Notes Left on the Doorstep

Helpless

"I reject this world. It's mean and unfair!"

Kind of an odd thing for a 5 year old to say when introducing himself to his kindergarten class on the first day of school, but apparently, that's what I said. I vaguely recall that moment. I don't remember the granular details – who my teacher was, what I did after, how the other children responded. I only remember how I felt.

For nearly a year before I entered kindergarten, I'd go visit a kind old man who I always saw sitting on a bench at the park near my house. His clothes were a bit old and tattered, so were his shoes. His skin was a bit red and leathery, like he spent all his time in the sun, and he always had a dusty, black backpack stuffed so full it strained the seams. He had a big, black dog named Chompers. Chompers always bounced when he saw me and greeted me with a loud bark. The kind old man greeted me, too. His name was Mr. Ken, and every time my older sister, Tsutako, took me to the park, we'd give him a dollar or two, and he'd give me a sticker. For some reason, he had a small candy tin full of them.

"Which one do you want this time?" he'd ask, displaying the stickers. His smile was bright and gentle.

I'd reply with the name of my favorite anime character that week. "Goku. Do you have a Goku?"

"Of course! That was one of my son's favorites."

Mr. Ken would patiently listen to me as I rattled on about the charm points of every character in the show. He'd ask me about school. I'd pet Chompers. Then my sister would scuttle me off to play with my friends. My other friends, because Mr. Ken was also my friend. So was Chompers.

The day before kindergarten started, I went to see Mr. Ken. I wanted to ask him if he had a Luffy sticker. Just as Tsutako and I came within view of his corner, we saw several people in neon yellow vests tossing Mr. Ken's belongings into the back of a garbage truck. One of the vested people had Chompers on a leash. He tried dragging Chompers away from Mr. Ken, but Chompers barked and thrashed and wouldn't go. A second man came and helped shove Chompers into a dog crate. Mr. Ken wasn't smiling like he usually was. His head hung low. He looked meek next to the two policemen talking to him. Every word they said seemed to make him smaller.

"Mr. Ken!" I yelled. I tried to run to him, but Tsutako caught me by my jacket.

"No, Giyu," she said.

Mr. Ken looked up, but when he saw me, he turned away and covered his face with his hands. Even at that age, even with his back to me, I knew what he was feeling. And I cried.

Mr. Ken never came back to that corner, and I never saw him or Chompers again.

But I kept all the stickers, every single one of them.

"Giyu, can you please do a proper introduction to the class?" my kindergarten teacher asked.

"What does 'proper' mean?" I asked.

"It means to say what you were instructed to say."

I don't remember the granular details of that moment – who my teacher was, how the other students reacted, what I did after. I only remember how I felt.

"Giyu?"

I clenched my trembling hands. I grit my teeth, blinked back my tears. I opened my mouth. I wanted to yell. I wanted to scream. I wanted to save Mr. Ken and Chompers.

I hate this feeling! I hate it so much!

But in this mean, unfair world, I was...

"My name is Giyu Tomioka. I'm five years old. Pleased to meet you."

...helpless.

+++++

Broken. That wasn't his name. That's what I called him. Not to his face. You couldn't say things like that to his face. You couldn't say most things to his face, not "hi," not "bye," not "please stop kicking me in the face." Because he was the type of person that didn't think you were also a person. You were a gnat that annoyed him. You were a pile of trash smelling up the place. You were a puddle of piss he had to step over. As such, you deserved to be disposed of, usually in the quickest and most humiliating way he could think of.