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The hallway stretched out long, long like a conveyor belt steadily moving pumping out small porcelain dishes and ready to present to him: Father. Eyes mouth neck open, one in four arteries was all you needed, evidently, all sputtered dark and dry over lifeless skin and green khaki cotton wool (his favourite), soaked into blue carpet that would tickle had Takaaki taken his shoes off, he didn’t like the feel of it, usually made a sidestep to the sliver of bare wood on the side, the side that was now blocked by tangled limbs and right, right, right. Right. Throat slashed cut like a birthday ribbon exploded over himself and the ground and everything and the house was quiet, so quiet.
It pressed and curled and squirmed within his ribcage, to step over his father and Takaaki tripped despite how long his legs were, caught on an arm or a leg or anything dead and a panicked grip on a protruding door frame was the only thing keeping him from a busted lip broken nose stitches on his forehead. He knew, even before he lifted his head to peer into the living room, he knew what he would find.
Mother was different, multiple stab wounds, more blood, thick and foul all over the room and rising bile in Takaaki’s throat. She looked a little like she was sleeping, with closed eyes and leaned against the wall. Her apron indicated dinner time, omurice cold and some half eaten some untouched. Hiromitsu hadn’t finished his meal, hadn’t been upstairs in his room with a higher chance of escaping the blade, he hadn’t—
Takaaki left his mother, too, rushed back out into the hallway and up the stairs, Hiromitsu’s room first; under the bed, inside the closet, then bathroom; behind shower curtains or in the half filled laundry basket, Takaaki’s room; marginally different from before his departure even though he hated that and everybody knew that he did. Little brother shaped creases on otherwise crisp sheets and two blue green red bright yellow trading cards left abandoned.
Jackhammer heartbeat in his ears as Takaaki put a hand on the doorknob to his parent’s room, weak and slippery with sweat. Downstairs, downstairs, sacked together and unmoving and can I read you a story I can’t sleep he could never sleep again, could never, never, Takaaki let go of the knob and walked away with numb legs.
Nothing in the kitchen cupboards and this too he knew before opening them, because otherwise the ground would’ve been littered with boxes and cans and bottles of food and cleaning supplies because Hiromitsu had outgrown even the space under the sink as long as it was filled. He looked anyway. The couch squeaked as he pushed it, the TV shook dangerous amounts as its table was pulled to peer behind.
It was methodical, most common spots for Hide and Seek and Takaaki wanted to scream when he’d never had. His mind got stuck on every little unhelpful detail; the overwhelming amount of butter cookies stacked squished crumbling because Hiromitsu liked them, the blue dish towel with turtles on it that mother refused to throw away even though it was falling apart at the ends opening up like carpet tickling against his feet so much it hurt, father’s thermos bottle drying lonesome on the rack the label new and pristine after Hiromitsu had folded the corners last week because cleanliness was important and—
And then there was noise spilling out from nearby, wet and scared and turning Takaaki’s knees weak and making his chest ache with relief guilt worry anger anger why wasn’t I here who did this who did this I’m going to find them, maybe he was on his last breath maybe it was slow and cruel enough to happen right in front of Takaaki’s eyes, Heaven’s scales and a thousand li, but he wanted this to last, he needed Hiromitsu to be physically unharmed and not bleed life unto him and Hiromitsu— he had watched it, heard it if nothing else, needed someone to show him he was safe now, calm and collected and not a mess of hot cold breath mind caught at the kitchen isle corner stomach upside down (the food had been awful at camp he’d craved home unknown environment unknown people inaccessibility to comfort aside) he was the oldest now he needed to protect and be good responsible composed not stuck be good don’t scare him this was his job now because who else could would do that. Who else if not him? They were all that was left.
In his mind a string of numbers and letters, contact info to at least five different relatives but that wasn’t the same, wasn’t the same in the slightest, they were all that was left.
Hiromitsu was breathing.
Takaaki grabbed the closet door and opened it to a distorted tear streaked face head unnaturally slack gurgling mess of blood and blood and blood and—
It cut through the empty night, the sound of terror that climbed out Takaaki’s throat as he shot up stiffly straight in a hot tangle of— he was in bed. His bed, his home, at thirty five and not twelve. There was no closet nor blood, and there sure as hell wasn’t Hiromitsu, if the radio silence of the last five years had any say.
Sleep usually came blank, but when he dreamed, it was to something of this caliber. It wasn’t always his family; sometimes, Takaaki dug his hands bloody on snow or was trapped in lonesome offices and burning buildings. He peeled the blanket off damp skin and made his way to the kitchen without light. “Beyond the tenth day,” a nonsensical mumble, voice still stuck in his throat and scratching like nails on blackboard, “one can’t last.”
There was nothing answering him, naturally. Not even the birds were chirping yet. Takaaki had lived on his own for more than ten years now, could count the amount of sleepovers here on one hand, add the other if camping with colleagues was to be considered. Nights out with strangers held no merit, that’d exhaust the capabilities of his fingers by a number he didn’t know whether to worry about.
Tap water wasn’t the preferred choice, but it was quick and cold and washed away the scratching in his throat. Back in his bedroom Takaaki plucked his phone from the nightstand.
Kuroda Hyoue, 21:39: I’m afraid I have to cancel tomorrow due to an unforeseen meeting in Tokyo. I’m expected to return Friday evening, early enough for a dinner out? Apologies, and please let me know if I should make a reservation. Saturday should be off.
Uehara Yui, 22:40: Tomorrow can you help me convince Kan-chan to teach me how to make hangorochi?
Takaaki scrolled down the chat list, stopped himself halfway through, knew better than to text or call. He’d taken a more distanced approach to it all, forced by the physical stretch of land between them and the hunch that sometimes, his presence invited the ghosts of the past to hang above rather than bring any comfort. Police academy had kept busy, of course, and Hiromitsu was a young man with his own paths to carve. There wasn’t going to be a message anytime soon—ever, if Takaaki went after a darker and painfully probable string of thought.
Both messages were responded to and he decided, knew, that going back to bed was pointless. Might as well be at the station early, do a better job of being there and protecting; or if too late, bring justice.