Another day that may only be a dream, A KuramaXOC
By:~Pinkbun17~
Written: 2/26/25
Disclaimer: I don't own Yu Yu Hakusho, if I did, I'd be a happy camper!
YusukexKeiko, KuwabaraxYukina pairings supported!
Keep this in mind, readers!
Story Format as always:
*READERS PLEASE READ MEH!*
Youko's Thoughts: The balance has been feeling off.
Kurama speaking to Youko in his head/his own thoughts: *And I just want a place to stop.*
Inner thoughts of other characters: 'So call the doctor, call the cops.'
Hiei's Inner thoughts/speech when he is talking to someone in their head: I was alright, but now I'm not.~
Anything said in Sinhalese: "I dreamed that I could talk to God."
*Lyrics are by the band, Silverstein, from the song "Cherry Coke".
*TRIGGER WARNING: Domestic Violence/Child Abuse/Animal Death
Chapter 46: A Murky Tank, Bullshit Curry, and a House That Never Feels Like Home
Day 6: 10:35 am
Rosethorne, CA
Aisha's POV:
"Urgh, fucking disgusting."
The apartment is a suffocating mess, stacks of old newspapers, random junk mail, and half-empty containers clutter every available surface.
The air is thick, weighed down by the scent of stale food, unwashed laundry, and something rotting deep within the fridge, long forgotten.
The floor is a minefield of discarded wrappers, crumbs, and mystery stains that no one dares to question.
The trash can overflows, the smell mixing with the ever-present scent of mildew. It's like living in a landfill with walls.
I just came into the kitchen to make a cup of black ginger tea. That's all. No fights, no screaming—just a few minutes of peace in this godforsaken place. But, of course, peace doesn't exist here.
'At least monstrous demons have a reason to be angry; my parents are just angry I bother to keep existing.'
It's a bitter thought, one I can't shake as my mother launches into another one of her delusional rants.
She's just finished hitting my little brother again—because, like every other night, he refuses to eat.
He's just a normal tiny brown boy, barely 2 years old, unable to keep up with the weight of her stupid expectations. And what does she do? Beat him, like that'll somehow force the food down his throat and get him to talk.
I snap at her, voice sharp with frustration. "Hitting him isn't going to make him eat!"
And that's when she turns to me, eyes flashing with self-righteous anger, and proudly declares, "We such good parents! We never even rape our children! You should be grateful."
Her thick Sri Lankan accent distorts the words, making them sound even more absurd.
It takes a second to process what she just said. The irony drips from every syllable, a cruel joke that isn't the least bit funny.
Even my little brother, who's still wiping tears from his face, freezes. The room falls into an uneasy silence, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator and the muffled sound of the TV from another room.
She stands there, chest puffed out, like she's expecting some kind of fucking medal for not being worse.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter, nails pressing into the sticky surface. My stomach churns with anger, with exhaustion, with the sheer insanity of this place.
Making tea shouldn't feel like a side quest in a horror game, yet here we are.
:･.ೃ࿔:･
12:20 PM
Lunchtime rolls around, and I barely register what I'm seeing at first—just a quick movement near the trash bin—
But when I do, I notice Chenara, my youngest sister about to drop a handful of rice and curry into it, the kid's body moves on instinct.
"Hey!" I hiss, catching her wrist before the food falls in.
Chenara startles, her big light brown eyes darting up to meet my own. Her tiny fingers tremble slightly, already bracing for scolding.
My grip tightens just for a second before forcing myself to let go. I can't help it, my breath hitches. The sight of the garbage can, the half-eaten food, the instinct to hide it—
It shoves me back into a memory so vivid and bitter, it feels like a stack of bricks just dropped onto my chest.
I was five, the same age Chenara is now. Crying. Gagging. My mother's sharp, demented voice ringing in my ears.
She caught me tossing food in the trash, and the moment our eyes met, I knew I was screwed. I tried to run, but she was faster—her fury fueling her strength.
She rained blows down on me, fists and slaps landing wherever they pleased, before grabbing a fistful of my shaggy, curly black hair.
I even remember how ugly, uneven, and knotted my short hair was at the time, filled with neglect.
She yanks harder, her fingers twisted like claws in my hair, each pull sending a fresh wave of pain across my already tender scalp.
My feet stumble over scattered newspapers, empty containers, and discarded clothes, but she doesn't slow down.
"Ohhh, you so rich now, ah?! Can throw food like big madam?!" she spits in Sinhalese, her grip tightening as she drags me back into the kitchen.
My toes scrape against the sticky floor, remnants of spilled liquids and God-knows-what sticking to my skin.
"Mummy—stop! Please, it hurts!" I gasp, hands flying up to pry her fingers off my hair, but she only clutches tighter, nearly making me lose my balance.
I eventually threw it up, only to be forced to eat again. The overhead light had seemed so harsh then, too bright, exposing every humiliating second.
"You think food is a joke? Eat it! Now Bitch!" The sour taste of regurgitated rice and smelly dal still clings to my tongue, thick and rotten.
No amount of tears or pleading had been enough to make it stop. To make her stop.
I swallow hard, pushing the memory down, trying to focus on Chenara. The kid looks nervous, fidgeting as if she already knows what's coming. My taller ass crouches to her level, being sure to lower my voice.
"You should hide it under the cardboard or flush it down the toilet," I warn, my tone deadly serious.
"If she catches you throwing food away… you don't want to go on Time Out again, do you?"
Chenara stiffens, shaking her head quickly, her little hands clutching the uneaten food like it might burn her. She remembers.
Time Out isn't just sitting in a corner. Our mother would shove both and only both of my sisters into the cramped, dark space by the garbage bin—for hours.
The stink of old food and rotting meat would seep into their noses, thick and inescapable.
And if they cried too much, sometimes she would turn off the lights.
The darkness would press in, thick and suffocating, swallowing up every corner of the room.
It's ironic, really. My mother is terrified of the dark. I remember the way she'd rush to turn on every light when she had to walk through the house at night, the way she'd mutter prayers under her breath if she had to step into a shadowed room alone.
And yet, she had no problem leaving them in it for hours, the very thing that made her skin crawl.
Speaking of skin and crawling, then in the same damned darkness came the scuttling sounds—the slow, creeping legs of cockroaches bold enough to crawl across bare skin.
We have the vermin so bad, my siblings, who barely know any words in Sinhalese, know the name for them.
I clench my jaw, shoving the sickening thought away. "Just be smart about it, okay?"
Chenara nods frantically, gripping the food tighter before scurrying off. I let out a slow breath and stand, glancing at the trash bin again, a deep mix of fury and despair erupts in my gut.
'At least mummy has never done that to them. Then again, she'd make sure to be her cruelest when Daddy isn't around.'
2:10 PM
When I come back upstairs after shoving my clothes in the wash, something immediately feels off.
'Just once, I want to experience a quiet, peaceful Saturday. Funny. That's like asking a god-damn hurricane to take a nap.'
The air is heavy with a weird, soapy scent, and as I step into the cramped, cluttered living room, my eyes land on the fish tank.
White foam swirls at the surface, thick and unnatural, while murky brown fogginess taints the water.
I freeze.
"What the hell?" My stomach drops. "Didn't I just change the water, like, three days ago?"
Stepping closer, I spot the nearly empty bottle of baby shampoo lying on its side, a sticky puddle forming beneath it. A half-filled yellow box of Cap'N Lunch Cereal sits open nearby, crumbs scattered across the floor.
Then, it clicks.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!"
My voice echoes through the small apartment as I lunge toward the tank. My hands shake as I grab the nearest bucket, my mind racing. I can still save them. I have to.
Dipping my hands into the water, I try scooping out the fish, but the moment my fingers brush against their limp, motionless bodies, my heart plummets.
They're all dead.
"No. No, no, no…" My breath comes in short, ragged bursts as I search frantically for one in particular—Min, my favorite.
The vibrant blue, purple, and red Betta fish, the one I'd spent weeks training to greet me, the one I'd talk to while cleaning the tank. My fingers dig through the water, slipping against the slick glass.
And then I see it—his tiny, lifeless body caught in the clumps of foam, drifting toward the sink drain.
Dread slams into my chest, and before I can think, I plunge my hands into the soapy mess, scooping him up. I dump Min into the bucket of clean water, my pulse hammering in my ears.
"Come on, please—"
But he doesn't move. He just floats, lifeless.
For a split second, grief stings behind my eyes, but then something hotter—something uglier—takes over. Rage surges forward like a tidal wave.
"WHO DID THIS?!" I scream, my voice shaking with fury.
The apartment, already suffocating with the stench of stale oil and something sour, feels even smaller.
The cluttered mess of old shopping receipts, unopened junk mail, and forgotten toys littering the floor makes me feel trapped.
Soft footsteps shuffle toward the living room, and soon enough, my two little sisters appear.
Chenara, oblivious, is munching on Goldfishy crackers, while Traya, a bit older, quietly sips from a UooHoo bottle. Neither of them look particularly guilty.
I grit my teeth, my hands clenching into fists. "I'm asking again—WHO DID THIS?"
Just then, daddy strolls in, returning from whatever fucking errands he was doing earlier. His face is etched with confusion as he glances around.
"Why you screaming? Something wrong?"
His voice carries the thick accent that never fails to make everything sound heavier than it is.
He squints at the tank, his eyes shifting from the foam and murk to my tense posture.
"Wow, the tank is so dirty, why?" he asks, his tone somewhere between concern and disinterest, as if it was just another thing to point out, nothing more.
The words hang in the air, but I ignore him.
"Did what?" Chenara asks, blinking up at me, still chewing.
I snap my glare to Traya, waiting. She doesn't answer. Just sips her dumb UooHoo.
"Who the hell put baby soap and Cap'N Lunch in the goddamn fish tank?!" My voice wavers between anger and disbelief.
Just then, a fit of laughter pops out of daddy.
I whirl around.
He's just standing there, arms crossed, amusement flickering in his gaze. He tries to suppress a grin, turning away like this is some kind of joke.
My blood boils.
"This isn't funny, Daddy! All the fish are dead!"
He shrugs, barely hiding his smirk. "Eh, just fish."
Just fish.
Didn't they mean something to him too?
Back in his home country, I remember him telling me stories about his childhood—how he used to sneak out by the river to catch sari guppies that sparkled like jewels in the sunlight, and bettas with their long, flowing fins, vibrant and fierce in the currents.
He'd risk a beating from his mother just to come home with new pets, and I'm sure excitement in his younger eyes despite the consequences.
Maybe it was the thrill of holding something beautiful and alive in his hands, even if it was only for a fleeting moment.
It's the reason I started to love fish. I've had bettas my whole life, and raising them was wonderful because it made me feel slightly closer to this cold man I call daddy.
Whenever we bonded over our pets, his voice would soften—one of the rare times the concrete walls he built around himself seemed just a little thinner, almost like he was letting me in, his soft smile and silly jokes making him feel like a real father, just for a moment.
I'd spend hours watching them swim, fascinated by how gracefully they moved, how much personality each little guy had. I felt a kind of connection to them, like we shared something unspoken.
If anything, having the fish gave me common ground to talk about with daddy.
It made me feel like, for just a second, I might have been able to understand him better—maybe even make him see me. And somehow, that made them more special.
Did he even care? Had all those moments really meant anything, or were they just another part of the lie that's been woven into this broken family?
But right now, staring at the dead fish, all that hope feels like it's slipping through my fingers.
Only infuriation bubbles forward.
The TV hums in the background, the news anchor's voice sharp and urgent.
"Authorities are investigating a rising number of disappearances across Southern California. Initially affecting young adults, the phenomenon has now spread to victims of all ages.
The disappearances occur at the same time daily, raising concerns about human trafficking or a possible serial killer cult—"
I barely register the report, too caught up in the horror of all the lifeless fish, but daddy suddenly perks up.
He frowns at the TV, shaking his head. "Tch. Too much bad things happen now. You—" he points at me without looking directly, "—you don't go outside. Nighttime, daytime—no matter. You stay inside. You hear me?"
There's a flicker of something in his voice—concern? Maybe. But the moment is fleeting. He simply clicks his tongue and leans back with a sigh, already losing interest.
The concern isn't for my feelings, not for the sorrow clenching my chest as I stare down at poor, lifeless Min.
"Too much trouble outside," he mutters. Then, glancing at the fish tank, he scoffs. "Tch. You crying over fish? So stupid. We buy new ones later."
The moment his dismissive words leave his mouth, something inside me snaps. The sorrow suffocating my lungs is suddenly drowned by a tidal wave of fury.
I grip the bucket so hard my fingers ache, black nails digging into the cheap white plastic. The water inside sloshes, rippling as if mirroring the storm rising in my gut.
The apartment is now brimming with the scent of simmering lentils and fried onions, the air heavy with the spiced aroma of turmeric and cumin.
The stove clicks as the flame roars under a chipped red clay pot, the bubbling dal inside threatening to spill over.
"You really think this is a joke?!" My voice comes out raging, shaking, but I don't care. "You think I can just replace them like they're nothing?!"
Daddy clicks his tongue again, already turning away, waving a hand like he's swatting an annoying fly. "Ah, enough, sweetie. You always make big drama. I said I will buy you new ones. They just fish."
Just fish?!
My breath catches in my throat, my vision blurs at the edges.
Behind me, the sizzle of onions frying in oil crackles from the kitchen. My mother doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge the fire burning through me. She just stirs the damn pot.
"You're fucking unbelievable," I spit, my voice nearly breaking. "All of you!"
I whip around, stomping toward the kitchen, the tile cold against my rubber house slippers. My mother barely glances at me, too focused on stirring the curry, her hands moving methodically as the wooden spoon scrapes against the steel pot.
"Did you even hear what I said? The fish are DEAD!" My voice wavers between a scream and a sob, but I swallow the lump in my throat, not willing to let them see me break.
"Do you have any idea how much I care about them? And someone just throws crap in the tank like it's nothing?!"
She finally exhales, long and tired, like I'm the exhausting one in this situation.
"Why you yelling so much?" she mutters. "This why your head always hurting. You scream too much. Bad for health."
The room warps around me, the heat from the stove mixing with the heat flooding my face.
"Are you serious?! You're really gonna stand there and talk about my health while my fish are fucking DEAD?"
Daddy lets out a short laugh from the living room, shaking his head.
"See? Too much trouble outside. And inside too. Always making noise."
That does it.
The rage erupts like a volcano, and I can't hold back anymore.
"You're both so fucking useless!" I scream, slamming the bucket onto the counter, water splashing everywhere.
"You don't care about anything! Not me, not my feelings, not even your own goddamn kids!"
My mother finally turns, spoon still in her hand, her face twisted in annoyance. "You no talk like that to your parents! You going to hell!"
"Why not?!" I shout. "You don't act like parents! If I'm going to hell, then I'll see you there!"
Her eyes darken, her grip on the spoon tightening. For a second, I think she's going to throw it at me. Wouldn't be the first time either.
Daddy scoffs from behind me. "Ah, enough of this," he mutters. "Always drama with you."
"Yeah?!" I whirl on him. "Maybe if you gave a shit, there wouldn't be drama!"
The air is thick, suffocating. My chest rises and falls rapidly, my fists shaking at my sides. They both just stare, like I'm the problem. Like I'm the one making things hard.
The bubbling pot hisses, and I swear, for a moment, the only sound in the apartment is the damn curry boiling over.
Then my mother moves.
She finally turns fully, her face twisted in irritation, her grip tightening on the knife she was just using to chop more vegetables. The long, brown blade glints under the kitchen light, and suddenly, the heat in the room isn't just from the stove anymore.
My breath catches.
The room warps, the walls press in. That knife—it's the same kind. The same shape, the same dull sheen, the same grip that had pressed against my skin when Aiden—
My stomach drops, and for a second, I'm not in the kitchen anymore. I'm back in that dark room, wrists raw from struggling, the sting of a blade tracing my body. His voice whispering, mocking, promising pain.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to stay present, but my body reacts before I can think—I take a step back.
"Why you making face like that?" my mother snaps, waving the knife as she speaks. The movement makes my pulse spike.
I know she's not Aiden. I know that. She's just my Mom-ster, and that doesn't make it much better.
She tsks, rolling her eyes, completely unaware of the panic creeping up my spine. "You always overreact," she mutters. "Screaming like mad girl over some fish. Look, I cutting more onion, not killing you."
But my heart is still hammering, my skin cold despite the heat of the room.
Daddy lets out another short laugh from behind me. "See? You screaming too much. No good reason to bother neighbors."
'As if either of them have ever shown a shred of courtesy with their daily screeching matches.'
I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. My chest feels too tight, like if I breathe too hard, I'll shatter into pieces.
"Just—put the knife down," I manage, my voice tighter than I want it to be.
She scoffs, but finally sets it aside, wiping her hands on a stained dish towel. "Tch. So dramatic."
I force myself to exhale. My heart still pounds, my hands still shake, but I refuse to let them see it. I swallow everything down—fear, rage, the urge to scream—and grit my teeth.
"Yeah," I mutter, voice flat. "Dramatic."
I grab the bucket off the counter, my movements stiff, and turn on my heel, leaving them to their bullshit curry.
It's just a cooking knife. It's just a damn knife.
But my body doesn't believe it.
୨ৎ
To be continued…
My Notes:
Hello all, quite the heavy chapter, huh? Just wanted to show a little background to what our female lead deals with on the daily, and man do I feel for the poor kids! This chapter is about 14 pages long with 13 inch font.
Hope everyone's doing well and stay tuned!
Peace Out and Rock On!
-Pinkbun17