Disclaimer: This chapter contains intense scenes of domestic violence and parental abuse. This chapter is told from the third person. This was extremely hard to write and it definitely isn't suited for everyone.
Under the pink-streaked sunset, the street lamps quietly glowed to life as the sun began to set over Shishibone, one of the many neighborhoods that built up the quaint ward of Edogawa. Shishibone, with a population of nearly two thousand, was decimated during the firebombing campaigns towards the climax of the Second World War that destroyed everything but the most reinforced concrete structures. Redevelopment began as soon as the peace treaties were signed, and in the seventy years since the end of combat Shishibone has become a bustling neighborhood complete with schools, libraries and urban parks.
In the late 1970s, the US construction firm Mesa Verde Developments sought private contracts in and around the Tokyo metropolitan to develop housing for retiring American GI's and their families, a combination of those who were veterans of the Pacific Front twenty years earlier and those who worked at the nearby military bases, Osaka or Kyoto or otherwise. Mesa Verde outlined several dilapidated areas in the far-off suburbs of Tokyo and, being flush with cash, easily gained ownership of the lots and began clearing land. Upon announcement of the developments, the citizens of Shishibone fiercely made their opposition known at council meetings and public protests, but at a time where the Japanese economy was in freefall and local governments were desperate for consistent revenue the complaints of the common citizen were ignored. Upon completion, the houses were balked at for their wasteful designs; massive lawns, exposed steel and bashful decorations, and for many years were seen as the white elephant herd of the ward. Compared to the traditional, more reserved designs of Japanese architecture; stone fountains, ponds and pleasant ambience, the brutalist townhomes felt like skyscrapers.
Over time, the developments gradually filled up with aging war veterans and soldiers looking to start families and lay down roots in Japan. For the Americans who lived in it, it was like home away from home; soldiers would receive imports of furniture and decorations and other homegoods they couldn't find in Japan, and everybody was everybody's friend in the neighborhood; many worked at the same bases or fought in related divisions, so the community was fairly close-knit. For the Japanese who lived around it, it was an obtrusive eyesore that detracted from the quaint flats and homes that have stood for decades. No Japanese nationals save for those who married into the military lived there, so ergo no Japanese had any real business being there. Effectively it became like a gated community with no gates, also considering that you had to be a member of the United States Armed Forces to lease a house there. Taking advantage of the thick wallet yanks, business-savvy locals took to opening shops and cafes nearby to cater to the American families by selling pop and country CDs, thick cooking spices and Little Debbie treats or plates of steaming hamburger and pulled pork sandwiches.
On the second floor of one of these castles, somewhere along Gaijin Boulevard, facing away from the street sat a girl with a head of cotton candy, alone in her bed. Natsuki Tamura's hair was let down, fresh from a quick shower and free of its usual ribbons. Her head propped up against a pillow, she sat in silence thumbing through a book. The sunset was dreamy, and Natsuki had propped open her window slightly to let the cool spring air blow through.
Natsuki's room was colorful, but there was a peculiar sense of detachment to it. Beige paint walls against hard oak shelves stocked with books and other things, trophies from elementary's past next to DVDs and other vintage media. Posters of Mount Fuji and the New York skyline were tacked on the wall, next to various drawings and self-made art. A line of Christmas lights rang around the ceiling, unplugged. Makeshift curtains from rose-colored comforters were nailed against the window frames. A scratched silver CRT television sat on the dresser, hooked up to a DVD player. There was a thin layer of dust on the bookshelves, and there were various nicks and holes in the drywall. The room was comfortable, plush even, but a little lacking in personal style for a high school anime-obsessed girl. It could've been a guest room, or belonged to anybody.
But hidden away from view, from the rest of the world and most importantly hidden from the hateful eyes o̶f̴ ̵h̸e̵r̷ ̵g̸̢̎o̷̱̿d̷̨̅d̴̖̿a̵̦̍m̶͖͂ņ̸̚ f̷̮̐ȁ̵̙t̸͎̊h̶̬͌e̶̠͊r̴͇͐, was a wooden lock box the size of a binder, tucked behind some dress heels and wrapped in bedding. It contained her entire world, all of Natsuki's most cherished memories of past and present. A yellowing photo of her toddler self cradled in her mom's arms. A broken opal necklace gifted by her grandmother after her first school play. Two dog-eared diaries, one filled from primary school and the other still in use. Their faces were starting to blur in her mind, but the happiness she felt was eternal. Sealed away in an envelope was close to 30 thousand yen (about two hundred USD), that she had slowly been saving up to one day get the fuck out of this hellhole, or who knows what.
And then there were her memories with Kazuma Odaka, the one man in the world that treated her with respect. A badge from a local anime convention, adorned with heart stickers. A photo booth strip with the last slide ending in a sneak kiss. A small blinking toy charm of a cat eating a cupcake that Kazuma won from a claw machine they passed by on a date. A pencil portrait of Kazuma she had sketched during an art class. Kazuma had made one of her as well which looked more like Moetron than Natsuki, much to her annoyance.
Thinking about Kazuma was perhaps her one true escape from the nightmare she lived in, the nightmare she had no choice but to hide from him. He was her only real reason, outside of the Literature Club, to keep fighting these days. What should she even say to him about Him? That her dad beats the fuck out of her every other night, when his dope runs out? Kazuma's words about wanting to introduce each other's parents sent a ripple of anxiety through her everyday, so much anxiety her hair fell out in clumps in the bath because she had absolutely no idea how she would break the news of a boyfriend to her father. Every single time she tried to think about it, her gag reflex activated and she had to shake away the thoughts of someone she loved so much and someone she hated so badly sharing the same room, trying to make niceties while she served the two dinners. How on Earth was that going to happen?
Next to the lock box was her favorite gift of all and her most cherished possession; a limited edition collector's set of The Parfait Girls manga, something Kazuma had to literally travel across Tokyo to track down just before Christmas. The Parfait Girls, recently picked up by Kadokawa for a one-season anime adaptation, was Natsuki's first ever manga and what kicked off her interest in anime. It was one of the signature characters, Mitsuki the sharp-tongued baking pro, that inspired a young Natsuki to dye her hair pink from its natural brunette color.
It was one of those volumes that Natsuki was reading now, thumbing through one of her favorite parts. On her phone her chat with Kazuma was open, sending memes and flirts back and forth. Kazuma was just getting ready for dinner with his parents, and Natsuki was getting into a particularly good part of the volume; it was the scene where Mitsuki had just asked out her crush to the school festival (a tried and true trope), and Mitsuki was out with her friend–
There was a loud crashing downstairs. Glass shattering against the wood floors. Natsuki heard an agitated roar.
"What the FUCK." a man's voice hollered. More glass shattering, the sound of cabinets being flung open and slammed shut.
Natsuki winced and pursed her lips together. She felt her heartbeat kick up twice as fast.
'Please stay downstairs…please stay down there.' she thought to herself. She could feel the sweat lacing her palms already, the oh too familiar wobbling in her thin legs. Usually when he gets pissed off like this he stomps around and throws stuff all over the place, and makes her clean it up. Usually he's too fucking lazy to come up the stairs. What was he doing?
"WHERE IS IT."
Natsuki felt her fingers start to shake. The pit in her stomach dropped like a lead weight. Her vision got blurry and instinctively she grabbed her phone and started to type when she could hear the stomping grow louder. He was coming upstairs. She wasn't even sure what she was typing when she–
Oh my God, the manga–
The door flung open.
There Natsuki stood, frozen in time, still holding the manga. For a second he didn't react, still staggering to catch his breath. His eyes narrowed on the colorful book and his lips sneered back in hideous disgust.
"Oh, fuck no."
"Dad–"
"What the FUCK HAVE I SAI̶̗̓D̷͍͂ ̶͉͝a̴͉̾b̴͕́ō̷̮u̴̼̿t̶̝̄ ̶̰̎h̵̼͑â̵͕v̴͖̒ĩ̶̖n̷̬̑g̶͈͑ ̴̺́t̶͔͂h̶̹̉í̸̞š̵̭ ̸̹̽s̷͙͊h̶͎͗ḯ̴̞t̸͈̕?̶̤̊" He yanked the book out of her hands, glaring at the cover. There was a clinging smell of ammonia on him; he was high. His eyes were delirious, eyebrows scrunched in rage. There was no reconciling with him in this state.
Natsuki wailed. "DAD I WAS JUST BORROWI–"
His fists shook with anger, crumpling the pages. In one swift motion, he grabbed the manga on both ends and ripped it in half. He flung the ruined book at her, striking her in the face. Natsuki yelped in pain and fell back, the book hitting her in the nose.
"Just because you LOOK like a Jap d̵o̴e̸s̸n̴'̷t̸ ̴m̵e̶a̵n̶ ̸y̶o̵u̴ ̷f̵u̶c̶k̷i̷n̷g̸ ̷a̵c̶t̷ ̷l̵i̸k̶e̵ ̷o̷n̶e̸.̶"
It takes a lot to push someone as hard-willed like Natsuki truly over the edge, but that did it. All at once the emotions came flooding out of her in a vengeful tsunami. It felt like Natsuki's consciousness and common sense just shattered into a million tiny pieces in that fleeting moment, with the evil of her father trying to destroy the love of her soulmate. An act of good molested by a deed of degeneracy.
Tears flooding to her eyes, Natsuki screamed shrilly at the top of her lungs and swiped at her Dad, climbing over the bed. Her nails dug into her father's gruff unshaven face, slashing towards his eyes. Her fists tightened and she pounded once, twice on his chest before her father reared back and slapped her as hard as he possibly could with his backhand, his watch striking her in the jaw with a sharp meaty smack!
She felt her jaw shift as she dropped to the carpet floor, the friction burning her skin. The pain of a thousand needles dug into her mouth as she clutched her teeth. There was an immediate wave of regret. "IMSORRYIMSORRY–"
But he wasn't listening. He had his excuse. His belt undone, he bunched it up in his fist and started swinging.
"STUPID."
Slap.
"FUCKING."
Slap.
"BITCH."
Slap.
The pain rippled through her small body over and over again, the girl clutching herself in the fetal position, unable to shield from her fathers blows. She meekly struggled to crawl against the carpet, fingers digging into the fabric, screaming and crying as the belt struck her head, her arms, her butt. Through her bloodied, swelling eyes, she could just barely make out the image of her father one last time, towering over her, face pulled back and sneering at her like you would gum stuck to your shoe, raising his arm back one more time.
And then, blackness.
Nothing.
…
"Hahahaha!"
"No waaaay! Seriously?"
In another ward, in another house, in a whole other world, the Odaka family were just sitting down to dinner. The silk curtains looking out from the dining room towards the street were drawn open, letting the glow of the pink-streaked sunset in. A few candles were lit on the shelves behind the dining table, the smell of vanilla and pumpkin glowing in the room. A tall cabinet radio, an antique gift from a passed on grandmother, gently played orchestral music from a vinyl record. From the kitchen there was the smell of oil frying and dishes being taken out.
Ren Odaka, the head of the household, was leaning back in his chair, grinning. He was changed out from his usual business attire, opting for a simple navy blue button-up and slacks. He smiled as he poured himself a cup of tea from the steaming kettle.
"But it's true! We did know this one guy, he was our foreman at the construction site I worked at in college. He blew two whole paychecks on this shiny silver sports car, a Mazda or something. It was fresh off the lot. And he kept going on and on about the mileage and how good it was on gas and blah blah blah."
Across the table sat his college sweetheart and forever wife, Miki Odaka. Her glossy black hair was done up with a red clip, wearing a smooth brown-striped blouse with a puffy red long skirt. Miki paused and sipped from her own cup. "Reading right off the sales packet, sounds like."
"Right, and the guy just would not shut up about it. So me and Terai and a couple of the other guys decided to mess with him a little bit. Every time he came into work, he would park his car and walk around to get coffee from the lounge area before going to his office, y'know with his window view that looked down at the car." Ren took a gulp of his tea. "So in that gap we would get a hose and fill his tank up every so much, a gallon or two a day."
Miki was chuckling. "Oh boy."
"And the next day he was just going nuts! 'I told you guys!' He kept saying. 'I'm getting sixty miles to the gallon in this baby, ahhh! I never have to fill her up!' And being all smug about it."
"Sounds like you and your trophies, hun."
Ren scowled, but went back to smiling. "Sure. Anyhow, we kept this up for about a week and then slowly started to take the gas back out until it was zero…and then we started siphoning."
From the kitchen came their son, holding a serving tray. "Hate to interrupt…" Kazuma said, setting the tray in the middle of the table. It was a sizable pot of brown broth, with thick strips of cow beef and hunks of carrot brimming in the fatty oils. Flakes of paprika and nutmeg swirled around in the broth, still steaming from cooking on the stove.
"Oh wow." Ren said, surprised. He leaned forward a little bit to inspect the soup. Miki took a napkin and set it in her lap, eyeing the bowls curiously. "What is it?"
Kazuma started to ladle the swirling broth into the bowls. "It's called flaki. I wanted to try something different. It's uh, it's a Polish recipe. My friend Monika from the Literature Club suggested it."
Ren took a whiff of the steam brewing from the bowl. "Well, it smells amazing. Did you make the broth from scratch?"
Kazuma smiled. "Yes sir, and the beef is fresh from the market, too. "
Miki adjusted the utensils sitting before her. "It looks lovely, dear."
Having served the bowls, Kazuma sat down and set his own plate. He really went all out for this dinner. It took him quite a few hours looking for the kinds of oddly specific spices and materials Monika suggested for the dinner ("If you want it to taste good, you'll buy what I say.", she had texted him). There was a fresh loaf of bread, fried potatoes, even a small cranberry pie to split between the three. This dinner was in particular an important one, because this was the dinner Kazuma was (hoping) to mention that he and Natsuki were a thing. He felt it was somewhat appropriate, and Natsuki had seemed okay with the idea of it anyway. He couldn't think of a reason why he should be worried, but the dinner would definitely smooth things over if the conversation went awry.
Kazuma felt his phone buzz in his pocket. While his father was continuing his story of pranking his boss, he took a moment to check his notifications. It was a new text from Natsuki, and he quickly read it.
hEY I G
The boy frowned, refreshing the chat and rereading the text.
"Kazuma," his father said, holding up his utensil. "Can you bring me another spoon, please? This one's dirty."
The boy looked down at his phone again, and sent a question mark in reply. Putting his phone back in his pocket, he got up and walked into the kitchen.