My heart continued to race as I watched the black leather book fly out the window and land in the backyard. My gaze remained on the journal that now was lying in the rain, being drenched by the downpour accompanied by distant yet prominent thunder.
I slowly took a deep breath, attempting to calm my nerves and reset my body. My room was almost completely dark except for the faint light coming from the neighbor's window. Over the fence in our backyard was one of our neighbors, whom I rarely saw. He was an old man with prominent wrinkles on his face.
The inside of his house was a stark contrast to mine. With what I could faintly see, the walls were made of brick and they were adorned with numerous photos and paintings of either his own family members or historical figures.
In the corner was a brightly lit fireplace, accompanied by two plush armchairs, which I found strangely peculiar considering I believed the man lived alone. What if he had a spouse who died?
I continued to gaze into his comfortable-looking house, watching how the older man was clad in a bathrobe and carrying a cup of tea, coffee, or maybe even hot chocolate like I would. Though his expression appeared genial and warm, there was something in his eyes I couldn't exactly decipher.
Over the quiet pattering of the rain against the concrete and grass, I could faintly hear classical music emitting through the thick windows. It sounded too out of this era—but simultaneously, I couldn't help but close my eyes and listen.
Accompanied by the earthy scent of mud mingled with rain and grass, I could also smell something sweet baking inside the house. Though it was initially difficult to tell exactly what it was, it smelled like either black sesame cookies—or Japanese cheesecake.
Suddenly another figure entered the room. It was an old woman wearing a traditional apron, carrying a tray of Japanese cheesecake. The man smiled at her as he pressed a kiss on her wrinkled cheek, causing her to smile warmly. I watched in silence as the duo began to pack the cheesecake up into tiny paper bags, wrapping the treats in foil.
In black marker they wrote on the numerous bags in Japanese: "For those in need."
...
In the bathroom, I slowly removed my drenched school uniform and tossed it into the hamper. Turning to the shower, I opened the curtain and turned on the water, waiting a few moments for the temperature to adjust to my liking.
The hot water hit my skin as I stepped into it. I began to feel my body gradually relax under the sensation of the hot water hitting my skin and relaxing all my muscles. Though it was a calming experience, the looming danger that the temperature of the water could abruptly shift at any second always seemed to bite at me like an unseen entity.
My gaze was fixated on the ceiling, drawn to the worn-down roof and missing ceiling tiles. When we first got this house a few years back, the tiles on the ceiling were in perfect condition, but gradually over time, due to a lack of maintenance, they began to fall one after another. Soon enough, I think the entire bathroom ceiling would reveal the wooden plywood with patches of white insulation protruding through.
Though I hadn't noticed it earlier, a small amount of mold and grime had begun to accumulate in the corners of the bathroom and shower. It was black, grimey stuff that resembled alien ooze I would have seen in a comic book or an action movie.
Looking at it closer it seemed to ooze downwards along the edges of the shower, painting the gray surface of the ceramic a slightly darker shade. The mold crept along the edges of the shower's surface like a spider web, before finally receding into the walls.
I reached out towards the thin rack above the shower's bath faucet, grabbing the shower loofah and pumping a small amount of body wash onto its spongy surface. Our family usually bought the three-in-one bottles, but even with that small luxury, we still had to ration until my father's next paycheck.
My right hand hovered above my left arm, ready to wash it, but I quickly noticed something peculiar—almost disturbing. Along the area near my wrist and forearm were numerous thin yet tangible lacerations. The skin around them was slightly puffy, extruding, and emitting a dark red hue that contrasted with my usually pale skin.
There were a few of these markings, paper-thin yet clearly there. As the water rushed over them, the lines darkened to a deep crimson color, and the warm yet eerie sensation of blood leaking from the wounds. At that moment, my head began to reel again. My eyes slammed shut as I stumbled back, almost falling over in the shower.
Sure, I was afraid and dizzy at the moment, but I was also weary and confused about the origins of these cuts. Why hadn't I noticed them earlier? Back in my health classes, I had learned that a cut of this magnitude takes about two to four weeks to heal entirely. That ensured that these lacerations were new, yet they weren't new enough to still be leaking blood unless stimulated by an outside force or entity.
My heart began to pound in my ears as the bathroom around me began to spin with enough g-force to knock me out of the window. I tumbled back, landing on my ass in the shower as my breathing quickened to an abnormal, almost detrimental rate.
Behind my closed eyelids, the dim lights of the bathroom diffused into numerous colors and shapes and bounced and danced around with maddening speed, the illusory and complex scenes in the inscrutable darkness making my stomach do a backflip.
I felt the familiar sensation of vomit slowly slithering up my throat as my face flushed hot. The corners of my eyes began to burn. The area around my abdomen began to heat up as if someone was pressing scolding metal against it, or pouring burning magma.
Saliva leaked from the corners of my mouth as I curled into a naked ball, burying my head in my chest as I finally threw up. The warm and thick substance left my mouth and covered my chest, the smell nauseating—almost to the extent where I felt like passing out.
The hot water and steam accumulation within the confines of the bathroom only seemed to amplify the sickening stench of vomit. I tried to groan, to make any noise to call for help, but the sound of the shower water and the sounds of the rain outside filtered out any noises I could attempt to make.
Above me, I gritted my teeth as the shower water suddenly turned bitter cold—hitting my skin—the sensation akin to hundreds of tiny needles piercing into my flesh and muscles, threatening to tear me apart. Every breath I took was like breathing in magma and exhaling ice, the dynamic between the warm and acrid vomit and the bitter, glacial shower water stimulated every nerve ending in my body to the point of pain.
My eyes closed tighter, attempting to drown out the sensation of the water and the smell of the vomit. But as soon as it started, the water suddenly turned off, and all the lights behind my eyes vanished. I was engulfed in a wave of confusion and nausea as I opened my eyes, my pupils dilating back as they adjusted to the darkness.
My eyes remained half-closed, and my limbs remained huddled together. Above me, I could still feel the remaining water from the faucet dripping down onto my naked body, the ice-cold droplets of water pummeling my skin in slow yet agonizing intervals.
After about five minutes my limbs gradually gained feeling again. With all of my residual energy I sat up, taking deep and shaky breaths. The blood leaking down my arm was still there, but I refrained from looking at it—afraid if I would catch sight of the crimson liquid I would pass out.
Since we had lost power—something that had occurred many times before—I had trouble locating anything I could use at my disposal. Though the dim lights emanating from outside the steam-clogged windows were enough to give the objects in the bathroom faint yet inscrutable outlines, my sense of direction and locomotive abilities had seemingly been snatched, just like the power to the house.
I managed to locate the hand towel resting on a hook adjacent to the mirror, coiling it around my arm like a makeshift cast to seal up the wound and soak up any residual blood ebbing from the wound. Below my feet, I could feel the bitter-cold floor tiles, not much of an improvement from the frigid surface of the tub and the icy water from the shower.
My hands moved as if they had been charged with electric current; they dashed around and shivered in the cold air, but they managed to find semblance as they wrapped around the doorknob, gripping the wooden spherical object with a vice-like grip. My body propelled itself forward as I opened the bathroom door, stepping out into the foyer.
The rest of the house was silent, so silent I could hear the dog barking over the rain outside. In my parents room, I could hear my father snoring quietly, while my mother made no additional nosies. I slowly made my way to my bedroom and opened the door, stepping in and feeling the wooden floor underneath my feet.
After changing into my usual pajamas I looked out the window. The glass's surface was distorted by small rivulets of rain, but I still ended up seeing that the black book was still out there in the rain, its surface now mottled and distorted by the constant assault of rainfall. At that moment, I recalled Mr. Ryujin's statement, about how I should write how I feel.
With this thought, I opened my bedroom door and slowly made my way down the hallway whilst rolling up my cuffs, callus not to bump into anything from the dizzying lack of visibility and coordination. When I reached the front door I extended my arm to the left of the door, feeling along the rack until I felt the ragged yet soft feel of my fathers raincoat.
His raincoat was military grade, something he found at a yard sale and bargained for. Apparently it belonged to the owner's son who perished in the war, but the father didn't want to keep it, as that would have pained him. The first time I heard the story I granted it my belief, but after all those months and seeing the stuff he's been pulling, I'm not entirely sure he got the coat in a legal or acceptable way.
When I stepped outside the previously muffled sound of rain was amplified greatly. Overhead I could feel the warm droplets of rain falling onto the coat and my exposed arms and ankles. Sometimes I wish my pajama collar wasn't the notched kind, that way I could pull it up to protect my neck.
My fathers rain coat had a hood, although due to his head size, it was much bigger than my own head. But in the end I pulled it up, leaning my head back slightly to prevent the cover from veiling my eyes and distorting my vision.
The grass beneath my feet was cold and moistened from the rainfall, but my slippers managed to protect my feet until I made it to the yard, scooping up the black journal and darting back inside. When I approached my front door I made sure to open it slowly, before closing it again and hanging up my fathers raincoat back up on the rack in a similar orientation as he had left it.
My father was an advocate of small and meticulous details. Before I could step forward to proceed back to my room, I heard a few gentle knocks on the door.