Bitterness of Youth: Part 5

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After finishing dinner and returning to his room, Akira found a plastic bottle of cola knocked over on his desk. The contents had spilled into his school bag, which had been left open and hanging from a hook on the side of the desk.

The textbooks and notebooks he pulled out were stained a light brown, and the sweet smell of cola filled the air. No matter how much he wiped them with tissues, the sticky residue clung to the pages.

As Akira stared at the mess, his roommate, Nakamura, came in and glanced at what Akira was doing.

“You spilled your cola? What an idiot,” Nakamura sneered with indifference and plopped down on the bottom bunk of the bed.

“…I didn’t buy any cola,” Akira muttered.

“Hmm. Then maybe Hiroaki did it,” Nakamura said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Hiroaki had been taken in by the police three days after he’d beaten Akira. There were rumors among the high school kids that “he might get transferred to another institution.” The institution they were in had relatively relaxed rules, but kids who couldn’t follow them or who had persistent behavioral problems were often sent to stricter places. But since Akira had arrived, no one had been transferred to such an institution.

Akira didn’t think he’d be moved. Hiroaki had been assigned to a different room, after all. Since there were no spare rooms, they had swapped one of the two high school boys sharing a larger room with Hiroaki. Nakamura was the one who ended up taking the hit, as the high schoolers’ room was slightly bigger than the two-person rooms for the middle schoolers.

“Why did you have to say anything?”

As he swapped his belongings during the room change, Nakamura grumbled irritably. Isahaya had said, "He wouldn’t have accepted the sudden change without knowing the reason, so I explained it to him."

“Hiroaki’s kleptomania isn’t anything new. If it wasn’t your stuff, you should’ve just left it alone. You’re only causing trouble for yourself by snitching to Isahaya, trying to be the good kid.”

“…I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Nakamura sighed loudly, roughly rubbing the freckles scattered across his cheeks.

“That’s not the point. The problem is that you dragged the rest of us into this mess. Do you really think Hiroaki would’ve learned his lesson because you told on him?”

Nakamura had been at the facility since he was five, which meant he’d spent more time with Hiroaki than Akira. Even though Nakamura knew Hiroaki well, Akira couldn’t agree with the idea of “just leaving him alone.” Hiroaki was in the wrong. Even if the staff and the director forgave him, this wouldn’t fly at school—or anywhere else in the real world.

When Hiroaki came back, it was like nothing had happened. He didn’t apologize to Akira and never spoke a word to him.

But from that day forward, Akira became the target of frequent harassment. Having mayonnaise stuffed into the toes of his school sneakers was the least of it—someone even dumped black ink all over his clothes in the closet.

He washed his shoes, and Ishimoto helped him clean the ink-stained clothes. What couldn’t be cleaned, they dyed to cover the stains. They didn’t have the money to buy anything new.

There was also the time when Kaito, an elementary school boy, started crying because his snacks had gone missing. When they searched for them, they mysteriously turned up in Akira’s desk. As all the children gathered in the living room, Hiroaki, grinning slyly, had the nerve to say, “It’s the worst, living with a thief.” He conveniently ignored everything he had done, smiling all the while. No one accused Akira, not even Kaito, who had been the one crying over his missing snacks. Later, someone mentioned seeing Hiroaki enter Akira’s room with Kaito’s snacks in hand. Even without that proof, everyone knew who the real culprit was. But no one said anything because, aside from his harassment of Akira, Hiroaki had calmed down. So they waited, hoping that once Hiroaki got it out of his system, the harassment would stop.

Akira had no choice but to endure it. He picked up his cola-soaked textbooks, notebooks, and bag and went to the sink to rinse them. He needed to wash off the sticky soda.

“Hey, Akira! What are you doing?” Ishimoto, who must have been on duty that evening, rushed over in a panic.

“Aren’t those your textbooks?”

“The cola spilled on them, so I’m washing them.”

“Washing them...? But—”

“Cola’s sticky because of the sugar. If I let it dry, the pages will stick together, and I won’t be able to read anything. It’s better to wash them.”

“Well, even so…”

“I don’t want to waste money on new ones.”

Ishimoto glanced at the stack of textbooks piled in the sink, then rolled up her sleeves. “I’ll help you.”

“Spilling cola on your textbooks… Akira, you can be surprisingly careless.”

“I didn’t spill it.”

Akira didn’t say anything more, but it seemed Ishimoto could figure out what had really happened on her own.

“…That’s rough,” she muttered.

“What is?”

Ishimoto fell silent, and Akira felt a pang of disappointment. She could offer sympathy and pity, but she wouldn’t confront Hiroaki or scold him.

“Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

“But—”

“I’m fine, really.”

Perhaps realizing that Akira wasn’t just being polite but genuinely didn’t want her help, Ishimoto backed off. As the water rushed over the textbooks, Akira felt a wave of gloom wash over him. Ishimoto wasn’t a bad person. She cared about Akira more than Tokura, who was supposed to be his caseworker. But today, her half-hearted kindness only irritated him. He would have preferred if she’d left him alone like Tokura always did. At least with Tokura, he didn’t expect anything, so he was never disappointed. Ishimoto was kind, and that made Akira hope for more.

The next morning, after he’d washed his textbooks and was getting ready for school, Isahaya called him aside. Akira had a feeling it was about the cola incident. Maybe Ishimoto had told him. When Akira had first started getting harassed by Hiroaki, he had reported every single incident to Isahaya, even the ones without solid proof. Isahaya would always comfort him, gently reassuring him. But after a while, Akira had realized something—the way Isahaya comforted him never changed.

“That must’ve been tough.”

“I hope Hiroaki settles down soon.”

In the director’s office, just the two of them, Isahaya would listen, offer kind words, and occasionally give Akira some candy. The look of pity and sympathy in his eyes, the gentle words—they were comforting and felt nice. But the harassment never stopped.

In the end, no matter how much Isahaya comforted him, he never did anything to actually help. When Akira realized that Isahaya couldn’t—and wouldn’t—do anything to stop the harassment, he stopped reporting it. He didn’t want to keep talking to someone who wasn’t going to help.

“‘This was in my shoe locker when I got to the facility today,’” Isahaya said as he handed over a folded piece of paper. When Akira opened it, the handwriting was scrawled awkwardly to the right, and the message read ‘Ishimoto and Takatsuka had sex.’ He couldn't help but laugh through his nose.

“I checked with Ishimoto-san first, and she said that there was no truth to it.”

Akira handed the memo back to Isahaya.

“Do you have anything to say, Akira?”

“Not really.”

“Nothing at all?”

It was so ridiculous that Akira could only sigh.

“I know who wrote it. But there’s nothing I can do, right? I’ll just have to put up with it again.”

Isahaya was silent for a while, then spoke abruptly. “I think Hiroaki has taken a liking to Isimoto-san.”

“What?”

“Hiroaki’s always had trouble with the staff, and he never got along with any of his previous caseworkers. But since Isimoto-san took over, it’s been two years without a change. Whether it’s feelings of attachment to her as a mother figure or if he’s aware of her as a woman, I don’t know. But if you could avoid talking to Isimoto-san in front of Hiroaki, it might reduce this sort of harassment.”

Frustration bubbled up inside Akira. So that’s how it is, huh? Hiroaki, the one doing the harassing, gets to do as he pleases, and I’m the one who has to keep quiet again.

Akira didn’t really talk to Isimoto much to begin with. Only when she approached him first. So “avoiding conversations” wasn’t a difficult thing to do. If it meant reducing the harassment, that was probably for the best. Isahaya’s suggestion wasn’t wrong. Even though he knew that, it still made Akira furious.

That day, when Hiroaki had punched him and Akira broke curfew, he had asked, “Can you really protect me, Director?” The answer had been, “I’ll see what I can do.” Since then, Isahaya had considered several options—like switching rooms or checking in on them repeatedly at night. Akira was aware of that.

Unlike back when he was being abused by his uncle, there was someone here trying to protect him now. Even so, there was still a part of him that longed for more. He wanted everything that bothered him to just disappear. Instead of teaching him how to avoid Hiroaki, he wished someone would reprimand him. But he also knew that if Hiroaki were scolded now, the small-scale harassment might explode into outright violence.

The part of Akira that understood and the part that didn’t want to understand were clashing in his head, making him irritated. He used to be able to tolerate things more, but now it felt like he couldn’t anymore.

“If the Director says I should, then I will.”

Isahaya seemed to notice the sulky tone in Akira’s voice and started to say, “That’s not what I—” before stopping mid-sentence and adding, “Maybe you’re right.”

Without another word, Akira left the Director’s office. He didn’t want to talk to Isahaya any longer. To be honest, he felt disappointed. Even if they had to talk about the strange letter, Akira wished Isahaya had said, “I don’t think this is true,” instead of asking, “Do you have anything to say?”

In his hurry to put his shoes on, Akira had forgotten to check, but there were no dead insects or mayonnaise in his shoes today. After stepping outside, he broke into a full sprint.

As Akira passed through the school gates and changed shoes at the cubbies, the warning bell rang. Other students, just like him, were sprinting toward their classrooms, trying to avoid being late.

Among them, Akira spotted Gouda. He was running down the hallway, one earbud in, with a flash of lime green poking out of his breast pocket. Even as Gouda passed close by, he didn’t call out to Akira.

After Hiroaki had hit him, Akira had seen Gouda listening to lime green ZAC a few times at school. For Gouda, as long as the stolen item had been returned, that was enough. To him, the former classmate who had helped him retrieve it was probably nothing more than a bridge he had to cross. Gouda had no idea what kind of trouble Akira was in now, nor did he care.

The moment Akira stepped into the classroom, the buzzing chatter died down, as if a conductor had raised their baton. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him. …Something’s wrong. A group of students had gathered around his desk, and as he approached, they dispersed, leaving behind vague, mocking laughter.

On top of his desk, there was a crude drawing of a female reproductive organ, scribbled in black marker. Next to it, in messy handwriting, were the words, “Die, you manwhore.”

…Lately, Hiroaki had been skipping school often. He didn’t come back to the facility at night most days either. So, had he come to school just to write this?

The teacher walked into the classroom. Akira sat down, spreading his textbook over the graffiti as he silently muttered, “You’re the one who should die.” No matter how many notebooks and textbooks he piled on top, the dark black ink seeped through the gaps, making him feel nauseous, like he had overeaten.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

It was the last day of the first semester. The closing ceremony finished in the morning, so Akira returned to the facility for lunch and then headed to the local library. He tried to spend as little time in the facility as possible to avoid running into Hiroaki. Even so, the silent, indirect harassment persisted like a festering wound.

After spending several hours in the library, Akira went to the abandoned factory to feed the bat, returning to the facility ten minutes before curfew. Oddly, there was no one at the reception desk. Normally, someone was always there around curfew to check if any of the kids hadn’t returned. Puzzled, Akira headed down the hall and found a group of children gathered in the living room. There were at least ten of them, yet no one was talking or making any noise.

It was an unsettling atmosphere, unlike anything he had felt before. From the group, Kaito broke away and ran up to Akira, staring up at him.

“He’s dead.”

He must be talking about the goldfish they kept in the living room. Each of the goldfish had names, but since the elementary school kids were the ones who looked after them, Akira couldn’t really tell them apart. When one died, it was immediately replaced with a new one.

“Are you happy?”

Akira frowned.

“Why would I be happy? Even if it’s a goldfish, I don’t like it when something dies.”

“Not the goldfish. Hiroaki.”

Akira tilted his head in confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

“Hiroaki’s dead, so you won’t be bullied anymore. Isn’t that great?” Kaito smiled brightly.

“Kaito! Don’t say things like that!” Lisa, a high schooler, came out of the living room and roughly grabbed Kaito’s arm.

“But I don’t like Hiroaki. He took my snacks.”

“Even so, it’s still sad when someone dies.”

“God threw Hiroaki away because he was mean.”

“Bad people and good people both die!”

Kaito pouted. “If all the mean people died, the world would be peaceful.”

Seemingly annoyed by Lisa’s scolding, Kaito shook off her grip and ran back into the living room.

“Is it true that Hiroaki’s dead?”

Akira couldn’t believe it as he asked. Lisa averted her eyes and answered, “Probably.”

“The police called, and the director left to go out. They were already saying he was dead. It was on the news just now, too.”

The staff had been coming and going frantically. Eventually, it was time for dinner. The table remained quiet, save for occasional whispers.

...Hiroaki is dead. When did I last see him? Akira thought about it and remembered—it was two nights ago, at the dining table. Hiroaki had been sitting across from him, at the far-right end. So that guy... really is dead? It still didn’t feel real. It was like Akira was being tricked.

After dinner, all the kids were gathered in the living room. Tokura, standing in front of the TV, her eyes red as if she had been crying, addressed them. “Hiroaki Wada has passed away in a car accident.”

No one gasped in surprise; they had already heard the news, but some of the younger kids started crying.

Hiroaki had been in a car with three acquaintances. The car, speeding, crashed into a guardrail. Three of the passengers died, one was severely injured. Hiroaki was one of the three who had died. The adults would attend the wake, and the kids were told they would all attend the funeral the day after tomorrow at a nearby hall.

After the announcement, the kids were dismissed. Akira went back to his room, climbed into the top bunk, and lay down, but he wasn’t tired.

He hated Hiroaki. He had been harassed countless times, and he’d even been hit by him. There were moments when Akira wished Hiroaki would just die. But wishing for someone’s death and them actually dying were two very different things.

Just like Kaito had said, Akira wouldn’t be bullied anymore. There would be no more trash stuffed into his shoes or graffiti on his school desk, but...

Earlier at the library, Akira had read that some species of bats can live up to twenty years. Hiroaki’s life had been even shorter than that of a long-lived bat.

Nakamura returned to the room and sat on the lower bunk.

“Hey.”

He called up from below.

“Hiroaki’s really dead, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“When we were in second year, he kicked me and knocked my tooth out. He never even apologized for that.”

Akira hadn’t been at the facility back then.

“In the end, he never did apologize. Not that it matters now that he’s dead.”

Hiroaki had never apologized to Akira, either.

“What do you really think?” Nakamura asked.

“About what?”

“About Hiroaki being dead. How do you feel?”

Akira thought about it for a moment.

“I’m not sad, but I’m not happy either. It just doesn’t feel real to me, that he’s dead.”

From below, Nakamura sighed and replied, “Right?”

“It doesn’t feel real at all. For a moment, I wondered if there was something wrong with me for not being sad, but hearing you say that makes me feel better.”

Hiroaki is dead. But that death doesn’t feel real. …Suddenly, Akira wondered what Hiroaki had been thinking in the moment he died.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Akira barely remembered his father’s funeral. The only thing that stuck in his mind was watching a dead mantis being carried away by ants in the corner of the yard.

Under the flower-adorned altar lay Hiroaki’s coffin. The lid was kept closed, supposedly because it was better for children not to see. As the chanting of the sutras filled the air, Akira noticed a smiling photo of Hiroaki—the same middle schooler who had put mayonnaise in his shoes—placed high up on the altar. It felt strange to see a smiling face in such a sad place. Even the usually noisy younger kids were as quiet as borrowed cats today.

After the funeral, only the adults went to the crematorium, while all the kids from the facility walked back together. The sun was harsh, and Akira’s back was soaked with sweat under his uniform. Passing by a park, the chorus of cicadas buzzed loudly from the trees.

Was Hiroaki really inside that coffin? Akira couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d show up in the living room when they got back to the facility. Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen Hiroaki’s face.

Akira remembered the time Hiroaki had beaten him, forcing him to flee to the abandoned factory. He’d felt so overwhelmed then, even wanting to die. If he had died back then, what would have happened? It was such a secluded place—he might have rotted away, becoming nothing but bones before anyone found him.

Death—he understood what it was. But what exactly was death? He fed the bat by catching insects. They died to sustain the bat, either after they were caught or while still alive, eaten in the bat's stomach. It was a simple cycle to grasp. But Hiroaki’s death—what did it mean?

Hiroaki had lived for fourteen years, raised without parents and always in the facility. What had those fourteen years, where no one seemed to need him, amounted to? Akira wondered if he was better off than Hiroaki, even though he had also been abandoned. Maybe it was easier for him since his real parents hadn’t thrown him away. And besides, he had a feeling that Isahaya would be sadder if he died than when Hiroaki did.

That night, after lights-out, Isahaya came to Akira’s room and said, “We need to talk.” It was unusual to be called at such a late hour. When Akira entered the director’s office, a strange, savory smell hung in the air. A small altar had been set up against the right-hand wall, and a square box wrapped in white cloth sat on it. Akira’s eyes met the smiling photo of Hiroaki from the funeral, and he flinched.

Noticing where Akira was looking, Isahaya asked, “Is it bothering you?”

“Is that... his bones?”

Isahaya gave an awkward smile that looked uncomfortable. “Yes, it’s Hiroaki’s ashes. When the forty-ninth day comes, they’ll put him in the Wada family grave with his mother. But until then...”

Hiroaki had a home, so why didn’t he go back? His family hadn’t wanted him, but now that he was dead, it wasn’t like he’d talk, act out, or lose his temper anymore.

“People are such fleeting things. Just a few days ago, he was full of life... but fate can be cruel to young people.” Isahaya’s eyes were bloodshot, and his face was pale. Akira hadn’t seen him around the facility for the two days since Hiroaki’s death.

“Sorry to call you this late,” Isahaya said, sighing heavily, his exhaustion evident. “I’m not sure if this is the right time to tell you this, but we’re short on time.”

There was a brief pause before he began.

“Last night, your aunt contacted us.”

Akira’s mind immediately conjured up an image of his aunt smiling warmly at him. He swallowed hard. It was the first time she had contacted him since he came to the facility. Maybe she was coming to see him?

“Brace yourself,” Isahaya continued.

Was she going to take him in? It had been two and a half years since Akira started living at the facility. Maybe his aunt had finally found the time and energy to take care of him. The memories he had sealed away began to stir. He remembered everyone’s faces. Hope swelled in his chest.

“Your mother has passed away.”

Akira understood the words, but the meaning didn’t register. He hesitantly asked the question that terrified him.

“Do you mean... my aunt?”

“No. Your real mother.”

“My mother is already dead.”

“I know you were told that both of your parents had passed away, but your mother was alive.”

The words felt like a sucker punch, a belated revelation. Akira muttered in disbelief, “What...?”

“After divorcing your father, your mother went to live in America. A person claiming to be her acquaintance contacted us.”

Akira looked away, staring at the floor. Whose story is this? What does this have to do with me?

“I spoke directly with that acquaintance. They said they’d cover the travel and lodging expenses. You don’t have a passport, so I told them it would take about ten days to prepare one, and they agreed to wait for you to attend the funeral in America.”

“That’s impossible.”

Akira lifted his head.

“If they wait for me, the body will rot.”

“They’ll probably keep her frozen until you arrive.”

Akira shook his head.

“I’m not going.”

“I know losing Hiroaki has been a shock for you. It’s understandable to feel confused hearing this now. But I think this is one decision you shouldn’t make based on your emotions. If you ask me, I think you should go to America.”

“I don’t need to meet her.”

Akira looked directly at Isahaya.

“I was always told she was dead. Now I hear she was alive, but she’s dead again? I don’t feel anything about that.”

It was his honest, straightforward truth.

“Don’t you want to meet your mother?”

Akira found the question strange.

“Meet her? She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Well...”

“Why would I go see her? It’d be no different from looking at a photograph.”

Akira felt sick. The smell in the room—the scent of burnt bones. Hiroaki’s smell was making him nauseous.

“I’m not going,” he repeated.

As he turned to leave, Isahaya grabbed his arm. His grip was strong, fingers digging painfully into Akira’s skin.

“When you’re older, married, with children of your own, don’t you think it would be sad not to have a memory of your mother’s face?”

Akira couldn’t help but laugh. He had to.

“You’re asking me to remember a corpse’s face?”

As Isahaya fell silent, Akira pulled his arm free and bolted from the director’s office. Back in the room, Nakamura, lying on his bed reading a manga, asked, “What did the director want?”

“...Nothing.”

Akira climbed into the top bunk and buried his face in the pillow. A dead mother. But a mother who had been alive. And now dead again. The word “death” felt like a toy. Hiroaki, his mother—they had both died so easily, with just a single word from someone.

...I’m not sad. Something that was never supposed to be mine was gone now, but I felt nothing. Maybe it would have been better if I’d never known her face, her name, anything at all.

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