Reaching for the Moon: Chapter Nine
Reaching for the Moon
Chapter Nine:
The World We Knew (Over and Over)
Over and over I keep going over the world we knew.
As Taira slept, his father’s face appeared mockingly before him. He tried to dispel the image, but the face, sneering and angry by turns, froze his body and refused to leave his vision. When he woke up in a cold sweat, he could swear he felt old bruises aching all over again.
Jack trudged through the dirty slushy remains of yesterday’s snow with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure he’d be needing it. He’d still brought it anyway.
He knocked on Taira’s door and was surprised to see it open relatively quickly. Taira stood there, not meeting his eyes, but not blocking him out. “I’m going,” Taira said simply.
Jack nodded. “Then we’d better get going.”
That made Taira look up at him. “We?”
“I got the time off. I’m going with you.”
Taira looked unsure.
Jack shifted uncomfortably. “I haven’t visited home in a long time either.”
Taira simply nodded. He didn’t have it in him to fight Jack on this one; he was already exhausted from fighting with himself, and needed all the strength he had left for what was to come. For now, he just appreciated the excuse that Jack gave, knowing full well they both knew an excuse was exactly what it was.
The trip was going to be nineteen hours by train and another two by bus, so they settled themselves in for a long haul. They didn’t talk much. After spending a long time trying to sleep on the train and eventually giving up, they just didn’t feel inclined to it. Jack took out a book, and Taira stared vacantly at the world speeding past the window, his throat too tight to sing.
He held up decently until they got to the bus. As soon as the scenery outside the window started to look familiar, Taira’s complexion turned almost green. He buried his face in his knees and shook away Jack’s concerned hand. It took all his power not to vomit. When they got off the bus, he left Jack to check into the hotel and fled to the bathroom. He threw up until there was nothing left to throw up anymore, and it didn’t make him feel any better.
It was late afternoon when they arrived, but Taira holed up in the hotel room and refused to leave. Jack, with a sigh, left him there and went to his parents’ house not far away.
He smiled to himself upon seeing Melanie’s jaw drop when she answered the door. Before she could make any words, he walked inside and commented, “I brought Taira.”
“Where?” she asked.
“Left him at the hotel,” Jack replied nonchalantly. “Figured he’d rather stay there.”
“Are you expecting to stay here?”
“I’m not you. No, I’m going back in a bit. Thought I should let you and Sven know.”
Melanie swallowed and nodded. “He’s in the Nakahara house, with his mother. I think she’s asleep already.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why do you say that?”
Melanie grimaced. “Because I don’t hear her wailing.”
Jack knitted his eyebrows and was about to ask more when he felt a hand clap on his shoulder. He turned his head and saw his father standing there, a complicated expression on his face. His mother stood sheepishly behind him, not sure whether to make eye contact. “Didn’t expect you to come,” his father commented.
Jack shrugged. “Yeah, well, here I am.”
“For the funeral?”
“I guess.”
His father turned his eyes aside a bit, and finally said, with a slight quaver in his jaw, “You ought to come home more often.” He gave Jack’s shoulder another pat and left. Jack’s mother looked at him for a minute, gave him a timid hug, and followed her husband.
Melanie frowned at her brother. “Mom’s pretty unsettled over this. Earlier today she was openly wondering if her prodigal son would only return in time for a funeral-if he’d even come back for that.”
Jack scratched the back of his head. “Come on, I’m not so bad as that.”
“Aren’t you, Jack?”
He brushed past her towards the door, ruffling her hair as he swept by her. As he walked back out the door, he raised a hand in a half-assed wave as his goodbye.
The neighbors’ door took considerably longer to open when he knocked, and the face that greeted him looked very anxious at first, then relieved when it processed who was there-or, as was more likely, who wasn’t. Jack hadn’t seen Sven since the latter was sixteen, and his appearance had changed considerably more than Taira’s had. Sven was almost as tall as Jack, though his body was more slender. He was still built more strongly than his brother, in body and face both; he’d more masculine features from his nose to his mouth to his jaw, and his skin was a bit darker. He looked at Jack with sharp copper-colored eyes just touched by the ends of his straight, reddish brown bangs. After they each had inspected the other, Sven spoke, a bit hesitantly. “Mel says you’ve found Taira?”
Jack nodded. “He’s asleep at the hotel. He’ll be at the funeral tomorrow.” He frowned. “As long as he’s not in the bathroom puking.”
Sven’s face darkened with uncertainty. “I guess I’m not all that surprised it makes him sick to come back.” He looked at Jack’s face closely, like he was studying him. He began very slowly, “And how… that is, how have you and Taira… or rather, how much do you-” He stopped short and put up a hand. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. I’ll be waiting to see Taira tomorrow.”
Taira couldn’t keep anything down in the morning. Even drinking water sent him heaving it back out into the porcelain throne. But he insisted on going back to his old house early, hours before the funeral. Jack, trying very hard to keep his tone nonchalant, said he’d go with him and drop in on his own family for a little while. Taira appreciated another person’s presence just then too much to object.
Jack left Taira standing in front of his house, looking up at it. Now that he was there, Taira had the strongest urge to turn and leave. He hesitated in the street for a good five minutes. But at last he steeled himself and approached the door. It was unlocked.
He entered without announcing himself and walked slowly across the creaky floorboards. The house was dusty, like no one had been properly cleaning it for years. He peered through the first arch in the hallway. The living room looked much like he remembered it: dark, with the brown wall panels and the thick curtains all drawn, and dreary, with old stains and empty bottles scattered across the furniture. He turned away from it.
The next room he looked into was the kitchen. It too seemed to have succumbed to the cheerless atmosphere of the place, more so than it had ten years past. The tile counters were chipped, the appliances old and worn and a little bit rusted. This room too was dimly soaked in an uncomfortable yellowish light from the drawn curtains. Taira bit his lip to stave off a dry heave he felt coming up from his empty stomach and kept walking.
He stopped in front of the door to his old room. It was shut. His hand lingered by the doorknob, shaking; he was terrified to open it and see that room again. But at the same time, he felt like he had to. Finally, after minutes of wavering, he touched skin to metal and slowly turned the knob.
He let the door creak open without stepping in. The room was not as he had left it; it had been changed to a study. He almost felt relieved at seeing it, until his eyes fell on a ragged stain of old spilled alcohol on the middle of the wooden floor. All of a sudden, the room morphed in his eyes, changing back to the way it was ten years before. Taira’s knees gave out from under him; he held onto the doorway for dear life as he felt his stomach turning, attempting to empty itself even though there was nothing more to empty. It was not just the room that returned to the past in his eyes and ears. He could see the shadow of the arm that threw it, hear his own cry as the glass shattered on impact against his head, embedding shards in the feeble arms he’d raised to shield himself. He could see himself collapsed there beside the bed, soaked in blood and whiskey, body wrapped in sheets and fallen off the bed-bleeding, crying, begging-dirty, bedraggled, ashamed-hated. No one had listened. No one wanted to hear it. It had been his fault, all of it; they’d decided that from the very beginning. With their minds already made up, what choice had he but to endure even more?
Taira’s jaw ached. Unthinkingly he reached up to rub it, and suddenly felt a hundred blows on his body again-the old bruises back as they were. He could hear his father’s voice ringing in his ears, blaming him. He could see the man’s face, twisted with rage, his fist rising to strike again. Taira let out a hoarse gasp and pulled his body into fetal position. Behind the demon’s face, two more, turned away. His mother, turning a blind eye; his brother, too confused and ashamed to dare even a word in his defense.
He felt like he was going to die if he spent one single minute more in that house. Somehow he managed to drag himself to his feet and run away, clutching at his shirt as though he were still that boy wrapped up in sheets. He fled blindly, tears obscuring his vision; he wanted to run, just run, run any way that was away from there, run until he couldn’t take another step.
Instead, he ran straight into Jack’s arms.
He wasn’t even sure how that happened; he’d only been propelling himself forward with every ounce of strength he had until he ran into a big shape blocking his path and felt strong, familiar arms wrap around his back. He didn’t have the mental energy to process that Jack must have been waiting out there for him. He didn’t have the energy to process that he was standing in the middle of a street. Nor would he have cared if he had. As soon as he felt those arms close in around him, pulling him tight into that familiar embrace, an eighteen-year-old Taira just sobbed his heart out.
He hadn’t noticed when Melanie kindly pulled him and her brother into a side room of the Sinclairs’ house and softly shut the door. He only realized where he was after he woke up an hour later. He blinked around and saw that he was on a sofa, lying atop Jack’s lap and chest, securely held in the other man’s arms still. Jack had cradled his head and was looking down at him gently. Taira saw a big wet spot on Jack’s shirt and suddenly remembered with embarrassment that he’d cried his eyes out for more than half an hour and then fallen asleep on Jack as though he were a pillow. He blushed.
Jack ran his fingers through Taira’s hair and kissed him gently on the forehead. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t think it would be right to ask, and Taira was relieved at his silence. For a few minutes more, they both chose to ignore how suspicious they looked and just stayed as they were, Jack cradling Taira in his arms and Taira nestled into his chest, blushing under the gentle gaze of his steady brown eyes. After what must have been a long time, but could never have been long enough, Taira tore himself away, sitting up and rubbing the last of the tears out of his eyes.
He debated momentarily whether or not to make some apology, and decided against it. It would be less embarrassing to pretend nothing had just happened. So instead, he broke the silence with, “How much time left ’til the funeral?”
Jack glanced at his watch. “A couple of hours.”
“Time to say hello to the old man, then.” Taira clenched his fists and set his jaw. He was here, now; there was no point in running any longer.
Taira ran his fingers lightly atop the glass of the casket. The man’s body had already been prepared for the viewing, and left in a room at the funeral home for family members to visit before the service. Given what the man had been like, Taira didn’t expect to be interrupted.
He looked down at the face of the figure lying there in a suit and tie. That nasty bloated look of formaldehyde showing in his face and fingers made Taira cringe a little bit. No matter how many times he’d fantasized about seeing the man dead, actually seeing a dead body was always disconcerting. The difference in the face wasn’t just the undertaker’s work, either; it was more worn than Taira remembered, almost ragged. Age and alcohol had not been kind. Gone was the meticulous perfection that had always marked his father’s poker face, the perfection that always kept him above suspicion; the expressionless visage that remained was thoughtless, helpless.
Taira took a deep breath and swallowed down a lump that had formed in his throat. “It’s been a long time, old man,” he began. “Last time I saw you, I hardly hoped our positions would ever be reversed like this.” He motioned around. “Yet here I am, standing over you, and there you are, as helpless as a newborn babe. I suppose death truly is the great equalizer.” He let out a sharp exhalation with a self-deprecating smile. “And to think, once upon a time, I thought you’d never die.”
He pulled up a chair, but only sat down for a few scant seconds before jumping back up to his feet. “And even though you can’t touch me now, I still can’t calm down with you here,” he continued, his voice getting agitated. “It’s like you’re still blaming me. Is it my fault that you’re dead, this time? Well, why not? Grandfather’s death was my fault, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that why you kicked me out? I suppose your only regret over me might be that you let me leave instead of forcing me to follow him.” Taira clutched at his arm, trying to still the nervous trembling in his limbs.
Slowly, warily, he lowered himself back down onto the chair and forced himself to stay in it. He glanced at the door. No one was coming, so he must not have been overheard; but he’d still been too loud. He lowered his voice, quavering with a strange mixture of fear and anger. “Or maybe not,” he began again. “You always were a clever bastard. You made sure you’d never be caught. No matter how badly you lost your cool, you always kept it invisible, at least until the end there. Bruises the size of a melon. Fractured ribs. Cuts from beer bottles. Always, always under my clothes. No one ever knew. And even with the way you’d scream in rage, at me, at Mother, at anything else-always so composed before other people. You were absolutely two-faced.” His eyes hardened. “Well you’ve only got one face now. And it can’t see me.” He put his feet up on the pedestal under the casket and leaned his body in to hug his knees. Biting his lip, he blinked in surprise as he felt moisture gathering behind his eyelids. “But then, I guess you never did,” he whispered.
“I spent so many years hating you. You, always holding me to an impossible standard. You, beating me in the name of ‘discipline’ whenever I fell short. I was pretty damn near perfect, you know! But only near, and not enough.” He shuddered. “Never enough for you.” He laughed softly at himself. “I wanted you to love me, once. Though if the way you ‘loved’ Mother was any indication, I’d have been no better off. At some point I realized that was never going to happen. It just took me a while. I guess… I guess I didn’t really give up until that day.” His face darkened. “The shock of what Grandfather saw killed him, I know. But it wasn’t my fault. You wouldn’t even listen to my side of the story. You’d already decided I was a murderer. You’d already decided I was filthy. And I, I believed you.” Taira paused to let the tears work their way down his cheeks and regain control of his wavering voice. Then he set his jaw and stood up.
“But I don’t believe you anymore. You called me a failure, a disgrace, a murderer, a dirty wretch. I am none of those things. You are. You both are.” A slight smile grew on his face. “I’m glad to see you again, poor old bastard. I’m glad to see how small, how feeble, how pathetic you looked before you died. I’m glad I’ll see you six feet under before me. I’m glad, because I can finally be free from you. You’re only a malevolent ghost, now.”
He turned around to leave. “This play is almost at an end, and your part is over. Now there’s only one shadow of the past I’m still under; one more bad memory to be freed from, and I’ll get the finale I’ve been wanting for ten years.” He wavered slightly, and his voice fell to a whisper. “Or, maybe there are still two. One I want to throw off. One I want to cling to.” He lifted his foot and began to walk. “Both I may still have to leave behind.”
Sorry it's been so long since I posted. I haven't written in a while now. I finally finished chapter ten today, after weeks of staring at it and not actually writing anything. Just one more left to write now, and two more left for you guys to read.
If you make any guesses about what exactly went on in Taira's past, I will neither confirm nor deny them for the time being. All I will clarify is that all three of these events coincided in time: Taira's grandfather's death, the scene in his memories when his father threw the whiskey glass at him, and the time when Taira disappeared from school for a couple of weeks only to return battered and closed off.
Jack still has only suspicions.
Not much longer now.
Chapter Nine:
The World We Knew (Over and Over)
Over and over I keep going over the world we knew.
As Taira slept, his father’s face appeared mockingly before him. He tried to dispel the image, but the face, sneering and angry by turns, froze his body and refused to leave his vision. When he woke up in a cold sweat, he could swear he felt old bruises aching all over again.
Jack trudged through the dirty slushy remains of yesterday’s snow with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure he’d be needing it. He’d still brought it anyway.
He knocked on Taira’s door and was surprised to see it open relatively quickly. Taira stood there, not meeting his eyes, but not blocking him out. “I’m going,” Taira said simply.
Jack nodded. “Then we’d better get going.”
That made Taira look up at him. “We?”
“I got the time off. I’m going with you.”
Taira looked unsure.
Jack shifted uncomfortably. “I haven’t visited home in a long time either.”
Taira simply nodded. He didn’t have it in him to fight Jack on this one; he was already exhausted from fighting with himself, and needed all the strength he had left for what was to come. For now, he just appreciated the excuse that Jack gave, knowing full well they both knew an excuse was exactly what it was.
The trip was going to be nineteen hours by train and another two by bus, so they settled themselves in for a long haul. They didn’t talk much. After spending a long time trying to sleep on the train and eventually giving up, they just didn’t feel inclined to it. Jack took out a book, and Taira stared vacantly at the world speeding past the window, his throat too tight to sing.
He held up decently until they got to the bus. As soon as the scenery outside the window started to look familiar, Taira’s complexion turned almost green. He buried his face in his knees and shook away Jack’s concerned hand. It took all his power not to vomit. When they got off the bus, he left Jack to check into the hotel and fled to the bathroom. He threw up until there was nothing left to throw up anymore, and it didn’t make him feel any better.
It was late afternoon when they arrived, but Taira holed up in the hotel room and refused to leave. Jack, with a sigh, left him there and went to his parents’ house not far away.
He smiled to himself upon seeing Melanie’s jaw drop when she answered the door. Before she could make any words, he walked inside and commented, “I brought Taira.”
“Where?” she asked.
“Left him at the hotel,” Jack replied nonchalantly. “Figured he’d rather stay there.”
“Are you expecting to stay here?”
“I’m not you. No, I’m going back in a bit. Thought I should let you and Sven know.”
Melanie swallowed and nodded. “He’s in the Nakahara house, with his mother. I think she’s asleep already.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why do you say that?”
Melanie grimaced. “Because I don’t hear her wailing.”
Jack knitted his eyebrows and was about to ask more when he felt a hand clap on his shoulder. He turned his head and saw his father standing there, a complicated expression on his face. His mother stood sheepishly behind him, not sure whether to make eye contact. “Didn’t expect you to come,” his father commented.
Jack shrugged. “Yeah, well, here I am.”
“For the funeral?”
“I guess.”
His father turned his eyes aside a bit, and finally said, with a slight quaver in his jaw, “You ought to come home more often.” He gave Jack’s shoulder another pat and left. Jack’s mother looked at him for a minute, gave him a timid hug, and followed her husband.
Melanie frowned at her brother. “Mom’s pretty unsettled over this. Earlier today she was openly wondering if her prodigal son would only return in time for a funeral-if he’d even come back for that.”
Jack scratched the back of his head. “Come on, I’m not so bad as that.”
“Aren’t you, Jack?”
He brushed past her towards the door, ruffling her hair as he swept by her. As he walked back out the door, he raised a hand in a half-assed wave as his goodbye.
The neighbors’ door took considerably longer to open when he knocked, and the face that greeted him looked very anxious at first, then relieved when it processed who was there-or, as was more likely, who wasn’t. Jack hadn’t seen Sven since the latter was sixteen, and his appearance had changed considerably more than Taira’s had. Sven was almost as tall as Jack, though his body was more slender. He was still built more strongly than his brother, in body and face both; he’d more masculine features from his nose to his mouth to his jaw, and his skin was a bit darker. He looked at Jack with sharp copper-colored eyes just touched by the ends of his straight, reddish brown bangs. After they each had inspected the other, Sven spoke, a bit hesitantly. “Mel says you’ve found Taira?”
Jack nodded. “He’s asleep at the hotel. He’ll be at the funeral tomorrow.” He frowned. “As long as he’s not in the bathroom puking.”
Sven’s face darkened with uncertainty. “I guess I’m not all that surprised it makes him sick to come back.” He looked at Jack’s face closely, like he was studying him. He began very slowly, “And how… that is, how have you and Taira… or rather, how much do you-” He stopped short and put up a hand. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. I’ll be waiting to see Taira tomorrow.”
Taira couldn’t keep anything down in the morning. Even drinking water sent him heaving it back out into the porcelain throne. But he insisted on going back to his old house early, hours before the funeral. Jack, trying very hard to keep his tone nonchalant, said he’d go with him and drop in on his own family for a little while. Taira appreciated another person’s presence just then too much to object.
Jack left Taira standing in front of his house, looking up at it. Now that he was there, Taira had the strongest urge to turn and leave. He hesitated in the street for a good five minutes. But at last he steeled himself and approached the door. It was unlocked.
He entered without announcing himself and walked slowly across the creaky floorboards. The house was dusty, like no one had been properly cleaning it for years. He peered through the first arch in the hallway. The living room looked much like he remembered it: dark, with the brown wall panels and the thick curtains all drawn, and dreary, with old stains and empty bottles scattered across the furniture. He turned away from it.
The next room he looked into was the kitchen. It too seemed to have succumbed to the cheerless atmosphere of the place, more so than it had ten years past. The tile counters were chipped, the appliances old and worn and a little bit rusted. This room too was dimly soaked in an uncomfortable yellowish light from the drawn curtains. Taira bit his lip to stave off a dry heave he felt coming up from his empty stomach and kept walking.
He stopped in front of the door to his old room. It was shut. His hand lingered by the doorknob, shaking; he was terrified to open it and see that room again. But at the same time, he felt like he had to. Finally, after minutes of wavering, he touched skin to metal and slowly turned the knob.
He let the door creak open without stepping in. The room was not as he had left it; it had been changed to a study. He almost felt relieved at seeing it, until his eyes fell on a ragged stain of old spilled alcohol on the middle of the wooden floor. All of a sudden, the room morphed in his eyes, changing back to the way it was ten years before. Taira’s knees gave out from under him; he held onto the doorway for dear life as he felt his stomach turning, attempting to empty itself even though there was nothing more to empty. It was not just the room that returned to the past in his eyes and ears. He could see the shadow of the arm that threw it, hear his own cry as the glass shattered on impact against his head, embedding shards in the feeble arms he’d raised to shield himself. He could see himself collapsed there beside the bed, soaked in blood and whiskey, body wrapped in sheets and fallen off the bed-bleeding, crying, begging-dirty, bedraggled, ashamed-hated. No one had listened. No one wanted to hear it. It had been his fault, all of it; they’d decided that from the very beginning. With their minds already made up, what choice had he but to endure even more?
Taira’s jaw ached. Unthinkingly he reached up to rub it, and suddenly felt a hundred blows on his body again-the old bruises back as they were. He could hear his father’s voice ringing in his ears, blaming him. He could see the man’s face, twisted with rage, his fist rising to strike again. Taira let out a hoarse gasp and pulled his body into fetal position. Behind the demon’s face, two more, turned away. His mother, turning a blind eye; his brother, too confused and ashamed to dare even a word in his defense.
He felt like he was going to die if he spent one single minute more in that house. Somehow he managed to drag himself to his feet and run away, clutching at his shirt as though he were still that boy wrapped up in sheets. He fled blindly, tears obscuring his vision; he wanted to run, just run, run any way that was away from there, run until he couldn’t take another step.
Instead, he ran straight into Jack’s arms.
He wasn’t even sure how that happened; he’d only been propelling himself forward with every ounce of strength he had until he ran into a big shape blocking his path and felt strong, familiar arms wrap around his back. He didn’t have the mental energy to process that Jack must have been waiting out there for him. He didn’t have the energy to process that he was standing in the middle of a street. Nor would he have cared if he had. As soon as he felt those arms close in around him, pulling him tight into that familiar embrace, an eighteen-year-old Taira just sobbed his heart out.
He hadn’t noticed when Melanie kindly pulled him and her brother into a side room of the Sinclairs’ house and softly shut the door. He only realized where he was after he woke up an hour later. He blinked around and saw that he was on a sofa, lying atop Jack’s lap and chest, securely held in the other man’s arms still. Jack had cradled his head and was looking down at him gently. Taira saw a big wet spot on Jack’s shirt and suddenly remembered with embarrassment that he’d cried his eyes out for more than half an hour and then fallen asleep on Jack as though he were a pillow. He blushed.
Jack ran his fingers through Taira’s hair and kissed him gently on the forehead. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t think it would be right to ask, and Taira was relieved at his silence. For a few minutes more, they both chose to ignore how suspicious they looked and just stayed as they were, Jack cradling Taira in his arms and Taira nestled into his chest, blushing under the gentle gaze of his steady brown eyes. After what must have been a long time, but could never have been long enough, Taira tore himself away, sitting up and rubbing the last of the tears out of his eyes.
He debated momentarily whether or not to make some apology, and decided against it. It would be less embarrassing to pretend nothing had just happened. So instead, he broke the silence with, “How much time left ’til the funeral?”
Jack glanced at his watch. “A couple of hours.”
“Time to say hello to the old man, then.” Taira clenched his fists and set his jaw. He was here, now; there was no point in running any longer.
Taira ran his fingers lightly atop the glass of the casket. The man’s body had already been prepared for the viewing, and left in a room at the funeral home for family members to visit before the service. Given what the man had been like, Taira didn’t expect to be interrupted.
He looked down at the face of the figure lying there in a suit and tie. That nasty bloated look of formaldehyde showing in his face and fingers made Taira cringe a little bit. No matter how many times he’d fantasized about seeing the man dead, actually seeing a dead body was always disconcerting. The difference in the face wasn’t just the undertaker’s work, either; it was more worn than Taira remembered, almost ragged. Age and alcohol had not been kind. Gone was the meticulous perfection that had always marked his father’s poker face, the perfection that always kept him above suspicion; the expressionless visage that remained was thoughtless, helpless.
Taira took a deep breath and swallowed down a lump that had formed in his throat. “It’s been a long time, old man,” he began. “Last time I saw you, I hardly hoped our positions would ever be reversed like this.” He motioned around. “Yet here I am, standing over you, and there you are, as helpless as a newborn babe. I suppose death truly is the great equalizer.” He let out a sharp exhalation with a self-deprecating smile. “And to think, once upon a time, I thought you’d never die.”
He pulled up a chair, but only sat down for a few scant seconds before jumping back up to his feet. “And even though you can’t touch me now, I still can’t calm down with you here,” he continued, his voice getting agitated. “It’s like you’re still blaming me. Is it my fault that you’re dead, this time? Well, why not? Grandfather’s death was my fault, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that why you kicked me out? I suppose your only regret over me might be that you let me leave instead of forcing me to follow him.” Taira clutched at his arm, trying to still the nervous trembling in his limbs.
Slowly, warily, he lowered himself back down onto the chair and forced himself to stay in it. He glanced at the door. No one was coming, so he must not have been overheard; but he’d still been too loud. He lowered his voice, quavering with a strange mixture of fear and anger. “Or maybe not,” he began again. “You always were a clever bastard. You made sure you’d never be caught. No matter how badly you lost your cool, you always kept it invisible, at least until the end there. Bruises the size of a melon. Fractured ribs. Cuts from beer bottles. Always, always under my clothes. No one ever knew. And even with the way you’d scream in rage, at me, at Mother, at anything else-always so composed before other people. You were absolutely two-faced.” His eyes hardened. “Well you’ve only got one face now. And it can’t see me.” He put his feet up on the pedestal under the casket and leaned his body in to hug his knees. Biting his lip, he blinked in surprise as he felt moisture gathering behind his eyelids. “But then, I guess you never did,” he whispered.
“I spent so many years hating you. You, always holding me to an impossible standard. You, beating me in the name of ‘discipline’ whenever I fell short. I was pretty damn near perfect, you know! But only near, and not enough.” He shuddered. “Never enough for you.” He laughed softly at himself. “I wanted you to love me, once. Though if the way you ‘loved’ Mother was any indication, I’d have been no better off. At some point I realized that was never going to happen. It just took me a while. I guess… I guess I didn’t really give up until that day.” His face darkened. “The shock of what Grandfather saw killed him, I know. But it wasn’t my fault. You wouldn’t even listen to my side of the story. You’d already decided I was a murderer. You’d already decided I was filthy. And I, I believed you.” Taira paused to let the tears work their way down his cheeks and regain control of his wavering voice. Then he set his jaw and stood up.
“But I don’t believe you anymore. You called me a failure, a disgrace, a murderer, a dirty wretch. I am none of those things. You are. You both are.” A slight smile grew on his face. “I’m glad to see you again, poor old bastard. I’m glad to see how small, how feeble, how pathetic you looked before you died. I’m glad I’ll see you six feet under before me. I’m glad, because I can finally be free from you. You’re only a malevolent ghost, now.”
He turned around to leave. “This play is almost at an end, and your part is over. Now there’s only one shadow of the past I’m still under; one more bad memory to be freed from, and I’ll get the finale I’ve been wanting for ten years.” He wavered slightly, and his voice fell to a whisper. “Or, maybe there are still two. One I want to throw off. One I want to cling to.” He lifted his foot and began to walk. “Both I may still have to leave behind.”
Sorry it's been so long since I posted. I haven't written in a while now. I finally finished chapter ten today, after weeks of staring at it and not actually writing anything. Just one more left to write now, and two more left for you guys to read.
If you make any guesses about what exactly went on in Taira's past, I will neither confirm nor deny them for the time being. All I will clarify is that all three of these events coincided in time: Taira's grandfather's death, the scene in his memories when his father threw the whiskey glass at him, and the time when Taira disappeared from school for a couple of weeks only to return battered and closed off.
Jack still has only suspicions.
Not much longer now.