A hundred lives for the life of one (is this the end?) | JJK

CHAPTER FOUR | THE ASSESSMENT

She's distracted the whole day of school. Not like it really matters, in the end. Nukumi knew the topics she was being taught like the back of her hand. The curriculum in modern worlds always followed the same simple structure. Not to mention the few times she's made it to college, where she studied each world she lived in; how the physics of things worked, how life was generated, the simple things. Nature would always have her heart, calling her to live in a cabin in the woods and escape from the world on her own homestead. If she lived past thirty, she'll consider it. But, she had to focus on protecting Yuuji. Getting stronger was her best shot.

The day ends with a few reprimands from Senseis, demanding her attention that she would never fully give. She didn't need to re-learn the structure of English, nor how to pronounce the words that easily slipped past her tongue. Her brain hated math too much to ever focus in the class, the numbers always escaping her as her brain accidentally switches the steps or whole number around. It was too much of a pain to truly mess with. Being average in that class was her best bet. Literature and History never kept her attention long and her electives were far too boring, dumbed down for the children. She didn't care if she got written up, her grades were near perfect barring a few bad grades in math. They could eat a shoe for all she cared.

When she gets home, she calls out her arrival, shoes coming off at the Genkan. The front door slams shut and she enters the living area to find Wasuke and Yuuji sitting at their pitiful dining table. Food is on the table, obviously rushed in how it was cooked, and the cake she made yesterday is in the center.

"Ojiisan?" She asks the man, watching as he slowly turns to her from watching Yuuji stuff his face with the small portions provided.

Nukumi always hates interacting with him. While he was meant to be her family, he never truly saw her as such. She wasn't his granddaughter, she was an orphan he took in. In his eyes, he never understood how Jin took her in as his own, how Jin even took to Kaori's charms and had a child with her. Yuuji, on the other hand, was his grandson. Yuuji got the attention, Yuuji was loved. She wasn't. While interacting with him always reminded her of the restrictions he puts on her and the lack of love and care between them, she held no bitterness. Yuuji was all she needed. And, if he loved her as much as any two-year-old could, she was satisfied.

(She never admits being jealous of the full families. She swears up and down that she's uncaring to it all, apathetic and satisfied with what she has. She's not. Seeing mothers and fathers pick up their children from primary, driving or walking them home, felt like hot coals were shoved down her throat. Seeing gentle grandfathers laugh with their granddaughters, buy them sweets, and do whatever they ask? It makes her angry. So so angry.)

"Yes, Nukumi?" He hums, uninterested.

Even the way he said her name. She wanted to scream, or cry, or say anything to stop it. Instead, with a carefully blank face, she offers the paper given to her by Yaga the other day. She hopes, prays really, that he doesn't deny her yet another thing. He takes it from her hand carefully, deceptive gentleness where he would otherwise snatch it from her grip if Yuuji wasn't watching. She waits with bated breath as he skims over the document, watching each twitch of his brow or tug of his lips. Her heart pounds, heavy in her chest as she feels like she's going to suffocate under the silence.

The permission slip is set down on the table, glaringly close to the man's cup of water. "Do you have a pen?"

Scrambling for one, but making sure her movements don't seem desperate, she grabs an old hardly working one from her ratty and worn backpack. She refused to replace the bag when it was gifted to her from her mother. Handing the pen to him, she watches as he skims over it once again before signing where he was meant to. It's slow and feels as if it's some sort of joke. That is, until he wordlessly hands her the paper and pen back.