Rising Sunsets

CHAPTER 2

I was slumped over a drafting table, feverishly sketching the exterior of a house as the paper beneath my pencil involuntarily expanded and grew sideways. Broken televisions were strewn about the stark white room, and crashes of glass from other broken sets sounded in the distance. I was startled, and my pencil slipped, causing me to inadvertently draw an unnecessary line. I scrubbed at the paper with the eraser, but the mistake refused to disappear even as the paper crumpled and tore.

“You idiot, look what you did,” squeaked a short, stocky man who scampered toward me. His face had an orange glow due to his fake tan.

            “I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.”

A tall, blonde woman made of plastic approached both of us, her face frozen in a smile.  She spoke through her teeth because her lips were immobile. The stocky man, whom I presumed to be her husband, pressed his hand somewhere on the small of her back, which made her breasts enlarge and then retract. Once the breasts had reached a size he liked, the man removed his arm from her back. “Perfect,” he said as he gazed dreamily at the adjustment.

“Honey, I want this house done in fifteen minutes,” the plastic woman said to me haughtily.
            “I’m trying.” I scribbled, nervously drawing a straight line with my pencil, which had suddenly turned into a large crayon. Sweat streaked my temples as I erased what I had drawn, but the wax started to smear.

“Why did we ever hire this idiot?” the man complained.

“Because his father entrusted us with him.”
            “I do apologize for my son’s ignorance,” my father said suddenly as he walked toward us.  “He has spent his life doing origami and Japanese calligraphy, which has made him neglect his studies.” He produced a roll of plans. “Here are the finished plans you’ve been looking for.”  The couple grabbed the roll, smiled with relief, and left me to face my father’s condemnation.

            “Do you need a refresher?” he asked.
            “No,” I pleaded, knowing what was coming, the tears unavoidable.

            “Stop crying and get the books.” My father pointed a stiff arm to the open bookcase behind me.

            I strained as I reached for the necessary books, but the bookcase, like my paper, expanded, accumulating more books as it grew taller. I climbed up the shelves and caught myself from falling as the books shifted and gave way underneath my feet. Shelves loosened and collapsed, crushing me under the burdensome weight. The crash was deafening.

           

I suddenly sat up in bed, sweating.

            The door to my room was open, and my eyes met a young man’s. He was probably in his early thirties and stocky, with a very round face and short spiky black hair. His eyes were furious, and combined with the disagreeable scowl on his face, they made for a most unpleasant greeting.

“My name is Yamaguchi. Breakfast now,” he ordered and then slammed the sliding door shut.