もののけ | monster | soshiro hoshina (Kaiju No. 8) (COMPLETE)

はちじゅうに | eighty two

もののけ | kaiju | monster

82

[A lengthy chapter ahead]

Soshiro

LEAVING SOMI BEHIND, even for a single day, is a kind of hell that Kiyomi and I both despise. The morning was a nightmare, with Somi clinging to Kiyomi, big tears rolling down her cheeks, wailing that she didn't want us to leave. Her little voice was shrill, desperate, calling out for me not to go. Every cry felt like a punch to the gut, but no matter how much we wanted to stay, we couldn't. Not today.

We had to drop Somi off at my father's place, the Hoshina compound—a routine we've had to fall into when work goes to shit. I know she's safe there, but damn, it doesn't make leaving any easier. She watched us with those big, tearful eyes as we drove away, her tiny hands pressed against my father's chest.

It's these damn days that remind me of all the crap we have to juggle, trying to balance our lives as soldiers with being parents. If things weren't so complicated with my schedule, and with Kiyomi's workload doubling up on us, maybe—just maybe—we could have stayed. But no, we've got an important meeting to face today, all because that bastard Kaiju No. 9 decided to rear his ugly head after all these years.

I kept my phone clutched in my hand, checking it every few minutes, just in case my father calls or texts about Somi. I know he's got everything under control—hell, Somi loves her grandpa to pieces. But that doesn't stop this gnawing feeling in my gut. I trust my old man, I really do. He's raised me, after all. But I can't shake this overprotective shit since it's my first time being a dad. The thought of something slipping through the cracks gets under my skin.

So, before I left, I went over all the instructions with him, maybe five times over. "She needs her bottle every three hours," I reminded him. "It's got to be 150 milliliters, not a drop more or less, and it has to be warmed to just the right temperature. Not too hot, not too cold—lukewarm. I told him to test it on his wrist like I do, though he rolled his eyes like I was being too particular. Then there's the whole burping ritual afterward. She's gotta burp, or she'll be a mess. You hold her up, just like this, with her little head resting on your shoulder, and you pat her back. Not too hard, but don't go soft either, or it won't do a damn thing."

And I know, I know—he's heard it all before. He looked at me like he'd had enough of my crap halfway through my speech, but I just couldn't stop myself. I went on about how Somi hates her mashed carrots cold and that her applesauce has to be stirred twice so there aren't any chunks. I even explained the exact angle to hold the bottle to avoid air bubbles. And when she naps, I told him, she needs her stuffed bear by her side. Not any of the other toys, just that damn bear, or she won't sleep. The blanket's got to be tucked under her legs, but loose enough so she can kick her feet if she needs to.

As if that wasn't enough, I went on about her nap schedule, and how she needs a little lullaby playing in the background. He told me he knew all this already, that he'd raised me without all this fuss, but I wasn't having any of it. Somi isn't me, and things are different now. It's all about the details—the temperature, the timing, the way she likes her hair stroked when she's falling asleep. I hammered all that home, and when I saw him getting annoyed, I knew I'd gone overboard, but I didn't care.