[Fic] Blackbird
This is an orginial short story that I wrote for my creative writing class. I am thinking of submitting it to the school's literary magazine. Feedback would be helpful, as the deadline is Dec. 12th.
Blackbird
The rain was falling like rocks, making the air around the apartment building smell like an odd mix of water and gasoline. Any minute, the five o’clock train would be passing on the nearby tracks, causing the scrap metal and wood building to shake - Jun wanted to be on his way before then, as he detested that trembling. Squeezing against the soaked wood wall, Jun knocked on the metal door of room 3-C.
As he waited for an answer, the fifteen year old absentmindedly patted his pants pocket, which was filled with eight thousand yen. He had gotten the money from the local gang, HELTER SKELTER, in exchange for selling Placebos; of course, he had told the buyers the pills were Yaba, but a little lie never hurt. After all, both parties got what they wanted from the deal.
Normally, the money would have gone straight into his university fund. However, today was special; today he was planning on taking Hana to Tokyo Bay and confessing to her. Jun was sure he had been in love with Hana since he had first seen her, two years earlier.
Hana had been standing with her hands on two bars of the metal railing; her angular face pressed between them. She couldn’t have been more than eleven at the time, but her grey eyes had seemed far too old for someone her age; dark black hair had hung in loose curls around her angular face. The girl had a look about her, a quiet and hard look, as if she was trying to tell the world not to get too close. But at the same time, her body language had suggested that she was unsure; Hana had reminded Jun of a small blackbird.
Now, standing outside the apartment, Jun began to feel worried; Hana never took long to answer. Scanning his mind, it dawned on the boy that it was the second Monday of the month: Hana’s stepfather, Mr. Yamada would be home from his traveling salesman job. Taking a deep breath, Jun put his hand on the door handle and gradually turned it.
Immediately, his nose was filled with the coarse smell of cigar smoke and blood, something which caused Jun to step back for the briefest of seconds. Panic raising inside him, the boy stepped into the entryway, not even bothering to slip off his shoes.
The cramped apartment was dark; to his left, the tiny kitchenette’s sink was still filled with breakfast dishes and the small eight-mat washitsu room - it looked as if a Tsunami had been through the place. The small wooden table, which normally sat on the center mat, was turned over; its cushions in disarray around the room. The room’s two bookshelves were turned on their sides, their magazines and books spilled out around them. Off in the corner, the television - bought for full price the month before - was lying on its face, its screen now nothing more than millions of glass pieces.
The worst part was the Butsudan - its wooden doors had been flung open, its candlesticks, incens burners, and bells were on the mat in front of the little shrine. Hana’s mother’s photo was also on the ground - its frame cracked.
Jun felt the bile begin to rise in his throat. He had always known about what went on inside the apartment, but he had never allowed himself to fully think about it. No, instead he taught Hana how to cover her bruises with makeup, he applied creams to her burns and cuts, and when she wanted to forget, he took her to watch the ferries glide across the nearby river. Jun did it all for her, just as his deceased mother and he had once done it for each other years before.
He had never thought of bringing Hana to the police. The police, Jun had learned long ago, where the enemy - they were the ones that brought children to huge orphan asylums, where they could be ignored by adults and tortured by their peers. No, Jun had always thought it was best to keep Hana where he could keep an eye on her.
Trying not to slip on the bloody matted floor, Jun called out for Hana, but there was no answer. His mind was racing with a million possibilities: she was dead and her corpse was currently lying in some back alley and . . . it was then that he heard it; a small grunt.
Slowly, Jun turned his attention to the sliding doors which lead to the apartment’s only other room. He watched in a mix of debrief, fear, and joy as the frail looking figure of Hana emerged: school uniform torn,limping, and body caked with blood; her dark hair was hanging like a veil over her face, but he could still make out the fresh bruises, the deep slash across her check, and the feral look in her eyes. In her hands was a large butcher knife, which was also covered with blood.
His brown eyes stayed focused on the knife, watching as the blood dripped from its point and onto the ground. Hana’s hand was still gripping the knife and Jun was fairly sure that she had no idea he was even in the room with her. Slowly, Jun made a move toward her, but stopped short when he noticed that the girl’s eyes were watching him.
Trying to keep his voice as even and clam as possible, Jun slowly started toward her. He kept his hands up, a sort of promise of peace. “Hey. It’s me, Jun. Do you know where you are?” He stopped when he was beside her; though Jun made sure there was some distance between them. “Your knife, it’s, um . . . dirty. Can I have it?” Gently, Jun took the knife out of Hana’s delicate hand. The girl made no movements, she simply kept her eyes glued to Jun’s hand.
It was then that he noticed it - a hand lying half-way out the bedroom’s entryway. The hand was clutching a small statue, which had once sat happily in the Butsudan; the statue had once belonged to Hana’s mother.
Across the street, the five o’clock train jetted by, causing both Hana and the building to shake. Jun nervously glanced to Hana, who lurched backward, until she hit the wall. Whimpering, she squeezed herself into the corner of the wall, not bothering to protect her bare feet against broken things scattered on the matted floor.
Jun watched her cover her head with her arms, trying desperately to make herself disappear. Hana’s thin arms were covered with blood and fresh bruises; the back of her shirt was torn and Jun could just make out fresh cuts, tiny like from a pocket knife. The cuts were surrounded by bruising and tiny cigar burns.
“Hana,” Jun trailed off, having caught something out of the corner of his eye. Something was moving in the room. The boy turned his full attention to Hana’s stepfather; his hand, the one holding the statue was twitching.
Nervously, Jun slid the door fully open; the middle aged man’s face was caked in dark blood . . . a great deal of blood was still slowly pouring from his belly, like honey from a bottle. Mr. Yamada’s hazy eyes stared up at Jun, silently begging for help.
There was still time, Jun knew that. The proper authorities would take Hana; she would spend some time a juvenile detention, and then be placed in a children’s home. Everyone at her school would find out. The other children in the home would know about the abuse. The adults would force her to talk about it, they’d say they understood, but they couldn’t understand. Hana would be ignored, teased, stepped on, and treated like a freak. She would be alone, again - he would be alone, again.
Noticing the knife in his hand, Jun swallowed. With one last glance at Hana, whose legs had long ago given out, Jun stepped into the bedroom and slid the door closed behind him. Staring at the half-dead Yamada, Jun imaged Hana; her face, her eyes - she would be rocking back and forth in her corner. Listening carefully to the deadly quiet of the apartment, her ears would perk up at the sounds from inside the room: a thud followed by a small scream, a grunt, and then silence.
A moment later, Jun emerged, dropping the knife as he retched beside the door. Hana watched him run a and over his spiky dyed blond hair, before wiping his mouth on the jacket sleeve of his school uniform.
Jun glanced over to Hana, an unreadable expression on his face. With a purpose, he moved to her, and crouched down in front of her. The girl moved her hands over her head, almost as if she was trying to protect herself from him.
Suddenly filled with anger, Jun grabbed one of her wrists, and forced her to face him. “Stop it, Hana!” The moment the outburst was out, Jun regretted it. Hana was staring at him, but she wasn’t seeing him. Jun ied to sniff back the tears that were already falling. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not him.”
Hana’s eyes stayed glued to their point of contact, his sticky hand on her wrist. “Jun?” It was the first time she had spoken since Jun had entered the apartment, though Jun barely heard her. “D-did I . . . did I hurt you?” Her eyes flew over his body, trying to find some kind of wound. At once, she began touching him with her free hand, feeling for cuts. Finding none, Hana glanced briefly toward the bedroom.
“I’m sorry. I. . .” Hana focused her grey eyes onto Jun’s face. “I didn’t mean it.” Hana whispered rgently, willing Jun to understand. “He was . . . he wanted . . . he hit …I’m so sorry. It hurt. It always urt, so I. .s-stabbed. Did you . . . oh, you. . no,” she shook her head slowly, as fresh tears began to fall. Not you. Not you.”
Jun nodded understandingly, even though he understood nothing. As carefully and as gradually as he could, the teen moved his hand up Hana’s wrist and to her hand. Cupping his bloody hand into hers, Jun caught Hana’s gaze and spoke gently, as if to a child. “No. It’s alright. You didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill him. We did it, together.” He helped the girl up; making sure their slippery hands stayed together.
The wheels in Jun’s head were turning: Hana was too weak to go to a detention center; she hardly seemed to understand what had happened; Ōtani Kenji, the leader of HELTER SKELTER, was sleeping with his aunt; Ōtani owed Jun for keeping his secrets; he could threaten all of HELTER SKELTER if they didn’t comply; or he could let Hana blame him, as he could take the punishments. If all else failed, Jun could run - the statute of limitations on murder was only fifteen years. Jun knew he could hide for that long, and then go back to Hana.
They could laugh about this someday. Laugh about how they were never caught and how they were happily together. Maybe they’d become horrible people, but they’d finally be free. Jun could image it. He’d turn to Hana and smile while saying, Yeah, that bastard really deserved to die. It’s a shame about the knife, though. He’d become - they’d become - monsters, but at least they’d be together.
Feeling sick, Jun looked to Hana and forced the corners of his lips to twist up into a smile. “Come on,” He led her past the bedroom, making sure she didn’t look in, and to the entryway. Jun gave the dark apartment one last look, before leading Hana out into the ominous rain.
.
Blackbird
The rain was falling like rocks, making the air around the apartment building smell like an odd mix of water and gasoline. Any minute, the five o’clock train would be passing on the nearby tracks, causing the scrap metal and wood building to shake - Jun wanted to be on his way before then, as he detested that trembling. Squeezing against the soaked wood wall, Jun knocked on the metal door of room 3-C.
As he waited for an answer, the fifteen year old absentmindedly patted his pants pocket, which was filled with eight thousand yen. He had gotten the money from the local gang, HELTER SKELTER, in exchange for selling Placebos; of course, he had told the buyers the pills were Yaba, but a little lie never hurt. After all, both parties got what they wanted from the deal.
Normally, the money would have gone straight into his university fund. However, today was special; today he was planning on taking Hana to Tokyo Bay and confessing to her. Jun was sure he had been in love with Hana since he had first seen her, two years earlier.
Hana had been standing with her hands on two bars of the metal railing; her angular face pressed between them. She couldn’t have been more than eleven at the time, but her grey eyes had seemed far too old for someone her age; dark black hair had hung in loose curls around her angular face. The girl had a look about her, a quiet and hard look, as if she was trying to tell the world not to get too close. But at the same time, her body language had suggested that she was unsure; Hana had reminded Jun of a small blackbird.
Now, standing outside the apartment, Jun began to feel worried; Hana never took long to answer. Scanning his mind, it dawned on the boy that it was the second Monday of the month: Hana’s stepfather, Mr. Yamada would be home from his traveling salesman job. Taking a deep breath, Jun put his hand on the door handle and gradually turned it.
Immediately, his nose was filled with the coarse smell of cigar smoke and blood, something which caused Jun to step back for the briefest of seconds. Panic raising inside him, the boy stepped into the entryway, not even bothering to slip off his shoes.
The cramped apartment was dark; to his left, the tiny kitchenette’s sink was still filled with breakfast dishes and the small eight-mat washitsu room - it looked as if a Tsunami had been through the place. The small wooden table, which normally sat on the center mat, was turned over; its cushions in disarray around the room. The room’s two bookshelves were turned on their sides, their magazines and books spilled out around them. Off in the corner, the television - bought for full price the month before - was lying on its face, its screen now nothing more than millions of glass pieces.
The worst part was the Butsudan - its wooden doors had been flung open, its candlesticks, incens burners, and bells were on the mat in front of the little shrine. Hana’s mother’s photo was also on the ground - its frame cracked.
Jun felt the bile begin to rise in his throat. He had always known about what went on inside the apartment, but he had never allowed himself to fully think about it. No, instead he taught Hana how to cover her bruises with makeup, he applied creams to her burns and cuts, and when she wanted to forget, he took her to watch the ferries glide across the nearby river. Jun did it all for her, just as his deceased mother and he had once done it for each other years before.
He had never thought of bringing Hana to the police. The police, Jun had learned long ago, where the enemy - they were the ones that brought children to huge orphan asylums, where they could be ignored by adults and tortured by their peers. No, Jun had always thought it was best to keep Hana where he could keep an eye on her.
Trying not to slip on the bloody matted floor, Jun called out for Hana, but there was no answer. His mind was racing with a million possibilities: she was dead and her corpse was currently lying in some back alley and . . . it was then that he heard it; a small grunt.
Slowly, Jun turned his attention to the sliding doors which lead to the apartment’s only other room. He watched in a mix of debrief, fear, and joy as the frail looking figure of Hana emerged: school uniform torn,limping, and body caked with blood; her dark hair was hanging like a veil over her face, but he could still make out the fresh bruises, the deep slash across her check, and the feral look in her eyes. In her hands was a large butcher knife, which was also covered with blood.
His brown eyes stayed focused on the knife, watching as the blood dripped from its point and onto the ground. Hana’s hand was still gripping the knife and Jun was fairly sure that she had no idea he was even in the room with her. Slowly, Jun made a move toward her, but stopped short when he noticed that the girl’s eyes were watching him.
Trying to keep his voice as even and clam as possible, Jun slowly started toward her. He kept his hands up, a sort of promise of peace. “Hey. It’s me, Jun. Do you know where you are?” He stopped when he was beside her; though Jun made sure there was some distance between them. “Your knife, it’s, um . . . dirty. Can I have it?” Gently, Jun took the knife out of Hana’s delicate hand. The girl made no movements, she simply kept her eyes glued to Jun’s hand.
It was then that he noticed it - a hand lying half-way out the bedroom’s entryway. The hand was clutching a small statue, which had once sat happily in the Butsudan; the statue had once belonged to Hana’s mother.
Across the street, the five o’clock train jetted by, causing both Hana and the building to shake. Jun nervously glanced to Hana, who lurched backward, until she hit the wall. Whimpering, she squeezed herself into the corner of the wall, not bothering to protect her bare feet against broken things scattered on the matted floor.
Jun watched her cover her head with her arms, trying desperately to make herself disappear. Hana’s thin arms were covered with blood and fresh bruises; the back of her shirt was torn and Jun could just make out fresh cuts, tiny like from a pocket knife. The cuts were surrounded by bruising and tiny cigar burns.
“Hana,” Jun trailed off, having caught something out of the corner of his eye. Something was moving in the room. The boy turned his full attention to Hana’s stepfather; his hand, the one holding the statue was twitching.
Nervously, Jun slid the door fully open; the middle aged man’s face was caked in dark blood . . . a great deal of blood was still slowly pouring from his belly, like honey from a bottle. Mr. Yamada’s hazy eyes stared up at Jun, silently begging for help.
There was still time, Jun knew that. The proper authorities would take Hana; she would spend some time a juvenile detention, and then be placed in a children’s home. Everyone at her school would find out. The other children in the home would know about the abuse. The adults would force her to talk about it, they’d say they understood, but they couldn’t understand. Hana would be ignored, teased, stepped on, and treated like a freak. She would be alone, again - he would be alone, again.
Noticing the knife in his hand, Jun swallowed. With one last glance at Hana, whose legs had long ago given out, Jun stepped into the bedroom and slid the door closed behind him. Staring at the half-dead Yamada, Jun imaged Hana; her face, her eyes - she would be rocking back and forth in her corner. Listening carefully to the deadly quiet of the apartment, her ears would perk up at the sounds from inside the room: a thud followed by a small scream, a grunt, and then silence.
A moment later, Jun emerged, dropping the knife as he retched beside the door. Hana watched him run a and over his spiky dyed blond hair, before wiping his mouth on the jacket sleeve of his school uniform.
Jun glanced over to Hana, an unreadable expression on his face. With a purpose, he moved to her, and crouched down in front of her. The girl moved her hands over her head, almost as if she was trying to protect herself from him.
Suddenly filled with anger, Jun grabbed one of her wrists, and forced her to face him. “Stop it, Hana!” The moment the outburst was out, Jun regretted it. Hana was staring at him, but she wasn’t seeing him. Jun ied to sniff back the tears that were already falling. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not him.”
Hana’s eyes stayed glued to their point of contact, his sticky hand on her wrist. “Jun?” It was the first time she had spoken since Jun had entered the apartment, though Jun barely heard her. “D-did I . . . did I hurt you?” Her eyes flew over his body, trying to find some kind of wound. At once, she began touching him with her free hand, feeling for cuts. Finding none, Hana glanced briefly toward the bedroom.
“I’m sorry. I. . .” Hana focused her grey eyes onto Jun’s face. “I didn’t mean it.” Hana whispered rgently, willing Jun to understand. “He was . . . he wanted . . . he hit …I’m so sorry. It hurt. It always urt, so I. .s-stabbed. Did you . . . oh, you. . no,” she shook her head slowly, as fresh tears began to fall. Not you. Not you.”
Jun nodded understandingly, even though he understood nothing. As carefully and as gradually as he could, the teen moved his hand up Hana’s wrist and to her hand. Cupping his bloody hand into hers, Jun caught Hana’s gaze and spoke gently, as if to a child. “No. It’s alright. You didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill him. We did it, together.” He helped the girl up; making sure their slippery hands stayed together.
The wheels in Jun’s head were turning: Hana was too weak to go to a detention center; she hardly seemed to understand what had happened; Ōtani Kenji, the leader of HELTER SKELTER, was sleeping with his aunt; Ōtani owed Jun for keeping his secrets; he could threaten all of HELTER SKELTER if they didn’t comply; or he could let Hana blame him, as he could take the punishments. If all else failed, Jun could run - the statute of limitations on murder was only fifteen years. Jun knew he could hide for that long, and then go back to Hana.
They could laugh about this someday. Laugh about how they were never caught and how they were happily together. Maybe they’d become horrible people, but they’d finally be free. Jun could image it. He’d turn to Hana and smile while saying, Yeah, that bastard really deserved to die. It’s a shame about the knife, though. He’d become - they’d become - monsters, but at least they’d be together.
Feeling sick, Jun looked to Hana and forced the corners of his lips to twist up into a smile. “Come on,” He led her past the bedroom, making sure she didn’t look in, and to the entryway. Jun gave the dark apartment one last look, before leading Hana out into the ominous rain.
.