In the box (BoyXBoy)

In the box

In the Box -
Pt. 1

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE

I noticed about this novel:
Things are much slower. If you've read the synopsis, you'll think, "and just when the hell are they going to get together?" They will. Very eventually and with many, many obstacles.
It gets worse before it gets better. I think putting characters through utter misery is a trademark of Narise Konohara. The journey to the end will be gut-wrenching.

IN THE BOX

I've done nothing wrong.

After two weeks of newcomer training, Takafumi Douno was assigned to Factory 8 of N. Penitentiary. He was ordered by a prison guard, clearly years younger than him, to spend the morning observing the routines. So he obeyed, and stood to the left of the two desks lined up beside the manager's station. The factory area was about the size of two classrooms put together. The room was divided into four sections by two walkways intersecting in a cross. The work areas were raised about twenty centimetres higher than the walkway.
Factory 8 mainly handled sewing, and several dozen sewing machines were placed in neat, equally-spaced rows from the front of the work area to the back. A steady dut-dut-dut echoed in the air, like the rumbling of an earthquake.
It was the beginning of September, and the temperature was still high. Douno could feel the sweat slowly drench his back just by standing on the spot. The distinct smell of a gang of males, a scent that mingled with body odour, irritated his nose. The barred window to his left was thrown open wide, yet there was no breeze. There were, of course, no fans in this factory. To top it off, these men in their mousey grey factory uniforms were perspiring at the brow, frantically sewing none other than ladies' fur coats.
"Permission, sir," a man called loudly in front of his sewing machine, raising his right hand high. He looked to be around his forties. The guard standing at the manager's station pointed at him promptly.
"A refill of thread, please, sir," the man yelled. Once he was granted permission, he hastily jogged to the shelves at the back of the factory. Holding the spool of thread, he raised his voice again: "Permission, sir!"
During training, Douno was given an instruction booklet of sorts about living in prison. In meticulous detail, it explained things like the daily schedule, planned right down to the minute; how to spend time within the group cell and the factory; and what kind of things were prohibited. Douno knew that he was not allowed to walk around freely without the guard's permission, even for work-related reasons. He had gotten used to restrictive life from his time spent in the detention centre; and yet, the suffocating strictness of this place went far beyond that. Despite the fact that there was a newcomer in the room, everyone continued to sew without so much a glance in his direction―proof of how thoroughly the rules were enforced.
Douno could hear the cicadas buzzing through the drumming of the sewing machines. Feeling anything but the urge to work, he could only stare dumbly at the reality before him. He wondered what he was doing in a place like this. Why was he standing here sweating, watching other men working in front of the sewing machines sweating just as profusely?
"Why me?"
He had repeated the question to himself hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of times from the moment he was arrested by the police, through the year and a half in the detention centre, up to this very moment.
He would forever remember that spring two years ago. March 16, past seven o'clock in the evening. Douno had been on his way home from work. He stepped off the train onto the platform of his transfer station only to be grabbed by the arm from behind. He turned around to see a woman standing there. She was perhaps in her early twenties, with short hair and a pretty face.
"This man molested me!" the woman shrieked. All eyes of the passersby turned on them. Douno could not recall doing any such thing.
"I haven't done anything. Are you sure it wasn't someone else?" he said.
"Don't try to play dumb," the woman said shrilly, her voice rising with her temper.
"I saw him do it," chimed in another woman who had been standing nearby. The atmosphere around him turned grim. Even though he had really done nothing, the accusing gazes of the people around him said otherwise.
"It really wasn't me," he protested.
"Come with me!"
Douno was taken to the station manager's office with the woman still holding him by the arm. No matter how many times Douno persisted that he had not done it, his account was not taken seriously. The police came shortly afterwards.
"We'll hear your story at the station," he was told. Douno had figured they would understand if he explained himself―he was innocent, after all. But all the detective had to say was, "You did it, didn't you?" and refused to believe any part of Douno's side of the story.
Douno was then put into a detention cell, and was questioned relentlessly almost every day without even a chance to go home. The detective used a carrot-and-stick tactic, first intimidating him by telling him to "'fess up already, because we all know you did it" before giving him smooth talk, saying if he would just say he did it, he would be let off with a 30,000 yen fine. Douno hated the idea of confessing to a crime he did not commit, so he continued to deny that he had done anything.
Those days were like a nightmare. Due to the stress of his ordeal, Douno lost hair, suffered stomach pains, and lost ten kilograms of weight. He was afraid that after being run into the ground and blamed over and over for something he had not done, he would one day lose his sanity and begin to feel like he actually had done it.
There was no proof―only the woman's word. Douno continued to plead not guilty. He figured in this situation there was no way he could be charged: after the 20-day detention period was up, he would be set free to go home. Or so he thought.
On the last day of his detention, Douno was slapped with a conviction. He felt the world go dark before his eyes. He applied for bail numerous times, but was turned down. He spent the year and a half until the announcement of his guilty verdict in his detention cell. In his small, five-square-metre room, he thought endlessly about what he had done to deserve this.
Douno was ultimately given a two-year sentence. Because of his persistent, staunch refusal, he was deemed "showing no signs of remorse" and was not favoured by the judge. What was more, the woman had testified that Douno molested her almost every day, adding "repeat offender" and "premeditated and malevolent" to Douno's judgement. As a result, Douno was not given a suspension on his sentence despite being a first-time offender. Pre-sentencing detention days―the period of time kept in detention until the sentence is finalized―were usually deducted from the total sentence, but only eighty per cent was applied to Douno's, leaving about ten months of prison time.
"Why don't we acknowledge the crime?" Douno's attorney had suggested when he had been charged. According to the lawyer, once Douno was charged, there was almost no chance that he would be found innocent. If Douno kept up his denial, his sentence would only get more severe.
"I understand you want to fight because you're innocent, Mr. Douno. But this is reality. Yes, you'll be lying if you acknowledge the crime―but you'll get a sentence suspension. You'll be able to get out of the detention centre."
Douno refused to assent, and it was partly from stubbornness. He had come this far―how could he bring himself to back down now? Once his sentence was passed, Douno thought of killing himself. He had been fired from work, imprisoned in a confined space for a year and a half, and now been slapped with a criminal record. Just because on that day, at that time, he had happened to board a crowded train.... If he had actually been guilty, at least he would have been able to resign himself to his crime.
The peal of a bell echoed throughout the factory.
"Stop working! Line up!"
At the orders, the sewing machines stopped drumming at once. All the inmates lined up on the walkway for roll call.
"Number 145, Douno," barked a guard on the podium. Douno flinched as his spine tensed. He slowly turned around.
"Line up behind Section 3 and go to the cafeteria. Section 3 head, Shiba! Raise your hand!"
A bespectacled man in his mid-fifties standing to the very left snapped his right arm up.
"Go over there."
Douno jogged towards the man who had put his hand up. He tripped over his feet and nearly fell over. His eyes met with the Section 3 head. The man grinned.
"Get behind the tall one over there," he said. "You'll be sitting beside him in the cafeteria, too."
Douno fell in behind a man who looked closed to 190 centimetres in height. The line began to move immediately. Once they entered the cafeteria, all members sat down without a word. Douno also sat down as he was told, beside the tall man. At the signal from the factory guard, everyone began their meal at once. Today's menu was stewed squid and white radish, fried eggs, spinach dressed in light broth, and barley rice. The seasoning was bland, and portions were small. Douno did not have an appetite, and put his chopsticks down before he was even halfway through. They were commanded to say, "thank you for the meal", and that concluded lunch. Once the dirty dishes were deposited into the sinks, Douno's surroundings erupted into chatter and noise from the TV. The silence of moments before seemed like a dream.
Some got out of their seats while others opened books, but Douno remained sitting at the table, his face turned slightly downwards at the dirty tabletop. Douno had been kept in his own cell at the detention centre, so apart from visitors, he hardly had the chance to speak to anyone. Back then, he did not care who it was―he was desperate just to talk to someone. But once he was here, that desire dissipated rapidly. Everyone seemed to have some unsavoury aspect to his face. But of course―the people here were "real criminals".
"Hey!"
Douno raised his head at the call, which belonged to a horse-faced man in his forties with a lazy eye who had sat across from him.
"Case of first-day nerves, huh? Don't worry, you'll get used to it."
Douno was painfully aware of the obvious attention he was drawing from those around him. Back at the factory, they had all seemed so disinterested.
"How old are you, by the way?"
Douno could smell the other man's bad breath, even though they were far apart. He unconsciously knitted his brow at the odour of rotting fish.
"I'm thirty."
"I see," the man murmured. "And what'd you do?"
"...I didn't do anything," Douno answered in a small voice. The man laughed.
"You had to have done something to be thrown in here! What? Theft? Drugs?"
"I've been wrongly accused."
"Huh?" The man grimaced.
"I'm wrongly accused. I'm innocent."
There was a moment of silence, but before long the chatter soon resumed.
"Oh, right, okay," muttered the man with the lazy eye. Then, with a palm to his forehead, he chuckled. "Heh heh," he said, his shoulders shaking. "You must have some weird preferences to get yourself into jail when you haven't done anything."
Vulgar hoots and laughter erupted from around him. Douno looked down at the table. He balled his hands into fists in his lap. Two or three more people came to talk to him after that, but Douno put his head down on the table and pretended he was asleep.