Shuake Week 2020

Nightmare + Soulmates

The first thing Goro notices is how small the child is. The girl is tiny. She's tiny and fearless-- you can see it on her face-- and she bears a striking resemblance to himself. He blinks a few times trying to understand why she's here in his home.

And then he realizes, with no lack of dread, he isn't in his home. He's somewhere as damp and dark as the insides of a sewer but it's familiar. He knows this place. Where is he? He turns away from the kid to gather a better sense of his surroundings when he's met with a foul stench.

He gasps, his eyes settling on the scene, and he wretches. Red. A lifeless vague body outlined with an ever-growing red puddle lays next to him. It's slouched in a chair and has died over a metal table.

Everywhere smells like rust and copper. It's putrid. He wants to vomit. God, how could he have not noticed the smell until now?

Pinching her nose in disgust the little girl asks, "Did you kill that boy?" Boy? Oh, the body has suddenly grown a more masculine shape but still, it could be anyone.

Goro jerks his head back to her and brings his hands up to motion a 'no' when he notices his hands. He's wearing gloves. He hasn't worn gloves in years. Most importantly though in his left hand he's gripping a SIG-Sauer P230 like his life depends on it.

Maybe it does.

He remembers the gun model like a mother remembers her child's face and horror courses through him. He hasn't seen the semi-automatic in a near decade and he always joked that whenever he saw the handgun again it would be too soon. Sure enough, it's too soon.

The girl smiles, unnerving him. "Are you proud of yourself? It was a rather clean shot, totally looks like a suicide. That was the point, right? Good job."

He wants to ask who she is and what she wants but his mouth is too dry to make a sound. The stench prevails but he thinks he's getting used to it.

"I am you," she says as if reading his mind. "Don't you remember? I am thou, thou art I. That's what RobinHood said right?"

Dropping the gun Goro staggers back. He's so confused. A moment ago he was in his kitchen making some coffee to keep him up for a late-night of paperwork and now he was standing before his past self in some dank basement.

As he stumbles, back touches the cool metal of the table and his eyes snap into focus. He knows this kid. He knows the child is telling the truth. She is him. He is her. And yet, they couldn't be more different.

Truthfully he doesn't remember looking so short as a child. He recalls that he had in fact had pretty, long caramel braids, rosy cheeks, and long, feminine lashes but he doesn't remember being a fucking midget.

Hoarsely he says, "I was not that short."

Little Akechi laughs. It's high-pitched, like a siren. He hates it. "That's all you have to say!? Your first words to me are that!?" She falls to her side in a giggle fit. She looks so carefree as she rolls on the ground, wiggling like a worm on the pavement.

"Stop that," Goro chides and walks over to pick her off the nasty ground. He's not sure where he is but he's not about to let his younger self get absolutely filthy. The moment he reaches to grab her arm his eyes widen in recognition.

Her outfit. That dress. Young Akechi is wearing the same dress he wore to his mother's funeral at age nine. As if burned, he draws back immediately. He remembers the dress well. He remembers buying it mere hours before the service and ripping it apart the moment his mother was in the ground.

If the child notices his change she's too busy laughing to comment on it. It takes a while but eventually the happy shrieks become fewer and far between-- she is seemingly done finding the situation hilarious.