THIS IS IT -- For the Day After Tomorrow.
Chapter 1: Because Kimihiro wanted a lot of other things, too.
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Watanuki Kimihiro was precisely three years and three months and five days and six hours and fourteen seconds the day he and his parents moved into the small apartment that was quite empty and quite new, that time. It was big and it had many rooms, with lots of faded-brown windows and giant doors a few heads taller than him. They lived in the topmost part, where he had the best of windows in his room; at night he could hear the wind whistle sweetly, like a mother's lullaby. And when it rained, the glass pane fogged up and he could draw on them, little horses and angel wings on giraffes drawn with small pudgy fingers of a child.
Kimihiro had ten fingers, and he drew with one, two at most.
He had dark raven hair, always messy and standing in all places no matter how you brushed them down- and he had pale milky skin, and wide cerulean eyes behind a pair of somewhat thick glasses. He liked wearing long shirts that reached his knees, long enough to hide his short pants.
His father liked cooking a lot. He baked cakes with sweet strawberries and cherries on the side of one layer, and chocolate syrup on the upper stack. Sometimes he cooked meals that were very expensive looking, like meat wrapped in seaweed and sweet syrupy sugar, and slightly sour rice molded into triangular shapes with strips of seaweed on top, and sashimi strips dipped in vinegar and soy sauce.
Kimihiro never liked the sashimi because it was pink and pudgy, and tasted funny. Like an adult taste.
His mother liked making things that weren't eaten. Kimihiro thought it was called handicraft, or something with the word hand in them.
She made sweaters and mats and pillows with frilly lace, and stuffed toys of dogs and the big white cat Kimihiro had wanted for his birthday. Kimihiro liked the stuffed toy cat better because it didn't need to be bathed and fed, but he wanted a cat nevertheless.
His mother also liked collecting really old things, even if their apartment had no space for them. Various people came by all the time, bringing lots of old-looking furniture, and leaving them in the apartment's basement once his mother had browsed through the lot. Sometimes, one particular piece of furniture would interest her, and she would have it positioned in the living room. His father often said it saved a lot of money, having his grandmother's stuff given to them. They didn't need to buy couches and tables anymore, but they needed to buy a television.
Kimihiro didn't like the old musty smell that came from his grandmother’s old stuff; but he wanted a television set very, very, much.
There were other tenants in the room, too. There was the kind motherly woman named Kohane, living next door; she had lots of butterfly pictures and butterflies held within picture frames, and she had a nice summer smell in her place. Kimihiro dropped by often whenever she was free of college work and chores. There was the grumpy, old man named Kaikei, who was balding and wrinkled and mean, and his granddaughter named Himawari, who was sweet and friendly, but was rarely available to play with.
And finally, there was Yuuko.
She was young and extremely pretty, the kind of pretty you'd see in commercials and magazines; she had long dark hair, always flowing and silken, and she was always dressed in expensive-looking dresses that Kimihiro was sure couldn't be bought cheaply, even in Japan. She often visited to drink wine with his parents. They looked like very good friends.
Kimihiro liked Yuuko. She, although crazy in an adult-kind of way, made him feel at peace. He liked everything about her: from the strands of her hair to her nice feminine toes.
The least he liked of her was her pair of crimson eyes.
Knowing eyes.
Probing eyes.
Eyes that knew the whole of the world.
And it was those kind of eyes Yuuko had, and she often stared at him with them.
He didn't like to be stared at.
He was three years and three months and one week and eight hours and three minutes and twenty seconds when he passed an old shrine while walking to the park. There was a little girl in a pink kimono walking towards a large Sakura tree with a paper balloon in her hands. As was his nature, Kimihiro walked towards the girl, and half-way she turned and their eyes met.
Only then did he realize that she wasn't a girl.
"You dress silly," said Kimihiro, pointing at the little wooden shoes and clothed feet of the other kid. "Why are you dressed like a girl?"
The kid's face had no expression on it, just yellow-colored eyes that looked terribly bored and terribly serious. He had a set mouth and tanned skin. He looked a bit older than Kimihiro. "Because you're stupid," the kid said in reply.
Kimihiro pouted, hurt, but daren't leave; "What's your name?" he asked.
"Shizuka."
"I'm Kimihiro."
"We have tea and cookies inside, Kimihiro. Geez, it sounds like a girl's name." Shizuka turned and walked slowly towards the shrine, tossing the paper balloon towards the old Sakura tree as he passed it.
"It jolly well doesn't!"
But Shizuka was gone. He was already inside the house.
Kimihiro contemplated going inside, and becoming friends, even if Shizuka was difficult. Somehow, going to play in the park alone didn't seem like a fun idea, now.
He ran inside the open door of the shrine, remembering to take his boots by the entrance. From where he stood, he could see the cozy lit innards of the shrine; floor boards shining, paper walls glistening, and the smell of newly placed incense filling his nose. Kimihiro pursed his lips, forced himself not to smile, and stepped over to where Shizuka was standing. The boy had taken off the outer layer of his kimono, and stood in what resembled a ritual robe. Kimihiro hadn't seen any of that kind before, outside the magazines- and, in surprise, he let out a gasp of childish delight.
"Is that...a gi?"
"No." Said Shizuka plainly, looking somewhat pitifully at him. "Now eat."
Kimihiro looked at the plate of cookies set before him, crinkled his nose, and took a piece into his mouth.
It wasn't exactly horrible.
But it wasn't any good, either.
So Kimihiro refrained from taking another one, and sat, cross-legged, on the floor. Shizuka followed suit.
"I'm going to the park any time soon," said Kimihiro, a bit haughtily, to his friend; "I bet you would like to come with me. Well I won't let you. Unless you say sorry for being mean and sour like the old Kaikei-san back home. Well?" At this point, the blue-eyed boy was looking expectantly at Shizuka.
But Shizuka wasn't that kind of kid who fell for things like that. "No, I don't wanna go. You go by yourself."
"Seriously?" Kimihiro probed, leaning forward with a crease between his eyebrows. "Not even a wee bit?"
"No." Shizuka stood. "Grandfather will be back soon, I'll lead you to the door."
At that, Kimihiro returned home looking sour and disappointed, and his father was too busy with preparing dinner to properly address him.
"Otosan, I met this kid earlier. He was weird and mean to me. Make him say sorry." Kimihiro whined, tugging at his father's leg. The adult heaved a sigh and stood back to look at his son.
"Which little boy, Kimihiro?"
"The one living in the shrine. Shizuka. See? Even his name's funny!"
"You mean 'at the shrine'," his father corrected him. "Nobody lives inside a shrine, dear." The older man was busying himself again with the potatoes that needed to be steamed for supper.
Kimihiro peered over the tall table, frowned visibly at the food his father was making. "I want noodles. I'm sick of rice, otosan."
"Why don't you go bother your okasan while I cook? She brought in a new mirror for you from your obachan."
"I don't wanna mirror," replied Kimihiro sulkily. But he went up to his room anyway.
His mother had just finished rearranging his room when Kimihiro arrived. The bed was placed a few inches farther from where it originally stood, his study table taking up the space instead, and an old-looking Victorian mirror beside that.
Kimihiro looked up at it and tilted his head considerably.
"How old is it, okasan?"
"You like it?" His mother looked tired, but contented with how everything was done. "This one's the last bit of your obachan's room. She'll be moving out soon, too."
"Yeah, but how old is it?"
"A bit old, I reckon." His mother dusted herself of excess dirt, and proceeded to leave the room. "Be careful now, it's not as tough as it looks. Tell your father to start eating without me, when he calls for dinner; I'm going to take a nice long bath."
She sounded really contented and excited as she said that, and Kimihiro was happy for her, really, but there was something more important right then, like the weird mean kid from the shrine.
She was gone when he was actually going to say it out loud, though.
Kimihiro walked over to his new mirror, and saw what he was sure he'd see- a boy of five years and three months and one week and ten hours and six minutes and twenty-three seconds, with black hair standing in all places and eyes as wide as saucers a deep shade of blue. He raised his right hand, and his reflection followed suit; he raised his left, and that was followed, too. He poked his nose and wiggled his tongue, and he did all sorts of other things until at least the mirror would make a mistake, although it didn’t.
The boy in front of the mirror looked tired and exasperated now.
“Oh, poo you.” Kimihiro said angrily, bending to pick up his stuffed giraffe and throwing it against the hard glass. It made no apparent impact as it did so, and slid to the floor as silently as a rug against ice.
Kimihiro stood there, brooding moodily.
“Kimi-chan, it’s time for dinner!” He heard his father call from outside, as to which Kimihiro responded, “It’s not Kimi-chan! Use my real name!” And he ran at full speed towards the kitchen; His father was all smiles and was laughing, even when Kimihiro shamelessly kicked at his shins.
Inside his room, his reflection returned; and the little boy in the mirror looked at the stuffed giraffe at his feet with all the longing a caged animal would have after being deprived of something for too long.
[End of Chapter 1]
-
Watanuki Kimihiro was precisely three years and three months and five days and six hours and fourteen seconds the day he and his parents moved into the small apartment that was quite empty and quite new, that time. It was big and it had many rooms, with lots of faded-brown windows and giant doors a few heads taller than him. They lived in the topmost part, where he had the best of windows in his room; at night he could hear the wind whistle sweetly, like a mother's lullaby. And when it rained, the glass pane fogged up and he could draw on them, little horses and angel wings on giraffes drawn with small pudgy fingers of a child.
Kimihiro had ten fingers, and he drew with one, two at most.
He had dark raven hair, always messy and standing in all places no matter how you brushed them down- and he had pale milky skin, and wide cerulean eyes behind a pair of somewhat thick glasses. He liked wearing long shirts that reached his knees, long enough to hide his short pants.
His father liked cooking a lot. He baked cakes with sweet strawberries and cherries on the side of one layer, and chocolate syrup on the upper stack. Sometimes he cooked meals that were very expensive looking, like meat wrapped in seaweed and sweet syrupy sugar, and slightly sour rice molded into triangular shapes with strips of seaweed on top, and sashimi strips dipped in vinegar and soy sauce.
Kimihiro never liked the sashimi because it was pink and pudgy, and tasted funny. Like an adult taste.
His mother liked making things that weren't eaten. Kimihiro thought it was called handicraft, or something with the word hand in them.
She made sweaters and mats and pillows with frilly lace, and stuffed toys of dogs and the big white cat Kimihiro had wanted for his birthday. Kimihiro liked the stuffed toy cat better because it didn't need to be bathed and fed, but he wanted a cat nevertheless.
His mother also liked collecting really old things, even if their apartment had no space for them. Various people came by all the time, bringing lots of old-looking furniture, and leaving them in the apartment's basement once his mother had browsed through the lot. Sometimes, one particular piece of furniture would interest her, and she would have it positioned in the living room. His father often said it saved a lot of money, having his grandmother's stuff given to them. They didn't need to buy couches and tables anymore, but they needed to buy a television.
Kimihiro didn't like the old musty smell that came from his grandmother’s old stuff; but he wanted a television set very, very, much.
There were other tenants in the room, too. There was the kind motherly woman named Kohane, living next door; she had lots of butterfly pictures and butterflies held within picture frames, and she had a nice summer smell in her place. Kimihiro dropped by often whenever she was free of college work and chores. There was the grumpy, old man named Kaikei, who was balding and wrinkled and mean, and his granddaughter named Himawari, who was sweet and friendly, but was rarely available to play with.
And finally, there was Yuuko.
She was young and extremely pretty, the kind of pretty you'd see in commercials and magazines; she had long dark hair, always flowing and silken, and she was always dressed in expensive-looking dresses that Kimihiro was sure couldn't be bought cheaply, even in Japan. She often visited to drink wine with his parents. They looked like very good friends.
Kimihiro liked Yuuko. She, although crazy in an adult-kind of way, made him feel at peace. He liked everything about her: from the strands of her hair to her nice feminine toes.
The least he liked of her was her pair of crimson eyes.
Knowing eyes.
Probing eyes.
Eyes that knew the whole of the world.
And it was those kind of eyes Yuuko had, and she often stared at him with them.
He didn't like to be stared at.
He was three years and three months and one week and eight hours and three minutes and twenty seconds when he passed an old shrine while walking to the park. There was a little girl in a pink kimono walking towards a large Sakura tree with a paper balloon in her hands. As was his nature, Kimihiro walked towards the girl, and half-way she turned and their eyes met.
Only then did he realize that she wasn't a girl.
"You dress silly," said Kimihiro, pointing at the little wooden shoes and clothed feet of the other kid. "Why are you dressed like a girl?"
The kid's face had no expression on it, just yellow-colored eyes that looked terribly bored and terribly serious. He had a set mouth and tanned skin. He looked a bit older than Kimihiro. "Because you're stupid," the kid said in reply.
Kimihiro pouted, hurt, but daren't leave; "What's your name?" he asked.
"Shizuka."
"I'm Kimihiro."
"We have tea and cookies inside, Kimihiro. Geez, it sounds like a girl's name." Shizuka turned and walked slowly towards the shrine, tossing the paper balloon towards the old Sakura tree as he passed it.
"It jolly well doesn't!"
But Shizuka was gone. He was already inside the house.
Kimihiro contemplated going inside, and becoming friends, even if Shizuka was difficult. Somehow, going to play in the park alone didn't seem like a fun idea, now.
He ran inside the open door of the shrine, remembering to take his boots by the entrance. From where he stood, he could see the cozy lit innards of the shrine; floor boards shining, paper walls glistening, and the smell of newly placed incense filling his nose. Kimihiro pursed his lips, forced himself not to smile, and stepped over to where Shizuka was standing. The boy had taken off the outer layer of his kimono, and stood in what resembled a ritual robe. Kimihiro hadn't seen any of that kind before, outside the magazines- and, in surprise, he let out a gasp of childish delight.
"Is that...a gi?"
"No." Said Shizuka plainly, looking somewhat pitifully at him. "Now eat."
Kimihiro looked at the plate of cookies set before him, crinkled his nose, and took a piece into his mouth.
It wasn't exactly horrible.
But it wasn't any good, either.
So Kimihiro refrained from taking another one, and sat, cross-legged, on the floor. Shizuka followed suit.
"I'm going to the park any time soon," said Kimihiro, a bit haughtily, to his friend; "I bet you would like to come with me. Well I won't let you. Unless you say sorry for being mean and sour like the old Kaikei-san back home. Well?" At this point, the blue-eyed boy was looking expectantly at Shizuka.
But Shizuka wasn't that kind of kid who fell for things like that. "No, I don't wanna go. You go by yourself."
"Seriously?" Kimihiro probed, leaning forward with a crease between his eyebrows. "Not even a wee bit?"
"No." Shizuka stood. "Grandfather will be back soon, I'll lead you to the door."
At that, Kimihiro returned home looking sour and disappointed, and his father was too busy with preparing dinner to properly address him.
"Otosan, I met this kid earlier. He was weird and mean to me. Make him say sorry." Kimihiro whined, tugging at his father's leg. The adult heaved a sigh and stood back to look at his son.
"Which little boy, Kimihiro?"
"The one living in the shrine. Shizuka. See? Even his name's funny!"
"You mean 'at the shrine'," his father corrected him. "Nobody lives inside a shrine, dear." The older man was busying himself again with the potatoes that needed to be steamed for supper.
Kimihiro peered over the tall table, frowned visibly at the food his father was making. "I want noodles. I'm sick of rice, otosan."
"Why don't you go bother your okasan while I cook? She brought in a new mirror for you from your obachan."
"I don't wanna mirror," replied Kimihiro sulkily. But he went up to his room anyway.
His mother had just finished rearranging his room when Kimihiro arrived. The bed was placed a few inches farther from where it originally stood, his study table taking up the space instead, and an old-looking Victorian mirror beside that.
Kimihiro looked up at it and tilted his head considerably.
"How old is it, okasan?"
"You like it?" His mother looked tired, but contented with how everything was done. "This one's the last bit of your obachan's room. She'll be moving out soon, too."
"Yeah, but how old is it?"
"A bit old, I reckon." His mother dusted herself of excess dirt, and proceeded to leave the room. "Be careful now, it's not as tough as it looks. Tell your father to start eating without me, when he calls for dinner; I'm going to take a nice long bath."
She sounded really contented and excited as she said that, and Kimihiro was happy for her, really, but there was something more important right then, like the weird mean kid from the shrine.
She was gone when he was actually going to say it out loud, though.
Kimihiro walked over to his new mirror, and saw what he was sure he'd see- a boy of five years and three months and one week and ten hours and six minutes and twenty-three seconds, with black hair standing in all places and eyes as wide as saucers a deep shade of blue. He raised his right hand, and his reflection followed suit; he raised his left, and that was followed, too. He poked his nose and wiggled his tongue, and he did all sorts of other things until at least the mirror would make a mistake, although it didn’t.
The boy in front of the mirror looked tired and exasperated now.
“Oh, poo you.” Kimihiro said angrily, bending to pick up his stuffed giraffe and throwing it against the hard glass. It made no apparent impact as it did so, and slid to the floor as silently as a rug against ice.
Kimihiro stood there, brooding moodily.
“Kimi-chan, it’s time for dinner!” He heard his father call from outside, as to which Kimihiro responded, “It’s not Kimi-chan! Use my real name!” And he ran at full speed towards the kitchen; His father was all smiles and was laughing, even when Kimihiro shamelessly kicked at his shins.
Inside his room, his reflection returned; and the little boy in the mirror looked at the stuffed giraffe at his feet with all the longing a caged animal would have after being deprived of something for too long.
[End of Chapter 1]