shoganai (phr.) "it can't be helped". shoganai is essentially a philosophy. it says that if something is out of your control it's better to quickly accept it and move on.
trigger warning: bullying ; anxiety ; strong language.
---
It is the gentle voice of her therapist that startles her from her reverie. Her hands are shaking. It is an uncontrollable movement, like something is winding her fingers up, coiling and uncoiling them until they jerk back and forth, almost as if she is a marionette - a limp, vacuous marionette.
"It's alright if you don't want to give me the details, Aisha." The therapist clicks his tongue, and scribbles something down on his board. The scritch-scratching of the slightly bronze-tinted pen aggravates her mind. She swallows gingerly, and he notices.
"Maybe we'll talk about this another time."
She doesn't have to wait for the dismissal for her to scrape her chair backwards and run, fleetingly, a startled deer galloping away into the bushes. Shots fired. Rifles toted. She feels trapped, collapsing in the elevator once the small ding! hushes her back to reality.
Out on the streets Aisha feels a bit less nervy. The pedestrians form a cover for the fear that emanates from her body. Today she's wearing a knitted overcoat and a pair of high boots that do not add to her confidence on the streets. She takes the usual monotonous steps forward, left-right-left-right and she doesn't waver. She is slightly proud of herself, yet goosebumps run up her arms when she glances at a random passerby and glimpses the smartphone held casually in his palm.
Breathing. Aisha has forgotten how. People send her alarmed looks as she darts to a nearby alley and leans over, hunched back. She knows it's never going to escape her. The memories. The comments. The predators, each and every one of them - she is a deer. She is slowly dissolving into pulverized deer meat.
Aisha makes it home, barely, before the tears start flooding out and her brother screams up at her room that she is a fucking weakling who embarrasses the whole household.
---
sent 11:00 p.m. 12 days ago by @optimihsm
why are you even alive? you broke his heart you deserve to die
sent 11:30 p.m. 12 days ago by @blqwhiteworld
i hope you burn yourself and survive so it's more painful
sent 11:45 p.m. 12 days ago by @honeyhart_
look what you did to sam was just unforgivable you don't even understand how much it made him hurt. do you think it's the right thing to do if you're just deleting your account and not responding to everyone who was affected? there's no way...(read more)
sent 12:00 a.m. 11 days ago by @DELETEDUSER
you need help like serious mental help
---
Aisha wakes up and the first thing she tastes is blood on her lips. She has bitten her lip in the middle of the nightmare she has been reliving for the past few days. Getting up and standing is the hardest feat she has to achieve. Her fingers are chilly, almost frozen, and her muscles numbed over - she falls down onto the carpet and tries not to break down.
She opens the door and crashes headfirst into her mother, who is yawning widely.
"G'morning, sweet. You look all tired. Staying up late again? You must be very busy, what with all those after-school clubs and whatnot."
Aisha manages to mumble assent, and her mother strides away. The next second she is rooted to the floor, horrified as her mother fishes around in her pocket and tugs out her smartphone, tapping away idly at the blue screen.
Before she knows it Aisha is latching on to her mother, crying, pushing the phone out of her hand and letting it clatter on to the floor. Her mother gasps, reaching for the dropped object, and Aisha screams for all she is worth. The doors clang open like a pair of menacing cymbals and her brother shouts at her, freak. Control your emotions you're like a wild animal.
Then her mother is shouting at her brother to respect his sister more, and Aisha slips to the floor, breathing heavy, unsteady, her legs reduced to ash and dust. The ringing of the cymbals dissipates only when the mother and son, at each other's throats, have left the hallway and she is the only one remaining.
She pads into her room, stares at her father's photo on the mantelpiece and lets the floodgates open.
---
sent 9:00 a.m. 11 days ago by @pianissiimo
you deserved to be exposed by sam for all we know you treasured your future more than him and that's unforgivable if you loved him you wouldn't break up with him
sent 12:00 p.m. 11 days ago by @xwisteriax
who even breaks up over academic results god you're a git do you want to get into cambridge more than you cared about him
sent 4:00 p.m. 11 days ago by @hannahcourtn_
did you even love sam i know you didn't because if you did you would be heartbroken right now
---
Aisha doesn't feel anything the next time her therapist asks her the dreaded question.
"Are you alright? Do you have any difficulty breathing or doing simple tasks?"
She scratches the back of her neck, slightly, and the tips of her fingers brush the edges of the pixie cut that happened a few days ago. It still feels very new, the sensation of the back of her neck being exposed to the rest of the world, like it's going to be a target for everyone who wishes to shoot an arrow at her back and maybe - maybe she doesn't mind giving them that target.
Exhale. Aisha answers, "No. I'm fine."
The numbness that pervades her very motions isn't lost on her classmates at school. She isn't usually sociable, but when she returns from the holidays and her classmates take one look at her face, they shy away like she has some contaminable disease written on her too-high forehead, her too-wide eyes, her artificial smile, her flushed cheeks. They scatter. She walks on, to her desk, and crosses her arms over her chest.
At home it isn't any better. She knows she disgusts her brother - she's 17, approaching adulthood, and he's 13 and in that phase of not being connected with the outside world as he immerses in his games and the occasional date with his girlfriend. It's predictable that he hates Aisha, the secluded loner with some sort of social disorder, but Aisha has grown used to it.
She thinks she's getting better. Not feeling anything isn't the best policy, but at least it's better than feeling like a deer trapped in a forest cage full of hunters aiming rifles at her neck. There isn't anything more freeing than that complete lack of emotion in her chest - it gives her something akin to a burst of fresh air, something new to work for.
To not feel.
---
a.n. i wrote this short in half an hour. there are reasons behind why i wrote this in such a hurried pace. if you're interested in the rationale of this story, please tell me and i might explain. but this work means much to me, it took up quite a bit of energy and mental sanity.
this is also NOT the story i previously said i was working on. that one is under small hiatus for reconstruction, and will be posted afterwards.
YOU ARE READING
mono no aware + short stories
Historia Corta物の哀れ ; the awareness of impermanence of things, and a gentle sadness or wistfulness at their passing © iridcscents 2018
