc, please feel free to let me know!
Regs, Sheen
Pure Innocence: Thanks so much for your kind comments! I hope you will like the rest of the story as well. Please let me know if there's any way in which I can improve the story.
Lian, Kensingtonkid: Wow, thanks so much for leaving with two comments each! I'll look at your stories in a jiffy.
Fresh8: Ah, probably the same thing that Armetis Fowl did ;) Thanks for commenting!
Chi: A Rui fan! I hope you won't kill me for the angst that I'm making him face in his life ;).
The first two years of my life passed peacefully. My parents soon left me to my own devices under the care of Florence, when their work commitments once again took control of their lives. However, I was a quiet and well- behaved child, and I was contented to be with Florence who loved me like her own son. My mother tried to spend as much time as she could with me, which was probably only about two months or so per year. Yet, I appreciated her efforts because I could see how busy she was, constantly typing on her notebook, sending e-mails, faxes and answering a thousand and one phone calls whilst being in the same room as me. I loved the times when she let me sit on her lap as she typed on the keyboard, both arms surrounding me safely like the sides of the cot. She had the habit of speaking her thoughts aloud as she typed, probably hoping that I would be tricked into thinking that she was talking to me, not knowing that I was able to understand everything she said. However, those reading lessons that she inadvertently gave me probably explained why reading came as naturally to me as breathing. It was not something I had to learn. However because I never enjoyed showing off, I did not give any outward sign of my reading abilities. Unfortunately, these sessions became less frequent as our expanding business required her to travel more frequently.
When I was three, an incident happened that scarred me permanently and changed the entire course of my life, much the same way a row of dominoes would collapse once the first domino is knocked down. I had woken up feeling feverish and achy after spending the entire night tossing and turning. Somehow, I managed to climb out of bed and head for Florence's room, suspecting that I had caught a chill. Her room was downstairs next to the kitchen and I hoped that I could make it without any mishap, for it was a long trip for my short legs even when I was in the pink of health. As I was passing my father's study, I noticed that the heavy oaken door was slightly open, and I heard my father's voice. I decided to stop and rest for a moment, partly because I was rather exhausted from the walk, and partly because I was curious. My dad had strictly forbidden anyone to disturb him in the study whenever he was with any visitors. Leaning against the wall, I caught wisps of the conversation.
". .Please Hanazawa san, it'll kill my old parents if I have to go to jail, not to say . . wife and kids . ."
" . you should have thought of that before . ."
"I am begging you . ."
". . some more and the police . . drag you . . felony and get ready to spend twenty years in jail . ." The voices grew louder, then the door was flung wide open as a man in a rumpled suit stormed out. There was a wild look in his eyes as he turned back to my father.
"You will regret this, Hanazawa. One day I will make sure you regret this, you heartless bastard . ."
"I await your return with great anticipation." I almost did not recognize my father in the doorway. His usually warm blue eyes were cold and hard, and I had never heard him speak in that infuriatingly polite drawl with the malicious undertones before. I shivered involuntarily. With a snarl, the man spun around and then paused abruptly as his eyes fell on me. With a quick movement, he scooped me off the floor and swung me over the barrister. I clutched his arms tightly even though his tight grip was bruising my ribs. Peering down, I saw that my feet were dangling about fifty-feet above the ground and started bawling in fear.
"Put my son down." I heard my father order harshly.
"As you wish." I found myself dangling from one side as one of his hands loosened its hold on me. I screamed loudly.
"Stop! Let go of my son!" I heard my mother screaming too - apparently she heard the commotion and had rushed out of her room.
"I told you, you will regret your decision . ." Then, the hand holding me let go, and I felt myself starting to fall. The last sound I recalled hearing was the horror in my father voice as he shouted my mother's name . .
"He's awake!" I heard an unfamiliar voice saying when I opened my eyes. I blinked as the room came into focus, and found myself looking at an elderly gentleman who was prodding me gently all over. I turned my head and saw my father standing on the other side of my bed, his face pale and haggard. His eyes were bloodshot and there was what appeared to be several days' growth of beard on his chin. I blinked again, shocked to see my usually impeccably dressed and clean shaven father looking so disheveled. Only when he mumbled something in reply, did I realize that the elderly gentleman was still speaking to him.
" . . physically fine," the gentleman was saying. "However, I don't know if he will be traumatized by this experience. Let me know if he starts reacting different, for example if he starts clinging to you or his nanny, crying, whimpering, or screaming for no reason. Also, he may remain motionless for long periods or make aimless movements. He may also regress to sucking his thumb, wetting his bed or be scared of darkness." He paused for a while as my father bowed his head, taking all this in silently. "However . . his actions may also result from him losing his mother . . I'm sorry about your wife . ." My head snapped up at these words and a cold sense of dread filled me. What happened to my mother? What happened to her?
"Father? Father?" My voice was squeaky. They looked at me quickly, surprise evident on both faces. Apparently, they had forgotten that I was listening. "Where's mother?" My parents had trained me to speak proper Japanese even at a young age. I saw a look of pain pass fleetingly over my father's face before he looked at gentleman and made a gesture asking him to leave both of us alone. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat and looked apprehensively at my father as he sat down on the edge of my bed.
"You need to be brave," his voice was hoarse, almost as if he had a cold. No, a voice was shrieking in my head, no, no, no, no . . "Your mother is in hospital. Do you remember what happened?" I shook my head dumbly.
"Do you remember falling down from the fifth floor?" I shivered at the memory and nodded. "Do you remember your mother lunging after you? She caught you and protected you with her body as you both fell . . However, she hit her head . ." his voice died as he turned away, too choked up to continue. Mother . . my lips started trembling and I curled into a ball, as a soft whimpering sound came from my throat. I felt my father petting my head and cringed inwardly from his touch. Somehow, I had to blame someone for the accident and blaming my father was easier than blaming myself wasn't it? Just then, my father's handphone started ringing.
"Hello?" I heard a long pause and then.
". . Is there no more hope?"
". . I understand . . I will go to the hospital immediately . ."
" . . yes you have my permission to . . to go ahead . .. and . and make the necessary arrangements . ."
". . yes, I . . I will sign . ." I had uncurled my body and was looking fearfully at my dad the moment I heard the word hospital, my face still wet with tears. He was breathing heavily and his hand was shaking when he disconnected. I saw that his face was deathly white.
"Dammit!" He suddenly screamed as he flung his handphone against the wall with all his strength. I watched, paralyzed with shock, as the handphone shattered against the wall and the broken pieces scattered onto the floor, resembling the pieces of my broken life. Then he turned and stumbled blindly out of my room, leaving Florence to find me huddled in one corner of my bed, rocking myself to and fro. I learnt sometime later from the conversation between two servants that my mother had been declared a vegetable. My father had gone to hospital to sign his consent for the doctors to pull the plug, and to see to the necessary arrangements for the funeral. I did not see my father again until the day of the funeral.
Did they not say that it is always raining when you put a loved one to rest? The sun was blazing brightly when my mother's coffin was lowered into the earth. It almost seemed that even the heavens were against me. If it had been raining, I would at least have had the luxury of crying as the raindrops would have camouflaged my tears. Instead, as the fates would have it, I had to stand up straight next to my father, holding back my tears as we both said our farewells to my mother in front of the masses - the price to pay for being rich and relatively famous. I had been drilled again and again by Florence that the Hanazawas have never and will never shed tears in public as a matter of family pride. It was fortunately that I managed to hold onto my self-control until I reached the sanctity of my room. I cried alone in my bed for my mother every night for goodness knows how long.
After the funeral, I retreated into my own shell and refused to come out, ignoring all the psychologists that my father employed. They diagnosed me as having a less severe case of autism, but eventually gave up when I refused to respond to treatment. They told my father that I would hopefully grow out of it by myself. Little did they know that I had surfaced the net for the symptoms, committed them to memory and then carefully displayed all the symptoms in front of them. It was not all acting because I felt extremely guilty for playing a major part in my mother's death and was dealing with it in my own way. Somehow, I felt that had I not been eavesdropping outside the door, the man would not have caught me and everything would have been fine. (Between he was convicted by a panel of jury and sentenced to the electric chair.) I also blamed my father in part for pushing the man to taking such drastic measures against him. It only made things worse when he married another woman only six months after my mother's death. Although it was yet another business marriage and she was relatively kind to me, I secretly resented both of them - my father for replacing my mother so soon, and my stepmother for taking the rightful position of my mother. I learnt another lesson - the adaptability of human beings - when the rest of the world soon forgot about my mother, and some people even though that the second Mrs Hanazawa was my mother. There were only two things that I grew to be grateful for - that my father was fortunately sensible enough to choose a bride closer to his age than mine (unlike Akira's father who married a very young woman), and that my stepmother was indeed a sensible and decent woman. Some years later, we eventually became friends, but then I'm jumping the gun . .
Dear All: Thanks for reading and leaving your comments. If there are any suggestions with regards to how to improve my writing, characterisation, grammar, spelling etc, please feel free to let me know!
Regs, Sheen
Pure Innocence: Thanks so much for your kind comments! I hope you will like the rest of the story as well. Please let me know if there's any way in which I can improve the story.
Lian, Kensingtonkid: Wow, thanks so much for leaving with two comments each! I'll look at your stories in a jiffy.
Fresh8: Ah, probably the same thing that Armetis Fowl did ;) Thanks for commenting!
Chi: A Rui fan! I hope you won't kill me for the angst that I'm making him face in his life ;).