Author Note

At this point, it should be obvious: I've failed to publish weekly in the last few weeks. Writers block is part of the reason, but I do struggle with depression and the last month really had me down. Not being able to get over the part that was frustrating me just made it worse.

This is not an excuse and definitely not an apology, but just a bit of an explanation to the few people who inquired what was up and eager for the next chapter. I'm sorry. I wish I could promise it won't happen again, but when I'm on the downswing, all such promises end up broken.

What I can promise however is that whatever guaranteed chapters were supposed to come out will always come out, unless I somehow manage to run out of those in my stash. By the time you read this, the missing chapters will have been published, so I can continue with a relatively clean slate and hopefully once more stick to the schedule I set for myself.

Thank you all for your patience, and enjoy the chapter! ~SilkHandkerchief

P.S.: I am looking for someone who is fluent at Japanese and familiar with the culture to help me work out the chapters of an arc I am currently working on. I haven't much to offer in exchange save for the chance to read ahead... any takers? :-)

Chapter 51c: Cardboard Kittens

A few more minutes, and we'll have reached our destination after braving this downpour. Marc is bringing me away from the place I had sort of come to consider a home and into a true place for depression to flourish: my dad's new apartment.

Ugh. Maybe I should have tried fighting it more.

But it isn't as if there's a point to doing so. At most it would make Setsuka ask all sorts of weird questions. Perhaps I'd dodge them once or twice, but even if she's young, impressionable and way too easy to trick, she's not an idiot incapable of noticing patterns.

"Excited?"

I glance sideways to give Marc a stare. The guy offered to help me move out - he might not use the exact same words as I am about to, but I am quite sure he considers me a success project.

Graded tests are such an easy standard to meet. Obviously I'm going to succeed. I honestly don't know what he's expecting, or what the hell those other idiots are doing that they fail at it.

"Not really."

My response is as honest as it is blunt, and I hope I can squash his excitement just a little bit because the thought of him wanting to be rid of me is frankly more annoying than having to move in with the guy I intend to ignore for as much as I can possibly get away with.

In this family, all the good things come from the female side of family tree.

"You're not going to get anywhere without a positive outlook, Cain. I know you blame him for a lot of things, but being stuck in past events has never improved anything. Look towards the future, kiddo! No more strict institute rules and a proper chance to find yourself a girlfriend!"

Come to think of it, I think I do know.

Those idiots simply don't care about passing Marc's silly little tests. Were it not for Setsuka, I don't think I would, either.

"I haven't seen a girl my age that's worth tolerating thus far. They are all as annoying as flies."

My stoic response has brought forth a guffawing burst of laughter, and he's animatedly slamming his steering wheel. Good grief, relax dude. It wasn't even a joke!

"Haha. Ha. That's what you say now, Cain..! How about we talk again in a couple of months to see if you've changed your mind?"

I roll my eyes in silence, opting to not even look at him and ignore this stupid conversational tack only to find we've entered a residential neighborhood. Crap. We're here.

It is just outside of a somewhat aged but still decent-looking complex that we get out. I guess it cannot compare to our old home with the giant garden Mom favored, but then again, dad hates gardening. Expecting him to find a place with a garden to maintain is like asking an alcoholic to drink tap water.

And even dad hasn't been that drastic; he's been drinking a different kind of tea whenever I've had the questionable pleasure to spend the day with him. By this time next week, I can probably write a small novel on his thrilling tea escapades.

We get out of the car and Marc, ever the socially inclined biscuit, wanders over to my wheelchair-equipped father who appears to be sitting in the foyer. Personally, I just think he wants to get out of the rain, and I don't blame him one bit. This bloody British weather is an ever-changing constant of disappointment.

I get my one box from the car after placing the bag with odds and ends on top of it, then push the thing closed with my hip. Full hands are the perfectly sociable excuse not to greet the man; upsetting Marc just isn't worth the preaching that'll inevitably follow.

We move up to the apartment in a group. Apartment 38c. What a number. I feel like a properly mass-produced piece of British junkfood already.

Dad moves in and briefly introduces the rooms. Living room with a tiny kitchen. His room. My room. And Setsuka's room.

Goddamn wanker. I know exactly what he's been upto.

Everything he's been doing as of late has been to spoil her. Trips here or there as an early birthday present, a new hairclasp, a pack of origami squares.

He is fucking bribing her. Damn that insensitive son of a bitch.

All that after pushing to have the judge ask her what she wants, which they finally ended up scheduling for next weeks hearing.

The sanctimonious piece of shit is just trampling over her feelings without a care!

Then again... I am no better, am I? FUCK.

I drop my box off on top of the mattress in what is to be my own room, the lack of subtlety on my part probably making it more akin to a frustrated slam. Take a deep breath... and move on. I can't change any of that stuff right now. Move. On!

Looking up, I realize my room is furnished decently enough. There is a bed, a desk and white walls. It is utterly naked, but then again, Setsuka's room-to-be is still stacked full of boxes. Apparently all our old possessions were just tossed together back then, so it is going to take her and me to go through them to figure out what needs to be kept. Because clearly, he can't do it.

Fine! I caused that coma of his! I haven't ever denied it, not even to Setsuka. But he's fucking milking it every step of the way. The bastard.

You already were a soggily intoxicated biscuit ever before I scrambled your eggs, old man. Don't blame the mixer!

As my eyes look at the box I dropped on the bed in front of me, feelings assault me. Ah crap. I'm so sorry, Setsuka!

Cardboard boxes are meant to protect their contents, so I really shouldn't care. But this box is special; Setsuka was sketching on it when she visited the Institute two weeks ago. I bought the box the day before, so when she was in one of her drawing moods, I just offered it up for her to peruse.

The way she was sitting in it and drawing on the outside from that position still brings smiles to my mind. Although her posture was really weird, what struck me the most is how much she has been improving. They aren't lifelike or anything yet, but when she gave me the origami zoo a year ago, her skills were still incomparable to mine: a really childish but overly cute scribblefest that would make hearts melt.

But now they clearly eclipse my pitiful cavedrawings, having become true artworks in their own right. Perhaps a bit immature still, but undeniable artworks.

Or did. Unfortunately, the litter of kittens she drew is all splotchy and ugly now because of my carelessness. I should have covered the box up before taking it out of the car. But like an utter idiot that dropped down way too close to the tree that grew me, I trampled all over her feelings YET AGAIN!

My hand balls into a fist before I even consciously realize that I am about to blow off some steam, and I punch the mattress with as much force as I can muster. Fuckers. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

After I regain a bit of my calm, I realize I can't just stay in here. Dad... well, whatever. But Marc will end up with questions. Damn that emotional bloodhound.

I guess it is time to rejoin dad and Marc in the living room.

And then maybe find a boxing gym in this neighborhood.

To avoid history repeating itself. Because it just might.