Homecoming
By: Kohana Uzumaki
I had never been a morning person because it was during those early hours that my haunting memories would resurface. Most people, if they looked at me, wouldn't see the scars concealed beneath my clothing or understand the struggles I faced with eating and sleeping. There was a time when I was a bright and lively little girl, unaffected by the weight of the world. But everything changed ten years ago when my older brother, Yusaku, the only family I had, went missing.
Throughout my life, I bounced between various foster homes and orphanages, constantly searching for a place where I truly belonged. Well, not my entire life—I was safe for the first four years because Yusaku always protected me. He was two years older and made sure I was well taken care of. However, everything changed when he disappeared for six long months. After that, Yusaku became cold, distant, and seemingly indifferent. We were separated, and I haven't seen him since. But that didn't mean I gave up hope of finding him. Whenever I had the opportunity, I would sit in front of my old desktop computer, doing my utmost to locate any trace of him.
It was the early hours of the morning when my latest foster family sent me back to the orphanage—unfortunately, they were the ones I had been with the longest. The social worker assigned to my case was an unpleasant old woman who couldn't wait to retire. I wasn't merely a case number on a piece of paper; I was a living being with my own feelings and scars. Exhausted by the constant insults from other kids at school and the orphanage, I turned toward the window, seeking solace.
Now, with my case worker finally retiring, I felt abandoned, destined to live on the streets where I would be out of sight from the judging eyes of others. I left behind a note consisting of sixteen words and a single picture of my brother and me as young children—a silent expression of blame directed toward all the people who had let me down at one point or another.
I reached the far side of Den City, near the cliffs, when the distant sound of sirens caught my attention. It was still before five in the morning, so no one should have known that I was missing. I hurriedly sought refuge in the thick brush beneath the windows of a house overlooking the ocean, desperately trying to hold myself together as I teetered on the edge of a breakdown. My trump card, hidden in the front pocket of my faded blue jeans, provided a small measure of reassurance. The cold morning air sent shivers down my spine, causing my hair to stand on end in fear of being discovered. And I would have been found if it weren't for the fortuitous presence of a young man passing by. He became my savior, rescuing me from both the clutches of the approaching police and my own despair.
"Hey, are you alright?" the young man asked, noticing the sound of my stumble over a tree branch. I gazed up at the slender figure with white hair, my big green eyes filled with tears as I completely broke down. My fingernails dug into my arms, leaving thin lines of blood trickling down to my elbows. The young man swiftly rushed to my side, attempting to pry my fingers away from the self-inflicted wounds. It took him fifteen agonizing minutes to convince me to release my grip before he guided us to his family's home.
"Okay, so I'm Roken Kogami. And you are?" the young man introduced himself once he had tended to my wounded arms. I remained silent, my mind consumed by fear as I watched him from across the room, trembling with trepidation.
"Fuyuko Fujiki... I'm sorry for intruding this early in the morning," I apologized, gently rubbing the thick bandages covering my arms. It was clear that my impulsive decision to run away without considering the consequences had been foolish. Acting solely on my emotions had brought me to this point.
"What are you doing out this early in the morning, Ms. Fujiki? Are you related to Yusaku Fujiki?" Roken asked, his confusion evident. I let out a weary sigh and slumped forward in my seat.
"Yes, I am related to him, but he no longer wants anything to do with me. I grew tired of the foster system repeatedly failing me every time they placed me with new families..." I explained, providing him with a brief overview of my situation.
"So, you've become so fed up with how the system treats you that you ran away from the orphanage where you live because of bullying or abuse at the foster homes. You do realize that I'll have to call the police and inform them that you've been found, right?" Roken said, standing in front of me. I nodded, understanding the implications, and rose from my spot on the couch. However, just because he had to notify the police didn't mean I had to be present when they arrived. If I had anything to say about it, I wouldn't return to that place. And, as I mentioned earlier, my issues were not related to the orphanage—there were aspects that most people wouldn't believe, even if they were able to see them.
"Where are you going, Ms. Fujiki?" Roken inquired as I made my way to the door, my bag slung over one shoulder. I had been attempting to leave discreetly without drawing Roken's attention. It was then that I revealed my trump card—the modified Taser I had tinkered with, capable of shutting down any electronic devices within a twenty-foot radius when activated.
"Just because you have to inform the police that I've been found doesn't mean I have to be here when they arrive... And before you ask, you won't know what hit you," I declared, tossing the Taser to the floor, triggering it and plunging the house into darkness. Taking advantage of the confusion, I slipped out of his house, evading the public eye. However, my disappearance didn't mean I wasn't lurking nearby—I simply didn't want to be taken back to that place.
It took the police nearly four months to locate and apprehend me, but I wasn't going to surrender easily. I bit four different police officers before they had no choice but to sedate me. Later, I learned that the damage I had caused far exceeded what even a notorious drug kingpin would inflict—and all this as a fourteen-year-old.
When I regained consciousness, I found myself in a hospital room, restrained to a bed and connected to various tubes and wires. I lay there for fifteen minutes before two police officers barged in, obnoxiously devouring their food and sipping coffee, while I hadn't had a meal in three weeks.
"I see the street rat is awake," the burly officer, with brown hair and a scar across his throat, remarked callously, placing his hat on the foot of the hospital bed. In response, I kicked the hat off with a flick of my right foot. The man grew angry, but his anger escalated to fury when I stuck out my tongue at him. His partner, a thinner officer who seemed less experienced, caught on to my intentions before I could even plan my next move.
"Alright, enough of that, you two. Ryo, she's a 14-year-old girl who has endured abuse to the point where she ran away to save herself. And young lady, you should show respect to your elders," the thin officer interjected, retrieving his partner's hat from the floor. He then placed a bag of food on my lap within my reach. I had to twist my wrist in a semi-circle to see what was inside. I found a ham and cheese sandwich and a juice box. However, upon examining the contents, I realized I couldn't eat them due to the preservatives in the processed meat and cheese, as well as the artificial flavors in the juice. My stomach growled incessantly, but consuming those items was not an option.
Just then, a nurse entered the room, clutching my thick file under her arm. She glanced at me briefly before rushing off to fetch a doctor, paying little attention to my rumbling stomach.
"Hey, kid, why don't you eat what we brought you?" the thin officer asked, looking perplexed. I shot him a glare before turning my head to gaze out the window at the bright blue sky. I was so high up that the ground was no longer visible.
"You know, that's not what he meant by being respectful to your elders. When someone asks you a question, you're supposed to answer promptly," the scarred officer chimed in, while I struggled to free my hand from the handcuff fastened to the bed rails.
"I can't consume chemicals found in processed foods or artificial flavors. Just from the smell of the meat and the glaze on the cheese, I can tell they're processed. And the juice box clearly states that it contains artificial flavors," I explained, continuing to work on freeing my left hand before attempting to undo the restraint on my right.
"What, are you some kind of escape artist?" the thin officer asked, standing near the sliding door. I glanced over at him while working on removing the right cuff. I had always struggled with dividing my attention between solving puzzles and answering questions. Once I managed to free my wrist from the restraint, I lay back down with my arms above my head. I turned to face the thin officer, the nurse, and my regular doctor.
"I told them not to tie you down when you were first brought in because, no matter how tight we make them or even if we use metal cuffs, you always find a way to get out," my doctor explained as he picked up the bag of lunch that still rested on my lap.
"So, she is some kind of escape artist," the thin officer finally deduced.
"Oh no, Fuyuko isn't an escape artist. She just has the ability to solve any puzzle you put in front of her," the nurse chimed in, moving to place a bowl of soup on my lap.
"She can eat soup but not a ham and cheese sandwich," the scarred officer remarked, rising from his seat.
"Homemade vegetable soup with fresh-baked bread, both made using only organic and fresh ingredients, all prepared by my lovely wife," my doctor proudly announced, handing the bag back to the thin officer near the door. He then wrapped his arm around his wife and the nurse, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek. I balled up my napkin and threw it with all my might at the officer, but due to my weakened state from three weeks without food, it fell far short of its target.
"You're a very rude young lady, kid," the scarred officer taunted, clearly attempting to provoke me yet again. I simply stuck my tongue out at him in response. The nurse swiftly intervened to prevent a fight.
"Fuyuko, behave. Officer, please don't antagonize her. Fuyuko, you should eat your meal before it gets cold," the nurse admonished me, giving me her stern "no back talk" look, which sent a shiver down my spine. I quickly managed to take four bites of the soup before giving up, as my stomach twisted into knots once again. The stress I was under made even the smell of the food affect me. The nurse and my doctor exchanged confused glances until they noticed how I was holding myself.
"Fuko, are you alright?" the nurse asked, sitting down next to me on the hospital bed and gently rubbing my back.
"No, it's all twisted again," I replied, crying into her shoulder, desperately trying to keep myself together. I had been trying to maintain my composure, not letting my emotions get out of control, because that would only send me back to that dreadful place. Suddenly, I felt someone wrapping their arms around me, and everything became hazy. I don't remember much after that, but when I regained consciousness, I found myself back in what appeared to be that place, with a nurse sitting right beside my bed, engrossed in a book. Slowly sitting up in bed, my head throbbed painfully as if my brain was pounding against the inside of my skull. To make matters worse, my vision was unfocused.
"How are you feeling, Ms. Fujiki?" the nurse asked, not even bothering to look up from her book. I turned to face her, squinting to make out her features. She was a thin redhead, and it seemed like she noticed my struggle as she set the book aside and picked up a flashlight. If she had explained what she was doing, I would have asked, but she began flashing the light in my eyes, presumably checking for signs of a concussion.
"No concussion, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't take it easy. Your regular doctor moved you to the ICU after noticing that you had a persistent nosebleed. I'm the doctor in charge of your care," she said, placing the flashlight on the bedside table before returning to her book. I looked at her with confusion, unable to comprehend what she had just said. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not oblivious—I know how to deactivate security systems in orphanages using household items alone. But the pounding in my head made it difficult to process her words.
"I'm sorry, can you repeat what you just said?" I asked, glancing over at her. She looked up from her book, seemingly surprised by my request. Her expression indicated that it wasn't something she encountered often.
"Ah, because of the headache, you couldn't understand me. How long have you been experiencing these headaches? And the nosebleeds?" she inquired, grabbing a notepad and pen. It was then that I realized I wasn't in that place anymore; I was in a different part of Den City Hospital.
"For a few days, and I've been having nosebleeds every few days for the past two weeks. You mentioned that I don't have a concussion, and my regular doctor transferred me to..." I trailed off, blinking at the woman, confused as to why she cared about my headaches and nosebleeds.
"You're in the ICU... do you remember your name and date of birth?" she asked, jotting down everything I had just said. I glanced at her, closed my eyes, and without hesitation, answered her questions.
"My name is Fuyuko Fujiki, and I was born on December 21st," I replied, slumping forward on the hospital bed. The ICU wasn't as horrible as that place. Here, they didn't see me as just a number on a piece of paper, at least until I was discharged, and they wanted the money they were owed. I glanced at the woman before relaxing on the bed, feeling utterly exhausted.
"You should get some rest, Ms. Fujiki," the woman said, gently brushing my hair away from my face. I fell asleep to the soothing touch of her hand. When I awoke, I found myself alone in the room, with a book about some of the greatest illusionists resting on the bedside table. My head no longer throbbed, and my vision had finally cleared. It was the first time in four months. I had been forgotten in that hospital room for about two weeks before I ran away again. It took the two police officers, or should I say clowns, three weeks to track me down. But this time, instead of taking me back to the hospital, they returned me to the first orphanage I had ever known as a child.
"Why did you bring me here? It would have been better to take me to juvenile detention or a mental institution... unless you want me to run away again?" I questioned, looking up at the burly man with the scar. All the while, I worked on picking the lock of the handcuffs that restrained my hands behind my back.
"Kid, this is the best place for you until your surprise arrives," the slender man replied, tossing my worn-out tan bag over the car's roof to his partner. I swiftly caught it with my right hand, being cautious of the hole at the bottom right corner, just below the strap. Raising an eyebrow suspiciously, I handed the metal handcuffs back to the scarred man, a triumphant smirk playing on my lips.
"Next time, check me for bobby pins," I remarked, displaying the two bobby pins I had concealed in the waistband of my pants.
"You really are an escape artist," the slender man commented, walking around the car to see why his partner was momentarily speechless.
"Do you know how many times I've run away?" I asked, positioning myself in front of the slender man, my hand gripping the left strap of my bag.
"Your file says four times..." he began, but I interrupted him with laughter. The slender man patiently waited for me to regain composure.
"My file is completely wrong. I've run away three times that number in just the last four years," I stated once my laughter subsided. Shifting my weight from my right leg to my left, I refrained from revealing the actual number of times I had escaped. I didn't want them stationing someone outside the orphanage, waiting for me. Just to clarify, I only run away when the stares or insults become unbearable. I've never been one to engage in physical altercations; my strengths lie in my intellect. Present me with a puzzle, and my skills shine the brightest.
"A street-smart genius who can pick locks. That's exactly what this city needs," the scarred man finally remarked, emerging from his stupor.
"Not a genius, just smart. Oh, by the way, officer, if you need any help studying for the detective exam, let me know," I quipped, finally letting my hair down from its tangled mess. One advantage of being at an orphanage was that I could finally take a shower.
"Oh, Fuyuko, you've grown so much!" the orphanage owner exclaimed, rushing out of the front door, followed closely by most of the kids. I looked at the woman, her warm smile still serving as my refuge during the toughest times. Though older now, she remained the beautiful lady who had provided me solace. It had been at least ten years since I had genuinely smiled, but now, I couldn't help it. I rushed forward and enveloped the woman in a tight embrace, my arms wrapped around her shoulders.
"My sweet Fu, you are finally home safe and sound," the owner whispered in my ear, holding me close to her chest. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting back tears as memories, both good and bad, flooded my mind. Clinging tightly to her shoulders, I feared that letting her go would mean being torn away once more.
"Thank you for welcoming me home," I murmured softly against her shoulder, my emotions overwhelming my self-control, causing tears to stream down my face.
"You are welcome anytime, Fu. Now, let's head inside so you can have a shower and some much-needed food. You're far too thin, Fuyuko," the owner said, turning towards the door and the group of children who had been observing our reunion. She quickly shooed them away, likely having read my file from the past ten years. I should have told her that kids didn't bother me as much as adults or doctors, but I understood that the owner was simply trying to make me feel safe and comfortable, just as she did for all the children under her care.
"Your old room awaits, Fuyuko. I've put clean sheets on your bed, along with some fresh clothes," the owner informed me, nudging me towards the staircase. My old worn-out tan bag had been left forgotten by the front door, but I could tell that she intended to mend it.
"Okay, I'll go... um... owner, after my shower, could you cut my hair?" I asked, ascending the second step before turning around to face her.
"Sure thing, Fuyuko. Now go get a shower. I can tell from your scent how long you've been living on the streets," the owner replied, making her way towards the kitchen. I slowly climbed up to the second floor, reaching the fifth door on the left. It was still the same room I had shared with my older brother. Not much had changed, aside from different pictures on the walls and fresh paint. Even the signs on the doors were the same old whiteboards, except for a single wooden board at the end of the hall on the left side of the second floor. I placed my hand over the small faded yellow handprint, realizing how much bigger my hand had grown since I was three years old.
"Eleven years since we were happy, Yusaku... I miss you, big brother," I whispered, gazing at the slightly larger faded green handprint on the other side of the crooked wooden board. Yusaku had found that board on his way home from school one day, and the print belonged to him when he was five years old. I could still recall how tightly his hand would hold mine, ensuring my safety by his side. Pushing the door open, I observed that where my toddler bed once stood, there was now a wooden platform twin bed adorned with green and white sheets under a green, white, and gray bedspread. I looked over to the other side of the room, where my brother's old bed lay bare and covered in plastic. I remembered the gray bedding that used to clothe it and the Duel Monsters stuffed animals that were always by Yusaku's pillows. Returning my focus to my own bed, I located the clean clothes mentioned by the orphanage owner. They rested at the foot of my bed, beneath my plush Petite Dragon toy. I was certain that as my case worker dragged me away, I had dropped Petite Dragon, but here it was—clean and intact. I moved the little dragon from the pile of clothes to just below my pillows, allowing me to proceed with my shower.
I spent 20 minutes washing away the dirt from my body and hair. Despite all the scrubbing, my hair remained a tangled mess, reminiscent of a rat's nest. Nevertheless, I felt much fresher. I dressed in a clean pair of faded light blue jeans, a tan and black plaid blouse beneath a black cargo vest. My hair, which had once been dark and dingy, now sported a vibrant dark blue hue with natural pink undertones. Slowly, I descended the stairs to the kitchen, where the orphanage owner awaited, the old rice cooker humming in the background. Everything she needed to cut my hair was neatly arranged on a towel, ready for use afterward.
"Oh, Fuyuko, just in time. The rice is almost done. Now, let me have a look at you. Your hair is still a tangled mess, but at least you're clean and looking much better," the owner remarked, causing me to spin around a few times. Luckily, after the third or fourth spin, the rice cooker beeped, indicating that the rice was ready. Plain white rice was one of the few things I could eat without feeling like I was choking or struggling to breathe.
"Here you go, Fuyuko," the owner said, placing a bowl of rice on the placemat on the kitchen counter, with a fork and a glass of water set beside it. I sighed and took a seat where she had indicated, pushing the glass of water away before picking up my fork to dig into the meal she had prepared. I had finished about half of my rice when the owner sat down next to me, holding a cup of tea. The way she positioned herself and the distance she maintained between us made it clear that she had read my file, or at least part of it.
"I'm not crazy or unstable," I stated, setting my fork down a bit harder than necessary. The way she was treating me was getting on my nerves, but I understood that this was one of the defense mechanisms I used to keep people at a distance—using rude or sharp comments.
"Oh, I know you're not crazy or unstable, Fuyuko. But I also know that your PTSD makes it difficult for you to relax in any kind of environment," the owner replied calmly, taking a sip of her tea. She was careful with her words, trying not to trigger any negative reactions from me. I couldn't really blame her since she didn't know that mentioning my PTSD was a sensitive topic—I had been made to believe that there was nothing wrong with me.
"No... you're wrong. I don't have PTSD. I'm perfectly fine... there's nothing wrong with me," I protested, standing up from my seat too quickly, causing the chair to fall to the floor in a fit of anger.
"Fuyuko, your file states that you were diagnosed with PTSD five years ago when you were nine, after being removed from the ninth home you were placed in," the owner recited the report from my file. I looked at her, then fell to my knees. I had read my file several times over the past ten years, but no one else had ever read it to the point where they could recite any reports associated with it. Overwhelmed, I broke down, unaware that at that very moment, on the other side of Den City, someone else was doing the same—getting to know everything I had been through. The realization that someone cared about me caused me to shut down completely.