Neither Hiro no I have been to school for a few days. We sit in our rooms like broken statues as Mom and Dad fight to get through the days. We don't really talk much – not as a family – nor do we sit down for dinner. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with myself. I don't think I've ever really known.
Four days after… well, it, Mom called Hiro and I into Takao's room. It had always been so stereotypical; a colorless blue, four-squared room void of imagination, a bed tucked away to the right with a brown comforter, and a heavy layer of dust settled on his chiffarobe. Sneakers, easily four-million years old, that altered us all to when he was going out for a periodic, silent meander through the neighborhood. The smell that radiated from those little shits used to be a major turn off, but now my eyes fall to them and I can't… I can't look away. He was never much of an athlete, but he took care of himself – that's way more than I've ever done.
A suitcase explosion to the left with his college-wear, usually packed to the brim like a tidy grandmother sending a child away for the weekend. Opposite from the doorway I stand in front of is the one window in this room. It is a bland and tasteless view, with a tree blocking most of the actual view, and beyond it a tasteless wall of our neighbor's house.
Whenever he was home, he was there. Not sleeping. Not eating. Not talking to girls. His over-cluttered desk, caked in paperwork, stray pens, and the occasional broken antique crap, is parked in front of that simple little stupid window. He had a thing for drifting through antique stores. I step closer to his little desk reflecting on his reason why he'd waste his money on junk like that.
It was dinner about five years ago. He just tramped home with a grandmother clock, his glasses falling down his face in his exhilaration, and I was a curious ten year old.
"Why'd you waste your allowance on that, Onii-chan?"
He almost laughed at me, his face light with the adrenaline of his excursion. Can you imagine, hard-assed Takao, laughing? Those were simpler days.
"Because," the clock fit in the palm of his hand, and he held it out, inches from my face. "To someone out there, this was special to them."
"But that doesn't make it special to you," I argued, a question lingering on my tongue.
But Takao grinned and took the block back up to his face for close inspection. "That doesn't mean I can't enjoy it for that very fact!"
It didn't make any sense to me. It still doesn't, but I remember that conversation well, since it was the first of many evenings when he'd come home with some ancient treasure. None of them would last longer than a few weeks, and every time his exuberance towards finding a new toy was as bright as the last. Clocks, necklaces, hair pins, silverwear, pocket knives, you name it; for ever old thing you'd toss out, he would run off to buy it.
That is, except for this one. When the brought it home, he took it straight up to his room instead of wiggling it in front of my face like the million times before.
I reach out for it – to hold it, the thing that he might have held – but Mom returns then and there. Some papers topple off some books and onto the little thing as Mom drops her goodies on the ground.
She just tramped back in with about a dozen cardboard boxes and a fistful of garbage bags.
"I'm tired," she declares, half-hearted and frustrated, "of this family. From here on out, things are going to change for the better." Hiro sighs and turns to walk past my mother, but she furrows her brow and moves to block his exit.
Well, now I'm intrigued. Did it take the death of her firstborn to realize she needed to grow a pair? Guess so; she's practically brimming with raw emotion right now.
She crosses her arms over her chest. "Now, your father and I are busy handling… work, among other things. The two of you will go through Takao's stuff – sort through keeps and tossers. We'll donate what we can."
We all stand silently for a moment, Hiro still furious-faced from her summoning him as he lingers just by Mom's shoulder.
He shoves his way past her and slams his bedroom door. Neither of us jump. Already this new side of Mom is getting to him – and I get it, its weird, but its… its better than nothing. I guess people really can change, given a strong enough push over a ledge.
She tries to smile at me, pleasing, almost. I turn back to the window and sit on the ground. This is going to be extremely difficult.
"You don't want to go through… for stuff… you wanna keep?"
I hear her pat the wall as she comforts herself. "I don't think I can."
At least one of us is being honest to ourselves.
Its not quite steep enough on the sides to be a cup, but it could pass for an old-ass teacup-cup (you know, those things in the classy china sets). Like most things in this room, there isn't much color to it; the outline of a diamond in the center is the clearest to see, since its covered in ash and dust. Brown, red, and something close to maroon, but that's it; next to the sneakers, it's the oldest thing in the room by a landslide.
I reach for it, a gleam in the smallest nook lighting up my curiosity.
On contact, I'm scorched. Lightning sears my fingertip and burns my toes; my brain cries out, jerking my hand away. It never left the desk since I couldn't pick it up, but I fall flat on my ass. A flash of red burns my eyes.
What the hell? That bloody hurt!
I want to crawl away, but I don't think my legs will work.
Something's at play here, but what exactly?
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I avoid his desk at all cost due to the potential mayhem of touching that… that thing again. It takes nearly the whole evening, and Hiro grudgingly came back about two hours after his episode with Mom. There isn't a whole lot to say, so nothing's said at all. I page through Takao's closet as Hiro goes through his drawers. Occasionally, one of us will turn around and the space between us vanishes as we reflect on some trinket or adventure. As hard as it was, it was somewhat… pleasant. A release fell from my shoulders, and for the first time in what felt like eternity, the tears fell without stinging my cheeks. We laughed pretty hard, going through Takao's stuff. I almost forgot how to laugh.
Mom didn't bother calling us to lunch. She dropped off two plates at the door, smiled, and walked away.
Hiro left close to five. I stayed, even going as far as to pull out one of Takao's blankets from the crevice of his closet. It was only when I went to light a candle on his desk as the sun fell from sight did I dare sit on his seat.
Do I really want to do this? Do I really think I can go through his most personal material? His studies meant the world to him, and chances are most of this is over me.
Ah shit, are those words? Is that supposed to be English? My English was crap anyways… well, it makes sense, studying in London and all…
Wait a second.
That's German.
And… and that's French. What are all these shapes? Circle and triangles and squares? What is this, human transmutation?
Under his miscellaneous paperwork is a ratty moleskin, the cover tearing off on the top right corner.
Is this sucker glued? It won't open, goddammit!
Even though it's clearly used regularly, its got some dirt glazed on the surface.
In this instant, the relief of the last few hours has broken apart at the seams. I felt so close to him going through all of his collectables and childhood memoriums… but now… I can't help but feel sullen again. I've never felt so far from Takao before. I tug the blanket tighter around my shoulders and set the book down.
I only wish I knew him better. Maybe if I listened to him more when he was home... maybe he wouldn't have been home alone that day.
Never would I have imagined pain could open up the future: and that's precisely what happened here.
It was a trailing tear that broke the magical boundary on his moleskin. It ebbed away like a stone sinking into an indigo river, where ripples of energy cast out from the epicenter in every direction. The candle flickers and a breeze emanates from the well-worn journal, but in the instant it dies down, the cover blows to the side: the sharp breeze was so intense it gave me a cut above my brow, and I curse outwardly… but wait.
How.
How, and why.
And what the flippin' hell?! What kind of witch-craf-
Oh, wait. Wait a fat second.
Was Takao… using magic?
No way.
No, not him. He was so into science his whole life, there's no way in hell he'd study magic… right?
The first page looks blank, so I flip to the second. It's the same: a faceless page, wrinkly and damaged from the constant wear-and-tear of the world.
Takao must have taken this everywhere with him, but what's in it? I lean down and rest my forehead on it, so close yet so far.
When I lift my head and rub my eyes, I crane my head out the window to see the quickly-fading sun. There are some kids playing outside.
Hold on, is this the same book? The ratty moleskin has words in it – words that are in no way Japanese and probably not English. But, where the hell did they come from?
I whip my brow, where the slight blood touched the page.
Well, bullcrapflippin'shit. The words appear from blood? That's a little intense. The ruby speck on the top left slowly vanishes before my eyes, evaporating into the paper as the words are given light.
This is crazy.
Where did he learn a trick like this? I thought he was studying bioengineering?!
I need a moment, I need some air.
I heave one of Takao's jackets over my shoulders and go to my room to slip on my sneakers. When I'm walking down the hallway pass his room, I pause momentarily as I wipe the small trail of blood off my head.
What's the harm in taking that stuff outside with me? Using my sleeves indirectly, I slip the little plate-cup into my right pocket and Takao's moleskin into an inside pocket. I pass Hiro on my way out, and he looks curiously at me.
"You okay, imouto?"
"I just need some air," I huff, tying my hair back. I pause and retrace my steps to look back at him, sitting cross-legged, face buried in some photo album of when we were kids. Looking closer, I can see he's on the page with the same picture in the family room. He looks up, and believe it or not, smiles a little. "Alright. I'll let Mom know."
"Thanks." I linger momentarily before walking away. What I wanted to say was "did you know Takao was a magic-user?" or something along the lines of "do you… you know, magic?" But I couldn't and I didn't. I walk down the hallway, close the front door behind me, and start walking away.
Who knows. The world is spinning kinda wildly right now: anything's possible if you think about it.
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