Rainy Days

03

Riku

I trudge up the stairs, alone, holding back the tears until I'm in the safety of my bedroom. Well, even that's going to be ripped away from me tomorrow, just like everything else has.

I should be grateful, happy even. Given a new lease on life, a place to stay away from everyone—that's what I wanted all along, right? My hand slips and the precarious pile of ramen bowls topples over as the door slams shut. Goro was right. It's a fucking mess. But he only saw the junk-stained floor, choked on the musty air—never saw the person crying on the bed. People don't see what's on the inside, and most won't bother looking. The words stab me one after another, each a sharp jab to my chest.

But how can you clean up a mess if that's all there is left?

I tighten my fists and let the pain push the anger down my fingertips. But it remains just above the surface, treading on the sick feeling swimming in my head. I look down and feel the sweet release as my hands unclench. The metal key has ripped through the paper, imprinted into my palm like a scar that will fade over time, but never the pain.

The words shift as I flatten the paper and try to read my father's handwriting. It's normally impeccable, each stroke the right thickness, but this time, the letters seem to be frozen in an eternal misery.

A quick search confirms the apartment's halfway across town. Guess I really am taking the subway tomorrow.

I wake up head pressed against the keyboard, a bit of drool gluing my lips together. The monitor flickers on, flash-banging my eyes as I snap awake.

My breakfast is a bag of fish chips I find on my desk and a bottle of Fiji water—not a bad combination for itching taste buds in the morning. Miyu shoves by me as I slink down the stairs, brushing aside the black hair that sweeps just above her shoulders. She's kept her hair short since the accident, like the ties we had before had been cut along with it.

"Riku. Care to join us?" I look up and see my father at the table, my mother beside him. Miyu joins them next to my empty chair, in front of which there's a bowl.

"No," I snap. My voice comes out harsh, scraping against the lump in my throat that's holding back everything. "I mean, the subway's coming soon, and I got food for the road."

I hold up the crumpled bag and water, a sad comparison to the steaming bowl of rice. It's not that I don't want to enjoy a meal with my family, but that I've forgotten how to. Afraid to mess it up again, to break the bonds so carefully built. Because only when they break do you realize how fragile they are.

My father sighs, his brows contorting like he can't find an expression to match his feelings. "Riku, I—"

The front door cuts his words off as I step away from the house, away from the life I wished could have never happened. It seems like I'm running again, my future shoved into a backpack, destination unknown. Running from what, though?

The blue glow of my phone illuminates my ghastly appearance, rampant bedhead and bloodshot eyes from researching my new home all night. It's a two-story apartment complex nestled in a quiet district. There's a small bed, a small desk, a small—well, it's a small apartment. But no food, and lucky me, I have to spend the little money I have on subway fares, too.

It's a long walk to the station, but there are my thoughts to accompany me—not that I enjoy their presence.

I scroll through my phone mindlessly, watching the people flitter along the streets. Some are chatting, others lost in their thoughts like me. Ping! The notification fades before I can read anything more than a big, fat F. Why do I still go to school? I sigh. I'm not doing it for anyone—not for my parents anymore, not even for me.