Beyond the Horizon

7. Communication

Shion sat on the closed toilet lid with his head in his hands. His elbows dug into his knees; it stung, but the pain was grounding.

          He hadn't bothered turning on the light switch, and so he sat in complete darkness. The roaring in his skull had already softened to a gentle thrumming, but even that was far louder than Shion preferred.

          He could still taste the sting of rage on the tip of his tongue. Nezumi's cold, harsh words zipped around his head like a furious bee.

          "Great. Yet another thing you can't control."

           I know. Shion pressed the heels of his palms against his eyelids until he saw red and blue spots. Don't you think I know already?

           Shion couldn't understand Nezumi. He'd come breezing in out of nowhere, and in a matter of moments Shion's entire world had come crashing down. Shion knew he couldn't blame it all on Nezumi. Horizon Lab's agents had come to question his mother because of what his father could do. Nezumi had nothing to do with that. If anything, Shion owed Nezumi a debt. If he hadn't come along and turned the agents away, there was no telling what horrors he would have endured.

          But Nezumi was...difficult to get along with. He spoke harshly and had no patience. He pushed and pushed until Shion went tumbling over the edge. He said he would teach Shion to control his powers, but he expected immediate perfection.

          Shion couldn't keep up with him.

          He wanted to do well.

          He did.

          But the way Nezumi needled him, the way he spoke as if Shion was an idiot, rubbed him the wrong way.

          Shion scrubbed the back of his hands against his eyes. Tears had started to prick along the edges. If he started now, he wasn't certain he'd be able to stop.

          Don't cry, Shion told himself. He sniffled and drew a few sheets of toilet paper from the roll. He dabbed at his eyes and then blew his nose. Just breathe.

          Shion tossed the wad of toilet paper into the nearby trash can. He took a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. Safu had researched meditation when Shion's mother expressed concern over his elevated stress levels. She'd experimented with him―Safu had bought books, taught him to close his eyes and let go of the bad thoughts.

          Shion's fingers drifted to his right arm. He nudged the sleeve of his cardigan up and touched the bit of braided string coiled around his wrist. Blue and purple strands twisted together in an elegant braid. Hanging from the bracelet were five little silver baubles. Even plunged in darkness, Shion knew the distinct shape of each of them. A book, an aster, a cupcake, a butterfly, and a heart.

           Shion loved each and every one of his charms. His mother had made the bracelet for him when he was young, and with it, she'd given him his first two charms. The aster had, of course, come from his name, while the heart was meant to be an expression of the bond he shared with his mother. Shion had loved them immediately. The simplicity of the shapes mixed with the depth of their meaning had kept him grounded in his darkest moments.

          Safu had given him his third charm to celebrate his twelfth birthday. "I couldn't find a cookbook specifically," she said, "but a book works just as well!"

          The cupcake had come from his mother for his fourteenth birthday, to celebrate his success at the bakery. Karan couldn't afford to hire another worker, and so Shion had offered his assistance. He'd practiced baking techniques on his own time, woken early to give his mother a hand, and even crafted a few new flavors to sell in the shop. Karan kissed his cheek, thanked him, and gave him his fourth charm so he would always remember his successes before considering his failures.