Thank you to everyone who has left reviews on this and other fics of mine. This is taking on a life of it's own and I kind of don't know where it's headed. Even so, I hope you enjoy the update and all to come! ^^
Chapter Nine: Struggle
"I got an idea! Do a Google search, man!" Lionel shouts, laughing over our loud, heavy metal music afterward. I don't remember if he's blaring Blink-182, Papa Roach, Korn, or Linkin Park through my car speakers but I really don't care to ask. Overly loud, earsplitting music is his thing, not mine, but this is his grass stash so he has control. I prefer fragrant food and good drinks with nature as my company and maybe a fire going, but to each their own. As long as I get my fixes, I'm right as rain.
I puff on the bong the lion looking man and I are passing between the two of us, a pro at it now. After blowing the smoke toward the forest of trees behind me, the two of us hanging out at the trailer park housing his mobile home, I knock back the rest of my beer.
Crushing the thick, tall can and tossing it into the bin like a level one baseball star, I yell out to the fit and tan, golden eyed Asian, "You think I ain't thought a that?! I ain't Makoto fucker! I tried that a long time ago!"
"No dice then?"
"Nah, but I figured that!"
It's late-November, and I'm at the end of my rope with all life has handed me thus far. Lionel and I have become close due to him understanding me, but that's it as far as friends my age go. Makoto and I no longer speak, his parents citing that I'm a bad influence because of my 'horrible' habits. I'm not the best person around but I'm not the one that started my drinking problem. I don't blame him really, it just happened, but he is the one who introduced me to it. And forget Lin talking to me, she's been done with the both of us since Makoto and I got super drunk at that sleepover. Yeah, according to many people at school, Makoto and Lin have recently broken up. It was a bad one from what I hear. I should be happy that they won't be making me throw up anymore, but I could care less. The one beacon in my life is Mr. Hiwatari. There's no way I could forget about all his help. He's rough around the edges, yes, but he's a great person when you really take the time to learn him.
On the way out from Lionel's place, I pull into a McDonald's parking lot and just sit there. I'd rather smell like smoky, sweaty meat and greasy french fries than weed. While coming up with what to order I swish some mouthwash in my mouth a fair amount of times to hide the poignant booze breath. I spit it all into an old takeout cup and then toss that into the trash can standing just an arms reach outside of my car.
After an hour or so of sweating it out, and three large meals with drinks, I pull up into a familiar driveway. What the hell am I doing here? I guess part of me wants to return home, but there's a bigger part of me that quickly shuts that side up. I tell the little voice that I made my bed long ago and that I have to sleep in it now.
Making a mental list of my current needs, I notice dad's car is gone. Figuring he's still out, I head inside. To my relief, he is gone. In that realization I strip down to my boxers and, first and foremost, decide to sleep on the couch. My brain is still baked and I feel floaty all around, so I could use a nap.
Some minutes later, or maybe an hour I don't know, I'm forced awake by a bucket of ice water. Its contents splash over me like a tsunami filled with glaciers and I swiftly move off of the wet furniture, myself dripping with water.
"What the hell, dad?!" I scream, seeing the man behind the couch with the bucket.
"Oh, is that what I am to you now? Normally when children are missing since the week before Halloween they call who they consider parents!" He screams back, angry too.
That's right, I haven't been back. The day after my birthday we had another blowout. It ended in me swinging at him. He ducked and I busted a window. I left after that, without another word. I'm not sure if he's sent the cops after me but he most likely has. I guess I should consider myself lucky if he hasn't.
My old man throws the gallon bucket aside, appearing exhausted beyond belief. For a second I wonder if he's been sleeping but that all fades the moment I'm pulled into a strong hug. I don't know what to do with myself, so I just stay put, freezing.
I hear crying and soon, sob stammered words crowd my ears. "You kept me waiting for over a month. I'm so glad you're okay, you big idiot."
I sit dad on the couch, and tell him I'm going to go upstairs to shower and get some clean clothes. Though I leave out the clothes part. Why do things have to be this way? Why do I hurt people?
While packing my duffle bag, all cleaned up and freshly shaved, there's a set of soft knocks at my bedroom door. I open it, only to see an envelope at my feet. The very one dad had in his lap on the first day of school. Hearing the television play on low below me, I sit on my bed and open it.
Inside are several yellowed, horribly liquor stained documents but I'm unable to read them. All I can tell is that they're ruminants of something old. By squinting my eyes I can make out some cursive writings, but that's it. I'm guessing these are letters of some kind but otherwise I'm still left lost and feeling even more confused than before. In irritation, I toss the pile aside, throwing the papers on the floor. Getting my shoes on, I stomp downstairs, livid.
"Was that supposed to help? Huh?! Is this your way of telling me?! I couldn't read any of it!" I scream, dad's face seeming surprised.
He notices the weighted, big bag on my right shoulder, and before he can stop me, I'm out the door again. He chases after me but I don't stop what I'm doing, the car's motor rumbling. Before I can shut the door however, he's holding it open.
"It's not what you think. I'm not playing you for a fool. Just, listen, ok. This isn't easy." My scowl deepens after he says that, and I yank the door shut, speedily driving off. When I was willing to listen he didn't want to talk. Why should I give him what he wants when he wants it?
In time I've ridden up to Mr. Hiwatari's house and am soon walking up to his door. He's given me a key to his place, but I don't use it very often. Oh who am I kidding? I use it nearly every chance I get.
"Hey, Twiggy." Comes the familiar voice from behind a thick book. As always, the sound (like papa's used to) eases my mind, untangles my nerves, and saves a little bit more of my ever-slipping sanity. I'm surprised I have any left.
"Hey." I say as I slip off my shoes and outer early winter wear, the long coat and scarf mainly. My voice is in the throws of becoming deeper than it used to be. Puberty has completely hit me, but it's whatever.
Mr. Hiwatari calls me 'twiggy' because of all the weight I've lost in my time away from what I used to call home. Now, if anyone asks, I don't have one. I avoid mirrors, not caring to see the damage I've done to myself. That and, I know what I look like, I don't need a reminder. Carelessly, I toss my bag onto his couch and plop next to him, leisurely crossing my ankles on the footstool at our feet, his already crossed on it.
"So, where ya been?" The older one asks, done reading and seemingly bored with whatever it was.
I lean back into the cushy fabric, relaxing, "At Lionel's shithole. Thanks to you." I send him daggers, my eyes holding an accusing glare but soon I return to my neutral way of being.
"You did this to yourself." He states flatly, staring blankly at the bookshelf on his wall by the still unused television.
"You wanna drink?" I ask, feeling something like hopeful.
Mr. Hiwatari sends me a look that says he's warning me, so I had better straighten up. In his irises I see something else swimming to the forefront and replacing the fiery fury. It's a sadness that reads as, 'you don't wanna see that.' I gulp and don't say anything in response.
"Answer me." He starts, moving to sit up straight. He looks directly at me, "Why do you drink like a fish out of water? Smoke marijuana in place of food?"
Why? In all this time, only Lionel has ever asked me that and I couldn't give him a good answer. My subtly nervous gaze shifts and travels, crawling along the room. The walls are still plain yet the house is more lively than before, but ever so slowly, they reluctantly land back on to him.
"Why?" I repeat, clearing my throat.
"Yes, why?" The homeowner echos, seeing he's backed me into a corner.
"To feel better? I guess. Why are you asking me this?"
Mr. Hiwatari nods, briefly pursing his lips in comprehension. "Alright then. Question number two. Why do you want to feel better?"
Have I never outright told this guy why I ran away from home? Huh, odd, I thought I had. I figured he'd pick up on it anyway. Maybe, he's like me, he doesn't like holding onto assumptions for too long. Eventually, guesses grow tiring and we all want the truth. Yeah, I get it, that makes sense.
"I'm just sick of the arguments, the tense atmosphere. Any time I go home it's the same thing. He cries, we scream at each other, and then more crap ensues. Regardless of the event order, the rhyme or reason why, it's always the same outcome. I just want to know who I am. Why is that so wrong? And then on top of that, today of all days, he decides to throw some stupid envelope at me. Now he wants to talk? He wants me to listen? Damnit! I reran off."
The aura of the room shifts from lighthearted and airy to heavy and strangely solemn. Mr. Hiwatari turns away from me and puts his head down, looking forlorn and creepily gaunt. I'm at a loss for words. How much of a tole is this taking on him? Is there more to this situation than what I'm aware of?
"... There's nothing wrong with wanting to know who you are, but..." He pauses, trying his damndest to find himself some footing, "What if you find out, and it's- Nothing is all you thought it would be? What will you do then?"
I shrug, tongue tied. I see his shoulders jerk upward. He's crying, silently sobbing actually. Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I say, "Mr. Hiwatari, have you been through this?"
He shakes his head no, the bigger tears running down and dripping off of his longish nose.
"Sir?" I try once more, thinking about papa for a moment.
"Call me, Kai." He croaks out, trying to stop the remaining tears from falling, hold all he can back.
My face scrunches up at that; me feeling more than just a little confused. What the hell is going on here? I'm not sure why he's decided to randomly cry on me but I'll do what I can to help.
"Ok, erm, Kai. Uh, are you okay?"
Again he shakes his head no, more tears determinedly falling and splashing onto the floor.
Amidst a deep, frame rattling breath, he finally composes himself.
"You, uh, you need to go to bed, Gou. You've got school tomorrow."
I fold my arms over my chest, not happy. "Sure."
Kai looks at me, completely drained of all life, and sharply says, "I know you've been skipping. You're going tomorrow, even if I have to drive you myself."
He can tell that I'm contemplating another escape plan and stands tall, asserting himself. He folds his arms over his own chest, his knobby knees fighting the urge to buckle inward. "I'm warning you now boy. You leave the grounds, I'm kicking you out again. Let me remind you, you're under my roof. So that means you're under my care and will follow my rules, if you don't like it, then feel free to split."
I get ready for bed and before I know it I'm asleep in his bed with Kai deciding to take the couch. I keep forgetting how courteous he is behind that brick wall. The anxiety surrounding tomorrow keeps flip-flopping in my stomach, making me feel ill.
The next morning, a gentle hand rouses me from my slumber and I'm up. Kai soon leaves the room, turning the above ceiling fan's light on so I don't go back to sleep. For breakfast, I'm offered something quick but very filling. He calls it, oatmeal and drop biscuits. Remind me, are we in America or Japan? He mixes the oatmeal with maple syrup and brown sugar. It's delicious and I ended up eating two bowls of it. I learn that drop biscuits are as they sound, spooned dough with no definite shape. You just plop them down onto a pan and bake. As we eat I crumble mine up in my oatmeal, a great combination.
True to his word, Kai drives me to school, and the moment we pull up, I'm met with stares. He is too, but he seems to be better at dealing with it. Or not care, I can't tell which yet.
"Have a safe day." Kai says, waiting for me to slide out of the car and head inside before driving off.
In Psychology class, my second period subject, we're told to do an in-depth report on a former or current celebrity. We have to talk about their life, get an insight into how they work as a person. What, or who, might've had a hand in making them the way that they are, or were, depending on how time treated them? I hear most of my peers excitedly choose someone in their respective families or a current hotshot. Me, I'm not sure who I'll write about. Then we're told that if we can't find a specific person that we can do a group of people. She said if we had any questions or concerns to come to her, and I may do that if I keep drawing blanks. I don't 'connect' with anyone famous, and those I do associate with, I don't want to know any more about them than I already do.
I'm not sure why, but at lunch while stepping over a goopy mess on the floor, an idea hits me. My dad's old team. But, with all I've done, a part of me is too scared to ask my would-be sources. Then I remember that I'm not the only one who's probably thought of this. My mind instantly backtracks and I try to think of something else, something that goes in an entirely different direction. For now, I'm back at square one.
Later that afternoon, at Kai's place, I'm sat at the kitchen table struggling with the psychology assignment. My other homework is done, begrudgingly, so all that's left is this. We have the remainder of the semester to work on it, it being worth a good portion of our overall exam grade. So, I have a month to do this and bring my average back up to where it was before my life fell apart. I put my hands on either side of my head, stressfully gripping my long hair, the scraggly strands bunch up into even worse knots but I'll deal with that later.
While rereading over the project's syllabus, I discover something Mrs. Lang either failed to mention or I just didn't pick up on. I was only half-listening so it was possibly the latter. If we don't wish to do the celebrity stuff, she explains that we can pick a theme we relate to instead and elaborate on how it relates to us. I'm not a big fan of doing this, especially presenting it in front of everyone. But, rethinking it over, what else is there for me to lose?
While I pack my things back into my backpack, I shuffle around the table, organizing the mess it's become. I've decided to think on the project some more, make it something that will blow them away. But that train of thought is derailed the moment I notice Kai observing me from the archway. How long has he been there?
I follow his gaze and figure out that he's spotted my arms, mainly my scarred and/or collapsed veins. He rushes up to me, and makes me sit back down, his piercing eyes a mixture of worry and a sneak peak of the threatening temper I've come to fear. I realize what I've neglected and could kick myself for it. I didn't leave my signature sweater on, meaning I'm only in a red teeshirt and bluejeans. I was so caught up in the importance of this project, that I overlooked things. Oh, dear me I'm in deep trouble.