Rising Fire

Memories

Our cracked glasses contain plain, dirty water and our plates lie mostly untouched. The latest newspaper, promoting Australia's "well-deserved" triumph in the war, haunts me from the corner of my eye, thrown on the ratty couch next to Father's letter. Dust covers the unused part of the wooden table, burying the places where Father and Haruaki used to sit.

Chikashi's hand shakes as he lifts his spoon. Today is a good day and he's slowly sipping minuscule amounts of lukewarm miso soup.

Miso Shiru was Haruaki's favourite, bringing back memories for both of us. Chikashi watches me while he eats, silent as I explain my encounter with the lady outside through sign language.

Chikashi's lost weight since he came home, and his eyes are hollow. He's nothing like the boy he was. His hair, now unruly and carefree, hangs in front of his eyes. Impatiently he reaches up and brushes it out of his way, accidentally knocking the bowl in front of him.

Realization dawns on his face as he watches the bowl fall, his hand stretching out to catch it – but the bowl has smashed against the side of the table and sliced across his palm. Blood streams from hand in rivulets, drops of crimson decorating the broken ceramic mess. Shiru pools at his feet like a never-ending fountain.

Chikashi is terrified, his eyes wide in shock. He's watching the blood slowly ebb away from his body. It reminds me of Father's letter and Haruaki's death. Pain blossoms on Chikashi's face, a reopened wound.

"Oh, Chikashi," I sign, taking his bleeding hand in mine and removing the tiny shards of ceramic hidden within the slowly clotting blood. Just like Father described it. "It'll be okay."

Except he's yanked his hand from mine with a gagging sound; running towards the bathroom. An hour later, when the floor has been cleaned and the table reverted to its dust-ridden state, I can still hear him throwing up.