Intro: Originally written for the Estet rpg. A story about Nagi's origins, told from his eyes...
Unbidden and unwanted, he dreams...and remembers his mother.
Mama is small and pale, with blue eyes just like his. She dresses in subdued colors: rust brown, dark blues and greys, and moves with the quick, furtive movements of a hunted rabbit. She does not like to go out; when forced to, she hurries them up and down the steps, hiding away from the eyes of the neighbors. Mama flinches away from hugs, and loud noises. She doesn't like it when he shouts or runs or grabs for things--sometimes she cries. He doesn't want Mama to cry. So he learns not to bother her. To be as quiet and still as a mouse, and to play on his own.
His father…has no face. In the dream, he's only a shadowy presence in the wee hours of the morning, the absentee owner of shoes and clothes and briefcase who speaks to his mother in hushed tones, and always has work that keeps him away. But that is okay.
Sometimes he's at his school, and happy…it's very different from home. It is noisy and bright: naptime and reading time and playtime, math and science and juice and crackers, and a big green tree outside the window next to his desk. There are toys: puzzles and numbers and coloring books, and friends--Ryo-kun and Haru-kun. He remembers that Haru-kun sometimes lets him play with his new soccer ball, and how Ryo always wants to be a ninja when they play Pretend, but isn't very good at hiding.
Then Ryo-kun falls off of the top of the jungle gym one day, and hits his head, and is taken away in an ambulance with lights flashing. Mama comes later that day--she bows and takes him out of class, even though he tells her and tells her that they were wrong, that he didn't push Ryo, that Ryo-kun is his friend. Mama nods, and smiles a little, but her hand around his is tight.
He doesn't remember school any more after that.
The dream shifts, as inevitable as the tide...and he remembers the time that they moved.
They pack their things away in big boxes, big enough to hide in, and Mama talks of starting over in a new house, stuffing newspapers around dishes with fever-bright eyes. She even allows him to help, to shove the big boxes closer to the door. It makes him feel happy, and he packs away his toys with eager hands, telling them all about the new house and new town and new friends while Mama writes 'Toys' carefully on the box lid.
They leave in the morning, even though it is still dark and cold. He doesn't want to wake up, but Mama says the new house is a long, long ways away. He gets to wear his favorite t-shirt, the one with the panda on the front, and his new blue jacket. Sleepy and shivering, he hangs onto her hand as they leave the empty rooms of their home behind. The car is cold at first, but then gets warmer until he yawns and curls up against the slightly-musty blankets piled in the back seat.
They drive for a long time. The little car is uncomfortable, hot and crowded with boxes everywhere, and he watches through the window at the towns and fields and trains. They stop for lunch, and Mama gets him his very own grown-up bento box. He likes the rice, but not the pickles, but he is good and eats them anyway while Mama and his father look at big folding maps next to the car. They drive some more after that, passing houses that turn into towns that turn into big city buildings. The sun begins to go down, and he watches the city light up against the sky, windows and signs with flat smiling faces.
But Mama says that they aren't there yet, and they keep driving, surrounded by buildings too tall for him to see. He counts cars for a while, or names their colors. There are a lot of them all around. He wants to stay awake and see the new house, but his head begins to nod against the window. He is tired and hungry, and wants to go to sleep, but the seatbelt digs into his shoulder whenever he tries to lay down, even through the blankets. But he stays quiet, because Mama gets upset when he cries.
He falls asleep without realizing it, cheek pillowed on one hand, and wakes up when they stop. Mama helps him climb out of the car; her hands are cold and shivery around his. She says they are going to the store, and that he can have a juice if he is good. The streets are big, and empty, and they walk for a long time, until the store is in front of them and he can't see the car anymore.
Mama stops next to a big yellow light in the middle of the empty parking lot. Her hands hurt on his shoulders, and her face is far away in the dark, pale and strange like he's never seen it before. He's supposed to wait for her, she says, and her voice is as hard as her hands--wait right here for his juice, and be a good boy.
He nods, suddenly uncertain. It's dark out here, and scary. But he stays, and doesn't run after her. His hands clutch at the bottom of his new jacket as he watches her walk away, into the store.
It grows darker and colder. He shivers as he watches the door, refusing to look at the shadowy things he can almost see at the edges of the parking lot. He's afraid, but if he doesn't look at them, maybe they'll go away.
The store lights go out, leaving him alone. And he still waits, but now he knows something--something he didn't know then. He knows that Mama won't be back, that she left him behind, alone in the dark with the monsters...
...and he wakes, silent and shaking in his cocoon of blankets, to face a different darkness.
Shakily, he rolls out of bed, setting bare feet on the floor. His gaze touches on the room, the bed, the skateboard propped against the door; feeling suddenly confined, he tugs a sweatshirt on over some jeans and pads downstairs. He makes only a token effort to be quiet--sneaking around in a house full of assassins is never a good idea. With any luck no one will come to investigate anyway. He doesn't feel like talking.
Running a hand through his hair, he wanders through the kitchen aimlessly, snagging an apple and a soda before going out to sit on the front steps. Nights here are very different than they are in Tokyo, but he welcomes the heavy fog that muffles the buildings and seeps into his bones. It suits his mood.
He hates that dream. Hates the way it reduces him to this, a morose pathetic mess. He drinks the soda, feeling cold inside and out, and wraps his arms around his knees. The neighborhood is silent at this hour, quiet and chill, and it feels like he's the only one in the world. He finishes his drink, and crumples the can in one hand. In a way...he likes the feeling.
Raising his hand, he very deliberately lets the can go, holding it in front of his eyes with his mind. This was what they were afraid of, after all--the thing that lumps him in with all the other monsters. The can shivers, crumpling inward on itself as if cringing from his gaze. It scrunches down, metal folding and crunching in impossible ways under the relentless pressure of a telekinetic fist, until the can has been reduced to a lopsided aluminum lump no bigger than a marble.
He lets the lopsided sphere drop into his palm, then flicks it away down the sidewalk and bites into the apple, satisfied. He's not helpless any more. He can protect himself.
Staring out into the dark, he wonders why that doesn't make him feel any better.