Masks Of Yellow

Chapter 1 - Inner Thoughts

Yellow has always been my favorite color. It's just like the sun. Warm, bright, comforting. It makes you feel happy. It is such a simple yet complex color. Pastel yellow is cute, friendly, calming, but neon yellow, like highlighters, are sharp, piercing, and intense. So intense, yet so beautiful. Yellow is the one color I can always go back to, whether the emotions I feel are genuine, or fake.

My name is Sugawara Koushi. I live with my two younger siblings and my two parents. I cannot say when I learned how to fake emotions, rather it's been a skill I've harnessed all my life. From the moment I saw the world as it was, I learned to make it, you gotta fake it.

Now, don't get me wrong. It's not like I'm depressed or anything. My friends speculate about it, but I'm fine. Really. I'm fine.

Inner thoughts can be weird. It's like there's a whole different person inside your head. They tell you things that scare you. Things that you think you'd never think about anyone. But you do. It's your true feelings. Even if you only hear them for just a second, they're still there. True feelings never go away.

Especially when they are about people you hate.

If I could, I'd take back all my inner thoughts.

Maybe.

Actually, if I'm being completely honest right now, I wouldn't take back a thing I thought. And that's scary. That scares me more than anything at all. It is scary how I can think such terrible things about people I am supposed to unconditionally love.

Family, I mean.

I remember, one time, I was walking around my house, and I saw my brother.

"Hey." I said.

"Shut up. I don't want to associate with someone as fat as you." He looked my dead in the eyes, and walked away, back into his little hole.

God dammit, I wish he was never born. Little prick doesn't know how to act properly for his own good.

I thought that.

For a split second.

Just a split second.

How do I explain that to someone? How can I tell someone that I genuinely wanted my brother to just die, right on the spot?

Truth is, you can't. You will almost never find someone who will share the same opinions as you do. You will almost never find someone who understands terrible subjects that scare you more than being held at gunpoint.

I am a nice person.

I am a good person.

People look up to me.

But if they knew what I thought in my head? They'd ditch me on the spot.

Perhaps it's my moral lack of being loved as a child that plays into that ultimate fear of being abandoned, but I can't help it.

Believe me, the sad truth is that other people have it way worse than I do. People actually have fathers who leave. People have abusive mothers. People have drug-addicted siblings. People have no other way to turn.

I cannot help but compare myself to them.

I feel silly asking for help because what if they judge me? I do not have it as bad as a lot of people, but I cannot help but wonder what that ultimate feeling of relief feels like when you stand up to the people who have hurt you.

I use volleyball, of all things, to nurture that longing feeling I search for. When I set, it makes me feel powerful.

It makes me believe that anybody, no matter how bad things are, can stand up to the people who have hurt you in the past.

Although I only set things up for people, when they spike?

When they score?

Oh god, that feels so good.

To know I was the cause of something good for once? That feels good.

It's better than feeling like I was the cause of something bad.

Lately, it does feel like I was the cause of so many bad things. I really hate feeling this way because my confidence, although it may look like I have it, is actually very low. When the negative thoughts take over my mind, it really hurts. One day I'll feel like the coolest person in the world then the next the most disgraceful. 

I try not to bring disgrace to my family's name because that was grilled into my head as a kid. My father is always worried about his image in front of other people, which translates to how I present myself to others. If I show weakness or sadness to other people, it means that he is a bad parent.

He actually doesn't care about me. The only thing he cares about is making sure that people won't think less of him. If I show everyone that I'm happy, then they will think that the parenting is good; that my parents are good people and they raised their kids right. I don't think that he understands that it's okay to be upset and it's okay to be sad sometimes. The way I choose to express my feelings should be of no concern to him. If he isn't going to be there when I need him, but my friends are, then I will just have to ask them for help. If he cannot see that the way I show other people I need help is okay, then he is the one who needs to re-evaluate his thoughts. The way I show other people how I feel is completely okay.

School is a whole different story. B's are treated like F's in my home. I was slapped multiple times over my grades, and I have no idea why. 

I am a good student.

I came home one day, in second grade, with a math test that I got an 89% on. I put it in my binder, then later on during the day, we got more papers to take home. I put them in front of the math test and forgot about it. 

When I got home, I went up to my room to do my homework. My father came over to the stair and started screaming my name. 

"KOUSHI SUGAWARA, YOUR ASS DOWN HERE. NOW."

I almost fell down the stairs. I was shaking so badly. My breath hitched in my throat as I saw his face. He looked so pissed off. 

"Sit. Explain to me what the hell this is." He held up the math test. I sucked in a breath.

He stared into my eyes. I stared back. Neither one of us daring to speak. 

"WHY WAS THIS HIDDEN?" 

I jumped. His voice was sharp, urgent. Choking back tears, I open my mouth to speak.

Nothing comes out.

Say something. Speak. Speak- SPEAK.

"I'll ask you one more time. What is this and why was it hidden from me?"

My voice is at the tip of my tongue. I move my mouth; nothing comes out. I can feel the way my mouth forms the letters, the words. I know how to speak. I know how to make sound, but at this moment, I lost the ability to form a simple sentence. 

"You weren't going to get this by me. I know everything." He glares at me with those yellow-green eyes.

He stands and walks into the kitchen. He comes back and stands in front of me. He bends slightly, and then slaps me.

It starts.

Pulling my hair, he stands me up out of my sitting position on that god awful couch.