Bitterness of Youth: Part 1

Read the description to learn more about this novel.

While you may already be familiar with these terms, I’ve provided their English definitions for those who may not be.

1. さん (san): This is a general, respectful suffix used to address or refer to someone. It's similar to "Mr.," "Mrs.," or "Ms." in English. It's commonly used for people of all ages and social statuses in both formal and informal contexts.

2. 君 (kun): This suffix is often used for addressing younger males, or in a more familiar or casual setting. It can be used with people of the same or lower status, and it's commonly used among friends, students, or in professional settings where there is a clear hierarchy (like between a superior and a subordinate).

3. ちゃん (chan): This suffix is used to express affection or endearment, typically towards children, pets, or close friends. It conveys a sense of familiarity and warmth, and is often used with people who are younger or of the same age but with whom one shares a close, informal relationship. While it can be used for both males and females, it is more commonly used for females and children.

The content warning is in the footnotes⁰.

TOC Next

“Ah! You startled me!”

Matsumura, the office clerk, jumped back, nearly dropping the files she was holding.

“I didn’t expect you to be standing by the door. Did I bump into you?” She tilted her head and peeked up at his face.

“I’m fine.”

Akira Takatsuka had felt a chill as the wind brushed his bangs, but at least he’d avoided a direct hit. The funeral home where Akira worked as an embalmer, the Old Memorial Center, had an embalming facility on the same premises. While the funeral home side saw a lot of foot traffic, the embalming facility was quiet, with only six staff members: two office clerks, two embalmers, and two trainees. With such a small group, it was a wonder that near-collisions like this even happened—poor timing, indeed.

“Did you need something from this side?” Matsumura asked. Akira let out a small sigh and leaned against the office wall.

“I sent Koyanagi home. The hospital called—they said his wife collapsed.”

Matsumura murmured a soft “Oh,” furrowing her brow as she whispered, “...How’s she doing?”

“I don’t know the details, but they said she might need to be hospitalized for a while. Koyanagi was supposed to handle one case today, but I’ll take over. I’ve already been briefed on the arrangements. Could you give me the paperwork for the deceased? I heard the data’s in.”

Matsumura nodded. “Ah, that would really help us out. We can’t change the funeral date, and suggesting another embalming facility would be disrespectful to the family. I feel bad for always piling work on you, Takatsuka-kun.”

“It’s no trouble. I didn’t have any plans anyway.”

In response, she playfully slapped his arm with the file she was holding.

“Don’t say something so sad! At least grumble a little—like, ‘I had a date with my girlfriend!’”

“No need to pretend.”

“Ugh!” Matsumura put her hands on her hips in mock frustration. “Hard workers are great and all, but try to enjoy your own life a bit more, too!”

Was that how others saw him? As if he wasn’t enjoying life? He wondered what part of him seemed that way, but the question hung in his chest unanswered. Matsumura clapped her hands, as if remembering something.

“By the way, do you know anyone looking for a cleaning job?”

“Aren’t we advertising for one?”

“Yeah, but...” Matsumura pouted and flicked the file with her fingers. “Even with higher wages, we haven’t been able to get many applicants. I guess the fact that it’s at a facility where we handle bodies is a dealbreaker. Since Kane-san left, we haven’t been able to find anyone who sticks around. He was so diligent and thorough—too bad he had to go back to the U.S.”

Akira extended his hand.

“Koyanagi’s paperwork?”

“Oh, sorry! One moment.” Matsumura disappeared into the back of the office and soon returned with the documents. “Here you go. Looks like the deceased passed from illness. If there’s no autopsy, it should be quick, right?”

Akira took the copy of the death certificate. “As long as the blood vessels aren’t too fragile...”

The first thing he checked was the cause of death—multiple organ failure, caused by a malignant tumor in the right lung. Then, he glanced at the birth date, gender, and finally, the name.

Homare Isahaya.

He looked at it again. Sixty-two years old. That sounded about right. The surname Isahaya wasn’t exactly common.

“Takatsuka-kun, is something wrong?”

He folded the document in half.

“I... might know him.”

Matsumura’s eyes widened in surprise as she brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh, really? Are you okay?”

“It could just be someone with the same name. I won’t know for sure until I see the body, but... either way, it’s been over ten years since we last spoke, and we weren’t exactly close. It’s not a problem.”

Akira took the paperwork and headed back to the break room. Last year, with Tsuno and the trainee Muroi, the space had felt cramped. But now, with Tsuno back at his family’s funeral home and Muroi also working there, the room felt vast and empty. They had two new trainees this year, but neither of them were in today.

He looked at Isahaya’s paperwork again. The text, which usually provided nothing more than basic information, now held deeper meaning. Did he hate this man? He thought about it for a while, but realized he’d never wished for the man’s death. There was a time, though, when he couldn’t stand to even see his face. And now?

In the end, Akira had never resolved his issues with Isahaya. That grudge would remain with him forever. But now, Isahaya no longer had a voice with which to speak. All that remained was an empty shell, devoid of life.

The phone rang, cutting through the silence of the room.

“Takatsuka-kun, the body Koyanagi was supposed to handle just arrived.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He hung up the phone and left the break room. It didn’t matter who the deceased was. His job was to embalm the body and return it to the family. That was all.

＊ ＊ ＊

"I'm home!"

Akira cheerfully called out as he opened the front door and headed toward the back room.

"Welcome back." A gentle voice responded.

He took off his shoes, neatly placing them together, then dashed down the hallway to peek into the kitchen. On the four-person dining table, he saw plates set out. A fragrant, sweet aroma tickled his nose. His aunt turned around and smiled, saying, "Put your backpack away and wash your hands first."

Akira tossed his backpack into his room and washed his hands at the sink. When he returned to the kitchen, his aunt gave him permission, "You can eat now." He grabbed one of the two donuts and took a big bite. It was still warm, fluffy inside, and delicious.

"By the way, Akira, have you seen Satoshi?"

His aunt, sitting across from him and sipping tea, asked.

"No, I haven’t."

On the way home, he had been walking ahead with a classmate, but at some point, Satoshi disappeared. Maybe he went to the park or over to a friend's house. After Akira finished his snack, his aunt stood up from the chair, removed her apron, and said, "I’m going to go do some shopping for dinner."

"Can I come with you?"

His aunt nodded, "Of course." The two of them headed to the nearby supermarket. One by one, they added carrots, onions, and other ingredients to the shopping basket.

"Are we having curry tonight?"

His aunt turned back and smiled with narrowed eyes, "You guessed it." After paying, they divided the curry ingredients into two plastic bags, and Akira tightly held onto the smaller one. Even though his aunt said, "I can carry both," he wanted to help.

"Oh, Kashiwagi-san, are you out shopping?"

As they left the supermarket, a woman with glasses called out to his aunt.

"Hello, Ishiguro-san."

His aunt stopped walking. The woman with glasses glanced down at Akira and asked, "Is he your son?"

"No, he’s my nephew."

"Oh, I see. What a handsome boy. He's almost too pretty to be a boy. What grade is he in?"

"Fifth grade."

"My, he’s quite small. I thought he was in second or third grade."

His aunt chatted with Ishiguro-san for about five minutes. As they parted, Ishiguro-san reiterated, "He really is a beautiful child."

"Was that conversation boring for you?" his aunt asked, perhaps noticing his gloomy expression. He shook his head, but couldn’t bring himself to say that she didn’t have to correct her and that he wouldn’t have minded being called her son.

A gust of wind blew, causing his aunt's hair to flutter softly behind her. Her hair was straight, smooth, and beautiful. Akira ran his left hand through his own unruly hair, tousling it.

"Akira, don't you ever go play at a friend's house?"

He tightened his grip on the small plastic bag.

"I don’t have any friends."

"Oh? Why not?"

"They say mean things about my hair."

No matter how much he washed it, once dry, his hair would curl. Because of this, his classmates teased him, calling his hair a "bird’s nest." He wished he had straight hair like his aunt's. Satoshi, too, had straight hair like his aunt, and no matter how long it grew, it would never turn into a "bird’s nest."

"What kind of mean things? Akira, your hair is as soft as cotton, and it's so cute."

His aunt's pale hand gently rested on his head. Her warm, soft fingers stroked his hair, and it made his chest feel light and fluttery, as if he could jump for joy.

Akira didn't have parents. He lived with his father's sister and her husband. His parents divorced when he was three, and he was taken in by his father, but his father passed away from illness when he was five. He heard that his mother also died in an accident shortly after the divorce. He had a photo of his father but none of his mother.

His aunt had a son the same age as Akira, named Satoshi. Satoshi was spoiled and selfish. When they were younger, he would cry and get angry if Akira talked to his aunt, saying, "Don't take Mama away!" At the store, he would throw tantrums, rolling on the floor, demanding, "I want that toy!" Even though it troubled her, his aunt would buy the same toy for both Satoshi and Akira. Even when Akira said, "I don’t need it," she would smile kindly and say, "It’s fine." Satoshi would abandon the toy after three days, but Akira treasured it.

Satoshi still frequently asked his mom to buy him video games, but he wasn’t as clingy as he used to be. After school, he would go out to play with friends without returning home. He probably didn’t want to be around Akira. If his uncle caught them together, he would undoubtedly start lecturing Satoshi about studying.

From around third grade, Satoshi began to struggle with his studies and couldn’t score well on tests. Akira, on the other hand, consistently scored above 90, and his aunt would praise him, saying, "Akira, you’re amazing." Then she would sigh and say, "If only Satoshi could try as hard as you."

Once, Akira scored 96 on a test while Satoshi got 60. Even though Satoshi had worked hard, his uncle happened to find both tests. Unaware of Satoshi’s usual scores, he scolded his son, "Why are your scores so much worse than Akira’s?"

Satoshi ran out of the house in tears and didn’t return until late at night, causing a huge commotion. After that, Akira stopped showing his test scores to his aunt. Satoshi’s poor scores were due to his lack of studying, but it felt unfair for him to be compared. Even after Akira stopped sharing his scores, his aunt didn’t say anything. As long as he answered "Yes" when she asked, "Are you doing your best?" that was enough.

"Now that I think about it, it’s been six years since you came to live with us, Akira. Time flies, doesn’t it?"

He had been living with his aunt’s family for as long as he could remember, and while he felt like he was one of them, he knew he wasn’t. Even when he was told that he had another family once, he couldn’t really grasp it—it was like looking at shadow puppets. His aunt often talked about his father. Deep down, Akira didn’t really like it. Each time, it felt like a reminder that he wasn’t truly part of this family.

Last year, Satoshi wrote a poem that was selected as one of the five representative pieces by elementary school students in Tokyo and advanced to the national competition. When they found out, both his aunt and uncle were overjoyed. The year before, when Akira's drawing won a prize at the Children’s Tokyo Art Exhibition, they hadn’t been nearly as thrilled. His uncle boasted to acquaintances about Satoshi, saying, "This kid has unexpected talent…" and his aunt, beaming with pride, listened beside him.

Akira vaguely felt that this was the difference between a real child and an outsider. No matter how hard he worked at his studies, his aunt never smiled at him with the same delighted surprise as she did when Satoshi occasionally brought home good test scores.

“Kids grow up so fast. Just the other day, Satoshi was still clinging to me, calling ‘Mom, Mom,’” his aunt said, her eyes gazing into the distance. “The mountains over there look a bit hazy. Is it the yellow dust?”

A motorcycle roared past on the narrow road nearby, speeding so fast that Akira could feel the wind it kicked up. His aunt quickly pulled him close by the shoulder.

“That’s dangerous, speeding down such a narrow road. I wish they’d watch where they’re going,” she muttered.

Her shirt, which brushed against his cheek, smelled sweet, warm, and comforting.

“Maybe it’s some young kid who just got his license.”

They walked home hand in hand after that. Akira gripped his aunt’s soft, warm hand tightly. He couldn’t become a real child of hers, but he was still a part of this family, a child of her household… they were family, after all.

When they reached the house, their hands separated. His aunt let out a small exclamation as she looked toward the parking lot.

“Oh? He’s home.”

A small, white Kei car was parked there. Akira’s uncle worked as a subcontractor at construction sites and usually didn’t come home while it was still light. It was unusual for him to be back at this hour.

“Welcome home, dear,” his aunt called out, but his uncle, who was sitting cross-legged on the tatami in the living room, glaring at the newspaper, didn’t respond. He looked really upset, and it made Akira a bit uneasy. His aunt mumbled, “I wonder what’s wrong,” and quietly retreated into the kitchen. When Akira offered to help, she waved him off with, “It’s fine. I’ll have it ready soon.”

Akira walked silently down the hallway and went into his room.

His uncle wasn’t much of a talker to begin with, but when he got angry, he was terrifying. If Satoshi got a bad grade on a test or acted spoiled, his uncle’s loud, angry voice would fill the house, making the air seem to vibrate. That voice would always make Akira freeze in place, unable to move. He kind of understood why Satoshi would want to hide his test scores.

By dinnertime, his uncle’s foul mood hadn’t improved. As Satoshi badgered his aunt, “Buy me that game! Everyone in my class has it!” his uncle suddenly shouted, “Shut up!” in a booming voice. Satoshi pouted, shoveling the rest of his curry into his mouth, and then left the kitchen without so much as a “thank you.”

With only three people left at the table, the heavy atmosphere made even something as simple as reaching for the salad bowl feel like an act that required careful thought. The oppressive tension hung over the room until the meal was over.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Akira’s uncle had begun to change bit by bit. He used to leave early for work and not come home until it was dark, but now he stayed home all day, drinking.

“Why doesn’t Uncle go to work anymore?”

When Akira asked his aunt, she pressed a finger to her lips and whispered, “Shh. The economy’s really bad right now. He’s looking for a new job, so don’t mention it in front of him, okay?”

His uncle lay on the tatami in the living room, face flushed red like a beached seal, unmoving. His favorite saying had become, “I built this house.” When he was young, he’d lived in a cramped tenement, and owning a house with a yard had always been his dream. Now that this traditional-style house had made his dream come true, he took every opportunity to boast about it, especially when he was drunk, repeating the same story over and over.

Since his uncle no longer worked, his aunt started working part-time to make up for it. But as his aunt worked more, his uncle drank even more. When he was drunk, he would shout at Akira with a red face, “You worthless freeloader!”

Akira had never been yelled at like that before. The first time it happened, he was shocked and cried quietly in his room. But after hearing it over and over again, his heart grew cold, and eventually, the tears stopped. After all, he wasn’t their real child, yet they were still raising him. From his uncle’s perspective, maybe calling him “worthless” was how he really felt.

Perhaps influenced by his father, Satoshi also started saying hurtful things with cold indifference, like, “If you weren’t here, we’d have more money, and things would be easier.”

Even his aunt, who had always smiled kindly, began looking more and more tired since she started working part-time. When Akira came home from school early to help with the cleaning, laundry, or cooking, she would say, “Thank you,” but his uncle, who seemed to think lying around all day was his job, would yell, “Stop lurking around! You’re in the way!”

Since the start of summer, Akira had noticed that the bruises on his aunt’s face and arms never seemed to fade. On the first Friday of September, Akira came home from school and heard a scream. Panicked, he ran to the living room, where he saw his uncle, gripping his aunt’s hair as she lay on the floor, slapping her face.

“No! I’m sorry! Please, forgive me…”

Akira’s body moved before he could think. He jumped onto his uncle’s back, yelling, “Stop it!”

His uncle grabbed him by the neck like a kitten and threw him off. Akira’s small body slammed into the sliding door, which came off its tracks and collapsed into the next room along with him.

“No, stop! Don’t hurt the child!” his aunt cried, rushing over. Tears streamed down her face as she stroked Akira’s cheek, whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay…”

His uncle clicked his tongue in irritation and stormed out of the room. Akira heard the sound of the car engine starting—he was leaving.

“I’m so sorry, Akira, I’m so sorry…”

His aunt’s voice trembled as she spoke. Akira was hurt, too, but seeing the red, swollen mark on her face from being slapped made his heart ache even more.

“Auntie, are you okay?”

Still trembling, she hugged Akira tightly, sobbing uncontrollably. Even though she was an adult, she cried aloud like a child. As Akira hugged her warm, soft back, he thought to himself, I have to protect her. He felt an overwhelming desire to protect her. He had to.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

“It’s because of you that we couldn’t save any money.”

“Do you have any idea how much it costs to raise just one kid like you?”

“Stop looking at me with that sulky face.”

Even if Akira clenched his teeth and kept silent to avoid being yelled at, his uncle would hit him anyway, saying he was being “disrespectful.” It seemed like just the act of Akira breathing irritated his uncle.

His stomach throbbed from being kicked, and his face stung from being slapped. Curled up on his side, Akira glanced up at the clock on the pillar. His aunt still wasn’t home yet.

Ever since he had shielded his aunt from his uncle’s blows, Akira had become his new target. When his aunt was around, she would step in and stop the beatings, but when she wasn’t, Akira was hit like a cushion—sometimes with a slap or two to the head, and other times, the blows would keep coming until he lost consciousness.

After enduring so much pain, Akira found that whenever he stood in front of his uncle, his body would freeze as if he were paralyzed. As soon as their eyes met, he knew it was over—he would turn into a punching bag. Even when he tried to avoid his uncle’s gaze, living in the same house made it impossible to completely avoid contact. Once, he was even dragged out of the bathroom for “taking too long” and beaten.

Satoshi, his cousin, had started to lock himself in his room and rarely came out anymore—not even to eat meals with the family. He didn’t say anything when he saw Akira being beaten, nor did he ask if he was okay. Instead, Satoshi would retreat even farther, not wanting to see either the father who used violence or the cousin who was on the receiving end of it.

“You little brat!”

Akira’s vision went dark the moment his uncle kicked him in the head. When he came to, he was lying on his back in the dim living room, all alone. The house was deathly silent. He bent over and walked toward the window, peeking outside. His uncle’s car was gone. The relief was so overwhelming that he collapsed on the spot.

Holding his aching stomach, Akira stood up and started setting the overturned table and the dislodged sliding door back into place. In the bathroom, he checked his reflection—his lip was cut and bleeding, and his right cheek was swollen like a chipmunk with food stuffed in its mouth. The pain in his stomach was so bad that he couldn’t stand anymore, so he lay down on his bed.

Even though the house was quiet and his uncle was no longer there, tears streamed down Akira’s face. Would his uncle kill him someday? He was terrified. But this was the only home he had. Besides, if he weren’t there, his aunt would be the one getting beaten. It was better for his body to hurt than for her to suffer.

He fell into a fitful sleep, trembling, and when he woke up, it was already dark. Feeling the need to use the bathroom, he crept quietly down the dim hallway. From the kitchen, he could hear the sound of the TV and his family eating dinner.

“Akira, come join us,” his aunt called when she noticed him. Her voice caught the attention of his uncle, who turned around, his face twisted in anger like a demon’s.

“There’s no food for you!” he roared.

Akira ran back to his room. The urge to use the bathroom was forgotten as he buried himself under his blankets. The voice, the face—everything about his uncle terrified him.

After a while, his aunt came to his room carrying a tray of dinner.

“I’m sorry, Akira.”

Her face was worn, and she looked down, apologetically.

“He’s in a really bad mood today,” she said quietly. Then, peering at Akira’s face, she asked, “Did he hit you?”

“No.”

“I didn’t notice earlier, but your right cheek is swollen.”

“…I bumped into a friend during gym class.”

His aunt gently touched Akira’s swollen cheek. It wasn’t the pain, but a sharp, tingling sensation that shot through his body.

“I’m so sorry you’re going through this. He’s just so irritable because he doesn’t have work. I think he’ll go back to his old self once he finds a steady job.”

“…Yeah.”

But when would that be? He’d been looking for a job since spring…

“Just hang in there a little longer.”

How much longer would that “little longer” last? Akira lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t even their real child, but they still fed him and sent him to school. His uncle hated him for using up more of the family’s money, so it made sense that he would hit him.

He didn’t want to feel pain anymore. He didn’t need food, and he didn’t need to go to school if it meant he wouldn’t be hit. But if he didn’t eat, he would die.

Sometimes, Akira wished his uncle would just die. He wished someone would kill him, or that he’d get into an accident. Then he wouldn’t be hit anymore, and his aunt wouldn’t have to spend money on his uncle’s alcohol. Akira would be fine as long as his aunt was there.

The only time Akira felt safe was when he was asleep. But every time he woke up, another day of living with his uncle began. No matter how many times he wished his uncle would die, he was neither killed nor caught in an accident.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Winter passed, and spring arrived. Akira entered his sixth year of elementary school. Around this time, he started growing out his bangs so that they covered his eyes, hiding the bruises on his face.

When his face swelled badly from being hit, he would stay home from school. Even as the weather grew warmer, he wore long-sleeved shirts to hide the bruises on his arms and neck. His aunt would tear up every time she saw the marks, and Akira would lie, saying, “I fell at school,” or, “I bumped into a friend on the stairs.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she would say, softly touching his bruises with trembling hands. In those moments, Akira felt like a warrior, protecting his aunt. But in front of his uncle, he was still treated like a punching bag, beaten without hesitation.

By early summer, Akira had started spacing out during class. He wasn’t sleeping, but somehow the lessons would end without him realizing. Sometimes, his uncle’s face would flash into his mind for no reason, and his body would begin to tremble uncontrollably. Even though he was alive, it felt like parts of his body were slowly disappearing, starting from the edges.

Just before summer vacation, Akira’s homeroom teacher showed up at the house for a surprise visit.

“I’m concerned that Akira always wears long sleeves and is covered in bruises,” the teacher said directly.

His uncle flew into a rage, yelling, “We’ve been raising Akira properly! How dare you make such accusations!” He kicked the teacher out of the house.

After that, his uncle’s violence changed slightly. He stopped hitting the visible areas like Akira’s face and arms and instead targeted the places hidden by clothing, like his torso and the soles of his feet. Since the bruises were no longer visible, even his aunt didn’t notice. She was under the impression that the teacher’s visit had caused her husband to change his ways, and she seemed relieved, saying, “Maybe he’s calming down a little.”

But Akira couldn’t tell her that it was still happening—that the burns from Uncle's cigarette on the soles of his feet and thighs hurt so much he wanted to cry, and that even after they healed, new injuries would appear, so the pain never really went away.

Without his aunt’s comfort, only the pain and fear piled up inside him, like snow steadily accumulating. Underneath it all, he grew colder and harder. He wished he could become a doll—something that wouldn’t feel pain even when a cigarette was pressed against it.

On New Year's Eve, Aunt and Satoshi left to visit Grandma, who was unwell, planning to stay overnight in the countryside. Even though Grandma was his own mother, Uncle grumbled that it was too much trouble and didn’t go. Believing that Uncle had stopped the beatings, Aunt left without hesitation, saying, "Take care of the house while we’re gone." Akira had wanted to go with them, but he couldn’t say so because an extra person would mean more train fare.

As soon as they left, Akira shut himself in his room, but Uncle came up to the children’s room anyway. "Just knowing you’re in this house pisses me off," he said, throwing Akira out into the yard.

It was snowing outside. Akira huddled in the shed behind the house, but it was only marginally better than being outside. As the sun set, the cold grew more intense, and his body wouldn’t stop trembling. He had been thrown out wearing only socks, and now his toes were numb with cold.

If I stay here, I’ll die. I’ll definitely die if I stay out here all night.

...Looking around, Akira spotted Uncle’s rubber boots. He was terrified that Uncle would kill him if he found out he wore them, so he stuffed the boots into a nearby plastic bag and clutched them to his chest.

Akira left the shed and ran across the yard. He ran along the sidewalk beside the road in his socks for a while and, after making sure Uncle wasn’t chasing him, he put on the rubber boots.

It was so cold in the shed that he had to leave, but he had nowhere to go. Hugging himself, he walked, shivering. In the dim light, he stopped in front of a convenience store. Like a moth to a flame, he was drawn to the store’s lights and went inside. The warmth from the heaters enveloped him, and his hands and feet quickly warmed up. He wanted to stay there forever. He wandered around the store for about an hour until the cashier started glancing at him suspiciously. It was awkward, but he didn’t want to leave. What should I do...? As he thought it over, a good idea came to him. He left the store and ran to a different convenience store near his school. When it got awkward from staying too long, he moved on to the next store. He repeated this over and over.

On New Year's Eve, the convenience stores were crowded, and even after midnight, there were still children with their parents, likely on their way to a shrine for New Year's prayers. Akira followed behind these families, pretending to be part of their group, which helped him blend in and not stand out as much.

He hadn’t eaten anything, so he was hungry. The smell of oden by the cash register made him swallow hard several times. As he stared out the window, thinking about how hungry he was, he saw a couple with a child passing by outside the glass. The child was wearing a white coat and being carried by their father. Despite the cold, they looked so happy. Akira looked down at his own feet. Uncle’s black rubber boots had snow melting off the soles, forming small puddles around them. The corners of his eyes stung, and a tear plopped into the puddle. He quickly wiped his eyes, but when he looked up again, the family was gone.

I’m all alone.

Even though my hands are shaking from loneliness, there’s no one to comfort me. Akira bit down hard on his back teeth. When the sun rises, Aunt will come home. Aunt, who understands me, will come back.

He wandered around convenience stores all night and returned home in the early afternoon. The door wasn’t locked.

"Oh, welcome back, Akira. Happy New Year! Where have you been dressed like that?"

The moment he saw Aunt’s cheerful face, he almost burst into tears. He couldn’t tell her that he had been thrown out of the house and spent the night at convenience stores. Uncle, lying on his back in the kotatsu, didn’t even glance his way.

"It’s cold outside, isn’t it? Come over here. I made some ozoni soup."

Uncle suddenly slapped the tatami mat with a bang. Aunt flinched as if struck by a whip.

"Don’t give that brat any ozoni! Don’t let him show me his miserable face on New Year's!"

Akira ran back to his room. Later, Aunt came to his room with ozoni and osechi food. He ate the first meal he’d had in almost a day, gulping it down without tasting it.

"He didn’t have to yell like that, not on New Year's," his aunt sighed, pressing a hand to her cheek.

"But I think this year will be a good one. On our way back, Satoshi and I went to the shrine for New Year's prayers, and I drew a fortune that said 'Great Luck.' I’m sure he’ll find a good job, and then he’ll go back to the way he used to be... What’s wrong?"

Before he realized it, Akira had grabbed hold of the hem of his aunt’s apron tightly. Should I tell her? Should I tell her that I was thrown out on New Year's Eve, spent the night at convenience stores, and was starving? That I was lonely? But what would change if I did? Aunt couldn’t stop Uncle. She would probably just look sad.

"Nothing."

...In the end, he couldn’t say anything.

Footnotes

0. Content warning: This novel deals extensively with child abuse, bullying, and physical violence.

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