They act like some hot chocolate is going to change something. Bullcrapshitbitchin' hell. Hot chocolate can't bring Takao back.
I was in the back of an ambulance when I woke up, and I started screaming. The police officer and medic beside me panicked – apparently, it was the cop's forth day on the job – and they shot me with some sleepy-time tea in drug form.
When I woke up next, Mom was beside me, and the officer was outside of my sterile room. It's so whitewashed, I can't stand the color anymore. No more red, no more white. No more colors, please. Mom lifted her tired head and weary eyes when she heard me shuffle under my sheets, but smiled on eye contact. "Oh thank God you're okay. Oh, ohohoh… oh, hello sweetie, please don't get up."
I wanted to ask what happened, you know? … how I got there, who pulled this prank, what happened to normal Wednesdays… that sort of stuff. But I couldn't. I knew the answers, and no matter how desperately I wanted to hear someone tell me a lie, I couldn't stomach something so bitter. So I looked at her, praying she would deny this afternoon's mayhem.
My mother has never been very good with words, neither lies or truths, if you ask me. She's so used to being told to stay silent that she now falls back on that.
It's a puppy told not to play with the other dogs; when its older, tail full-length, ears excited and ready for the world, it will quiver at the park and whimper at home. My mother is nothing but a dog now, and I am a byproduct of her domestication. That is where I come from, and that is where I will fall.
I can't cry – it may be because my tears simply wont work. My mother jumped up as Dad walked in, a coffee in one hand, a hot chocolate in the other. "Hiro is in the lounge." He turned to my mother, "Please fetch him here." She left in haste, leaving my dad twisted around to stare at the doorframe to the outside world. I could see the officer jump slightly at my hustling mother, and he must have made eye contract with Dad, because he flinched back into his standstill post outside my room.
He wouldn't look at me – my own father – so my chin fell to my chest. I curled my hands tightly and kept bowed as he sighed. Dad set the hot chocolate on the bed stand beside me, and yet we made no effort to look at each other. The room's stark whiteness danced a little beyond the steam rising from the drink.
"Do they have any idea?" I whispered somewhat aggressively.
"No. Not yet."
.
.
.
The silence lingered. If only the steam from my plastic cup would carry me away… if only.
We spent some time talking about what happened and how we felt. Hiro was pissed and vocalized himself as he usually does while I sat head down in my uncomfortable hospital bed. Mom cried, Hiro teared up, and Dad hardly looked at us.
My brother, their son, was murdered in our own house. This wasn't supposed to happen – maybe to someone else in the world, maybe to some random asshole, but to Takao? No, he didn't deserve this. I don't deserve this! He doesn't deserve this, its still… it is still some lameass prank!
Mom kept going on about how he was going to change the world. Believe it or not, but my eldest brother was the kindest of the three of us, and the smartest by a landslide. He was meant to be a doctor, he was going to cure cancer. He was going to fall in love with a beautiful woman and have a long, happy life with my nieces and nephews. He was going to go down in the history books, and goddammit he was too good for this world!
I can't stomach this truth, I want to throw up.
I want to burn myself, I want to burn down this building.
I want to take someone by the shoulders and shake them until reality spills from their ears.
But no: I sit here, fat tears falling on to my curled firsts.
How am I supposed to go on? Its not like I've ever been worth anything… if my brother, the best person out there, was handed this, then what's in store for a walking mistake like me? This life's not worth the effort.
A somewhat elderly officer came in after we had a few hours to ourselves. He wasn't kind-eyed, nor gentle. He was gruff and tough, worn away by the harsh tide of reality.
I wonder how many dead people he's seen.
"It's a singular event, Sir," He says after greeting my parents and saying how dearly sorry for us he is. "Based on the crime scene, we can't tie this to any other murders out there. We have a few questions for you and your family if you can handle it, then some more paperwork that needs to be filled out."
"Its not a crime scene." I butt in furiously, still head down. I think my family was startled by my outlash, but they did nothing to comfort me. I could hear my mom's sigh a million miles away as loud as a hurricane ripping through my heart.
I keep going, head down, voice barely audible. "That's my brother you're talking about. That's my brother in my home… that's my home you're talking about."
.
.
.
We weren't allowed back in our house until late that night; it didn't seem to matter much anyway, since the interviews and questions didn't seem to end. All these "Do you know anyone who might" or "do you know if Takao had any enemies" or "where were you at 2 PM today" simply boiled my blood. At one point, the inquisitor took a pause to draw a breath, and I hissed at him from my sterile, white bed. "How dare you think like this, how dare you think that he would provoke anyone to do this! How dare you think that we did this! He's my brother, goddammit!" But they kept going, on and on, circling one another with their stupid questions.
We got home, the tape still up. People walked by with whispers on their lips, but no one came to our door. They might have been simply too afraid. I would have been.
That front room was spotless. There was nothing on the walls or the ground or the windows. Everything had been sterilized, as if the entire day was nothing but a fantasy. Mom's stupid Persian rug was gone, and the county was going to pay for a new one for us. As if some new, fat-ass rug was going to bring my brother back to me. It's like the goddammed hot chocolate.
Well, almost everything was clean. I couldn't sleep – I don't think anyone could – and was wandering around the house at the dead of night.
There were no colors. There were no ghosts, no spirits to greet me. No friend or family member to walk me back to my room, like how Takao used to find me when we were little.
But there was color. On the coffee table to the right of the sofa was a family picture, all five of us, some laughing, some smiling, as we perched at the top of Mount Fuji. Hiro had his arms around Takao and me, squeezing us into a death-grip at our necks. I was turned half-way, my smile sharply morphing into a barking order at my idiotic brother. Takao had his eyes closed, the effort of smiling too much for his face to hold everything at once.
His eyes were closed.
The color, that forbidden shade that the officers worked so diligently to wash away from our lives, was on his face in the picture.
.
.
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I'm actually on cruise control right now with this story, and since I want to get back to my other two fanfics I'm going to update a little more regularly for now.
I'm not all that happy about how this turned out, so if you feel the same, I'm sorry. But transitions are required and patients is a virtue n_n*
I think it's either two or three more updates until we actually get the action going. So hang tight, and please enjoy! As always, questions, comments, and complaints are welcomed and loved!