Chapter Seven: Severed

I stir to the sound of soft, slow strides shuffling around a room. I shift my left leg a small degree and then turn over with a barely audible groan. In place of a person, I'm met with two Ibuprofen tablets and some water on a wooden coffee table. It appears to be secondhand. I knock back the pills, and once they settle the pounding headache, I stand up to take in my new surroundings. I was placed on this three-seater couch to sleep for whatever reason and I'm standing in what seems to be a beige carpeted, sparsely furnished living room.

Walking around, I see that it's clean but I can tell that it's lived in. The one-story home is old, just like mine, but it's been renovated in spots. The cigarette stained wallpaper has been torn down and the variously sized holes the do-it-yourself job left behind are filled in with splotches of white wall spackle. Through a tall, rectangular shaped archway stood behind the couch and to the left of the heavy looking front door, I step into a tiny kitchen. Tucked into a far off corner, on a freshly mopped black and white diamond tiled floor, I spot a Tetris game styled pile of what looks to be empty boxes. The edges are aged with tape both hanging on and off of the cardboard, meaning something was put in and then taken out of them. Whoever lives here must have recently moved in. Just like the living room walls, these walls are plainly painted an eggshell color, bare, and spackled up too.

"Good evening."

I spin around in the direction of the deep voice. I stand firm, a scowl tightening my features.

"What am I doing here?" I spit out, the sunset hurting my eyes.

"I could ask you the same thing."

The owner of the house, moves me out of the sun's light and sits me into a chair next to a round table that also looks secondhand. A minute later I'm given a steaming cup of coffee.

"You passed out on my porch, after scaring the bejesus out of me." The owner says, moving away to sit across the table from me.

My vision clears up, the headache subsiding more, and I can finally register who I'm with at the moment. Why did I come to him of all people?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hiwatari. I was drunk and looking for home."

He snorts, "Oh, I know you were drunk, you don't need to tell me."

There's a knowing gleam in his eyes that is soon replaced with a mix of emotions. Maybe, regret and remorse, sorrow? I can't quite pin it down.

"What I want to know is, what made you drink so much in the first place, that you blacked out?"

My gaze shifts to the floor, shame dominating me. I take a breath, look directly at him, and try to speak but nothing comes out.

My teacher finishes off his coffee and gets up, making sure to keep himself at arm's length. This confuses me but I keep it to myself.

"Whatever it is, know that I'm here to listen whenever you need me." He gives me a small, reassuring smile and takes a step back.

I nod, smiling back, then I decide to head home. I thank him, with a firm handshake, for the medicine and all the help before I dash out the door. My nerves are on edge, and I'm just as tense as I have been the past few weeks but it's not because of my teacher. No, secretly, I think I'm dreading all to come.

When I arrive home, I notice that the clock turning six o'clock and that it's quiet. It's Sunday evening, so usually the television or stereo is on. Is everything okay? I see no sign of papa anywhere, so I head upstairs to look around but I don't find him either.

Going into my room to change clothes, I find father asleep atop my bed. His cheeks look tacky and rubbed raw, and my pillow is held close to him, meaning he's cried himself to sleep. I don't get it. He knew I was at the Granger's for the night. Then it clicks, I've been gone all day and part of the night. Makoto must have called him and said that I hadn't returned, blindingly ran off to who-knows-where. I'm angry that Makoto made him unnecessarily worry, but at the same time, this sight breaks my heart. Whether I'm by blood his or not, Papa really does care for me. He loves me more than I could ever comprehend.

I reach down and gently shake him by his shoulders, "Papa, I'm home."

Pained blue eyes blink up at me and a moment later I'm pulled into a tight hug. I ignore the fact that I can't breathe and just hold him close too, guilt eating at me.

I fight back the hot tears as dad lets his fall free. I'd like to think this will make things better, but something in my gut says it will only get harder going forward.

With Monday took off so papa can make sure I'm okay, he lectures me on the illegality of underage drinking. I get it but I'm back to feeling angry all the time. I've never understood why he hates booze so much and I probably never will. Drinking's not so bad, if you do it responsibly. In the middle of another one of his lectures on it, he in the chair and I on the couch, something snaps and I end up interrupting him.

"Will you shut up?! Quit biting my head off about it! I get it, I drank, fucked up, and you were worried! I know not to do it again! End of discussion!" I scream, standing at my full height, "And hello, it's your fault I ran off anyway!"

"No, you got drunk and ran off." Papa states rather calmly, but I know another storm is brewing inside him.

"Because of you! I got drunk because of you!"

Papa stands up with me, his fierceness matching mine, "Really? I didn't make you drink."

"Will you quit bringing up the stupid booze and listen? Why are you so fixated on the fact that I had a few drinks?!"

"A whole bottle's more than a few! I've seen how bad it can get, and I don't want you going down that road! All it takes is one too many and you're addicted!"

"Why? Is it because you've been there, or because you knew my parents?"

"Not this again. Drop it! Let it go, Gou! Things are fine the way they are. Just don't drink anymore."

"Dad, talk to me! What's so bad about my past that you have to hide it from me?! And what makes you hate alcohol so much? I'm safe, that should be your number one priority."

"It is, and I just want you to stay safe. No more drinking."

Papa wipes his eyes, and walks away, crying again. I'm left alone in the living room, it feeling much colder than usual. For the umpteenth time, the argument went nowhere. Papa's left in a pool of tears, and I'm feeling frustrated.

Come Tuesday I'm walking down the prep school's hallway toward the lunchroom and spot Lin and Makoto passionately making out at the lockers. Guess uncle Tyson's harsh kendo lesson on Public Displays of Affection and patience for growing up didn't sink in. My stomach churns at the sight, and I go into the bathroom to throw up. Soon I find a sink and heave.

I don't know if I've ever mentioned this but I hate loud or sloppy kissing and the noises that come with it. If I can hear you over anything, then you're kissing too loud. Unless it's a cultural thing, please don't do it. I'm not trying to be insensitive to anyone or anything but it's just gross to me. And it makes me physically sick.

I leave the restroom and head into the lines. I grab my tray of food but I don't eat it. I scoot it away the moment I take my seat, choosing to sit at a lone table. Avoiding more stares and the whispers that follow them, I lay my head down onto the cool grey wood, using my arms as a cushion. There are some taps on the table and I move to see who I usually do.

Mr. Hiwatari silently motions for me to follow him and I do, my body aching in protest. In minutes he points to his empty classroom, and I head in, taking a seat at my desk. Maybe I missed a pop quiz or something? And was he a mime in another life? Seriously, I feel sorry for the blind or visually impaired people that have to deal with him. Although, maybe he's the type of person who's different with everyone?

Some minutes later, he comes back with my food and taps the desk directly in front of his desk. Puzzled, I do so. He shuts the door, leaving it unlocked. Guess this is important.

"I can't help but wonder if you're stalking me." I say, fighting the urge to puke again, my head feeling heavy.

Mr. Hiwatari chuckles, putting my tray on the desk. I won't lie, this feels weird, but I'm glad the door's unlocked.

"No, young man, it's just coincidence I swear."

He takes me in and in seconds I feel a cool hand on my forehead. "No fever, but you look sick."

I smack his hand away.

"Still hungover, or is the student body getting to you again?"

I blink at him a few times, and my mind finally puts the pieces together. "You? You're the man who-?"

"Got them expelled? Yes."

"And, the cafeteria incident weeks ago? You- That was you who carried me out?"

I can tell he's bashful about it, but he nods, confirming my assumptions.

"That was all you? You're my hero?"

Mr. Hiwatari clears his throat, "I wouldn't go that far. I just happened to be in there. I only did what was right."

I grin, feeling a bit better, "More like saving my ass. Damn, I owe you big time."

My teacher just smiles back and says, "Stop swearing."

"Deal." I say, laughing as I pick up my cheeseburger.

"Mr. Hiwatari?" I say after a second, taking a bite of my food.

"Hm?" He sits behind his desk, putting even more distance between us.

That action makes my brain switch gears but it stays in the same lane, still being about him.

"Did you recently move here?"

He nods, "I moved into my home the weekend before school started."

"Why the haste? I mean, it usually takes a week to two weeks to settle in somewhere new and register yourself."

"I was already a preregistered resident."

"Oh, you used to live here? Cool. But why move back to this shithole? There's nothing to do here."

He gives me a warning glare and says, "Stop, swearing."

I fumble with my burger before sinking further down into the seat, "Sorry."

"I moved back because the pay was good."

There's something lurking in his crimson pools that I can't pin down. As is the case most days, he's hard to read. "There was no other reason?"

"No, sir. Now back to you. What's wrong? You weren't at school yesterday. Your first period teacher said he didn't get an excuse note from you either."

"Got kept home. Overprotective parent." I grumble out the last part, steaming at the memories.

"Hard home life?"

"No." I say with a breath, "My dad and I are just fighting a lot. I feel like there's a wedge growing between us."

His eyebrows knit together in what I can only assume is pure worry and he swallows the abruptly forming, rather tight, lump in his throat.

At his silence it's my turn to swallow a tight lump.

"It's alright, nothing you say will leave this room." He encourages, trying to ease my nerves.

The lunch bell rings, cutting our conversation short.

"I swear things are fine." I say, rushing out the door and into the crowd.

I'm not one to discuss private matters so openly, but something tells me this man and I have more in common than I initially thought.

That night, after dinner, I try my hand at asking about my folks again, but instead of an argument, I just get a groan. Papa leaves the dining room right after, going outside for a breather. Maybe I should just go and live somewhere else, because clearly, all I'm doing is upsetting him. But I still don't understand, what's so bad that I need protection from it? Around 10PM, when all noises cease, I sneak out. I walk the familiar streets, ultimately ending up at a familiar place.