Chapter Text
What defines a human? Their bodies? Their souls? Their morals? What happens when they are drained of everything inside of them? Left as just a useless empty sack of flesh, pitiful as they lay among their own precious life blood; good intentions ceasing to mean anything more than an unexecuted sentiment. What are they then?
What about the person who tore them open and emptied their disgusting shell of a body? Are they a human?
What defines a monster?
The answer isn’t clear, or even straightforward in any respect, but I can tell you one thing; monsters do not hide in closets or crawl from underneath beds in the middle of the night to grab for dangling hands or unguarded children. They, for the most part, possess all of those qualities that seem to be important to humans, and yet, there is something fundamentally missing. I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.
“Tooru? Everything okay in there?”
The feeling of the empty wine glasses in my hands feels sudden, as if they were just placed there despite residing against my skin for several minutes, forgotten.
“Of course,” I call, grabbing the bottle of deep red wine from the counter and heading back to the living room where the woman waits. “Wine, beautiful?”
“Ah,” she smiles, leaning forward to examine the bottle, obviously trying to show off the way her neckline plunges between her unspectacular breasts. I pretend to look. “You had me at merlot.”
I laugh, and I can practically watch her trust levels rising behind the brown of her eyes. She isn’t even putting up a fight. It’s almost boring.
“I love a clever woman. It’s not often you meet someone so funny and gorgeous,” I smirk, pouring a glass of wine and handing it to her, plastic purple nails tapping against the sides as she takes it.
“You’re too much,” she blushes, and I can almost feel the heat radiating as blood sits just below the surface of her cheeks. That artificial pink powder just millimeters too high holds no candle to the real thing.
“So, you were telling me about this coworker friend of yours and the new promotion opening,” I say, flashing a smile that conveys I am interested in both her story and her company, making sure to let my eyes fall to her lips briefly. I’m not, interested, that is, this evening already far too exhausting, and it takes all of my willpower not to cringe as her lipstick adheres to the rim of the glass as she sips the wine, the delicate skin stretching and leaving a gluey imprint of red, but I need this. It’s been far too long.
“Please, continue.” Please don’t.
“Oh! Yes,” she says, setting her glass down and leaning back against the sofa cushion, eyes lighting up at the prospect of talking more about her pathetically petty life. She runs her hands through her hair as she speaks, one long dark strand falling slowly through the air and landing on a throw pillow. Great, now I’m down a wine glass and a perfectly good pillow. She better be worth it.
She leans against my shoulder at some point after god knows how many stories, shampoo scent and too much perfume mixing and wafting up into my nose, gagging me with the warmth of her. Disgusting.
“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met, Tooru,” she tells me, her eyes glossy when she turns to look up, too much wine showing through the widening of her pupils and he crease of her eyebrows. “I feel like you really care about me. More than anyone has ever cared about me.”
“It’s hard not to,” I whisper, biting the inside of my cheek as I rub the back of my fingers down her cheek, soft under my touch, yielding like over-ripened fruit. “There’s so much to care about.”
She sighs, closing her eyes and leaning into my touch. If she can hear the way I grit my teeth she doesn’t acknowledge it. My patience is growing thin. I don’t even remember her name; I was just so desperate to find some company that nothing else registered in my mind.
For a moment I think she’s fallen asleep, still leaning into me, but when she open her eyes to look back into mine there’s a bit of sobriety in her expression. “Do you think you could love me, Tooru?”
There it is, like dinner bells ringing in my head, and I feel it, that animalistic edge creeping across my skin as my hand moves to her hair, the warm smell no longer so revolting.
“I think I already do,” I smile, licking my lips as I let her hair sift through my fingers and fall back to her side, eyes trained on the beating pulse on her exposed neck. Her own animalistic urge passes into her gaze. Both of us want something, but only one of us will get it.
“Do you want to see the rest of the house?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
A few quick paces to the staircase and a confused look on her face as I lead her down instead of up. “It’s more private down here,” I wink, pulling her along behind me, fingers encircling her thin wrist. I’m almost upset that she doesn’t protest. It’s more fun when they protest.
My hand finds the latch in the dark, my fingers fitting against the cold metal like that last satisfying piece of a jigsaw puzzle, the picture complete. She giggles as I pull her inside, and I mirror the action, anticipation bubbling up inside of me as the heavy door closes behind us and I click on the lights.
The bright white, almost blue, lights welcome me, gleaming off of the clean metal surfaces against every wall. She turns, confused, wide eyes meeting mine as she tries to hide the fear; trying to hide the way the thin skin of her throat bulges as she gulps. “Tooru? What is this?”
“The spare room,” I answer, clicking the heavy metal lock into place as my lips stretch over my teeth, tears beading in her eyes as she realizes the mistake she’s made. This is my favorite part of the show. Well, not really, but it’s definitely fun. Breath shortening, growing ragged with each new intake of air, hand flying to her chest, a split second of determination as she bolts for the door, tearing at the lock with useless fingers and desperate hopes, broken sobs and incoherent word as she slips down to the floor, defeated.
I watch like a delighted child seeing his favorite movie for the hundredth time, strolling around the room and letting my hand trail over the clean polished silver surfaces of the cabinets and tables lining the walls.
Top drawer near the freezer; gloves, aprons, plastic surgical shields, paper masks, all slipped on just in time for the questions to begin. God, do I love the questions.
“Who are you?’
“Aw, come on,” I pout, opening another drawer and pulling out a tray, lining it with a thin cloth. “That’s no fun. You already know the answer to that. Oikawa Tooru. I’m not a liar.”
“What are you,” she spits, unimpressed by my attitude.
“Hmm. Getting better. There are a lot of answers to that one. I’m a man, I’m the owner of this fine establishment, I’m an optimist, an intellectual, a romantic, a great cook. The list goes on and on.” Another cabinet, another drawer, and I start to fill the tray.
“What are you going to do to me?” That strength is still in her voice, despite the redness of tears and betrayal in her eyes.
“Haven’t figured that out yet. Depends on how well you cooperate. So far your prospects aren’t looking too great. You see, I like to get out what I put into the situation, and you, you are one of the most insufferable people I’ve ever met.” When everything is prepped I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms and waiting for her to ask another question.
“Why me? Are you honestly going to do this because I’m annoying?” Her voice breaks, betraying her carefully angry fear, and my heart flutters. I feel better already.
“No, of course not. That would be silly. But, I do admit you aren’t exactly the type of person I usually aim for. You’re a petty bitch, and I hope your coworker gets that promotion, but you don’t deserve to die. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I was desperate. I do apologize,” I shrug, and she starts to cry again.
“Please,” she whimpers, and I am practically giddy. This, now this is my favorite part. “I’ll do anything. Money, I can give you money. As much as you want.”
I roll my eyes and pick up one of the tools on my tray, a particularly menacing pair of forceps, and she starts to sob. “Please! I swear, anything you want! I’ll do anything! I won’t tell anyone I promise, just please let me go. I have a lot of money in my savings; you can have all of it! And I can get more! Drugs? I can get you drugs if you want them! Sex? Do you want me to have sex with you?” Her voice is barely understandable, riddled with choking sobs and broken noises as she names off all of the things her little mind can fathom as motivators. Too bad what I’m looking for is much less tangible.
“Don’t insult me, darling,” I sneer, dropping the forceps and walking forward, kneeling and grabbing her face in my gloved hand as she tries to scramble backward but finding nowhere to go. “You were going to do that anyway you repulsive bitch. As if I want any part of you touching me.”
“Why are you doing this,” she chokes, trying her best to speak through the way I have her mouth gripped between my fingers, digging into that soft skin.
“Because I have questions, sweetie. And the only place to find the answers is underneath someone’s skin. Inside their veins, chugging along inside their organs.” My voice is scathing, my self control slipping. “Let’s hope you have some answers to offer me.”
“No! No, no, no, please,” she pleads, trying to resist as I pull her up roughly by the arm, all giddiness replaced by anger and a need to get this started, leading her to the metal bed in the center of the room.
She screams, fighting and clawing at the rubber lining my arms and failing to find a grip. Every insulting name I can think of slips between her smeared red lips as I lift her up and onto the bed, strapping her down, her legs failing to connect as she kicks out at me. She must think I’m an amateur.
The fighting stops when I get her last limb secured, the cold straps biting into her bare skin. She breathes heavy, glaring at me through mascara clumped lashes.
“Now now, sweetheart,” I pout, the anger started to fade again, allowing me to enjoy myself. “No need to look so upset.”
“Fuck you,” she spits, pulling at the wrist straps and groaning.
“Ugly words for such a pretty mouth,” I sigh, shaking my head, tears welling back up in the corners of her eyes.
“I can’t believe this,” she babbles, eyes squeezing shut and nose scrunching up as tears come faster than she can control them. “I was ready to love you.”
“Bitch, you don’t even know me. Look at me, look where your good judgment got you.” I grab the tray and slam it down on a rolling table next to the bed. “You’ve known me for about twelve hours you stupid slut. You’re so needy, so desperate for validation, that you let yourself trust me. Me! The last person on earth anyone should trust. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and it’s not towards me. This part never is. “I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.” Over and over, shaking her head, and I just watch, letting it leaver her system as I try yo pick out the best tool, settling on a scalpel.
“Done yet?” She doesn’t answer, just whimpers some more, chest heaving as she breathes, “Well, anyway. Feel free to scream. It’s sort of like encouragement. The louder you are the better my review. So far I have about, hmm, four and a half stars. I’d say five, but I believe there’s always room for improvement.”
“I won’t,” she says, clenching her teeth and refusing to look at me. “I won’t give you the satisfaction.”
“Ah. They always say that. The strongest resisters always end up being the loudest,” I chuckle, stepping forward and lowering the scalpel until it almost touches her chest. “But good luck with that.”
Her breathing gets shallower, entire chest heaving as the tip of the knife touches skin, a thin line of deep red forming underneath, and I pull back. “You know what? I like you.”
Her eyes fly open and she turns to look at me, shock and hope all swimming together in a cesspool of emotion. “No, no, not like, enough to not kill you. But I think you have a good heart.”
She nods, hair catching under her shoulder blades, ignoring my words. The important ones, at least. “Yes! I don’t deserve this! You can let me go and I swear I won’t tell anyone, please I swear!”
“Just shut your goddamn mouth for a second, Jesus fucking Christ. What I meant is I think you have a good heart, and I want to see it.”
I didn’t think her eyes could get any wider, but as I drag the scalpel from the base of her throat down to the neckline of her dress just below her breasts I believe for a moment they’ll fall right out of her skull. That would be a first.
A quick gasp leaves her mouth before she clamp teeth down on her bottom lip, trying to hold in the rest of the sounds. Her blood slips down her skin, running over her collarbones and gathering in warm pools between the metal and the curve of her shoulders. I wonder how it feels having your own internal temperature warming you external pieces. Weird, probably.
I cut more on each side, forming flaps out of the skin and folding them over each side, exposing white bone underneath. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on what parts of her aren’t covered in blood, but still she doesn’t scream.
“Here comes the fun part;” I singsong, feeling better than I have for days as I open one of the larger drawers of the rolling table, pulling out a simple circular power saw. “Hello, old friend. Haven’t seen you in far too long. Been well?”
“You’re sick,” the woman pants, twisting her head away from the pooling blood. She’s stronger than I thought.
“No need to be rude, darling.”
The saw starts up like a charm, letting out a high pitched whirring that bounces off the metal surfaces of the room. She whimpers again, squeezing her eyes shut and practically biting off her bottom lip.
“This might tickle,” I smirk, flicking down the plastic shield attached to the surgical headband. “Safety first.”
As hard as she tries she can’t hide the fear in her dark eyes as the spinning blade closes in on her bone, and yet still no sound comes from her mouth as they connect, but I can see that it hurts. I can’t even imagine how much. She seems to slip in and out of consciousness as I cut, silent the entire time.
There’s a thin spray of red splashed across he plastic shield over my face, like someone put blood in a Windex bottle, coating my vision with her exact hue. Bodily fluids disgust me, for the most part, but I’ve always been better at dealing with people’s insides rather than their outsides. Momma always said I should’ve been a doctor. We’ll call this a half success.
The woman is stoic through it all, through the blood spraying and the saw crunching, through the bits of bone flying up and clicking against my plastic shield, the only sound a soft release of held breath when it’s over, her sternum sitting in two separate pieces in her chest. A good buildup always promises a spectacular reward.
And it does come, like Moses parting the red sea in the stories Daddy used to read to me every Christmas. I stick my fingers between the halves of bone and pull, coming apart just like I read they would, and her sticky red lips part as the suppressed screams bubble up and spill over, mixing with the sounds of my laughter that I can’t seem to quell.
“Isn’t this fun, darling? Aren’t you having fun?”
“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME YOU GODDAMNED PIECE OF SHIT!” You can hear it, the pure adrenaline fear in the base of her throat as she screams and thrashes again, crying and puling at the belts with everything she has, which isn’t much. The loss of blood catches up and she calms down again, drowsiness playing at the edges of her pale eyelids.
I shift my attention back down to where her heart lies exposed, nestled snugly between her straining lungs. Still beating.
“Very healthy,” I tell her, impressed by the bright pink color of her lungs. “Non smoker. I like that, ya know? There’s nothing worse than opening a person up expecting this great color and getting a gross gray mass of sponge instead. People are artwork on the inside. I like when they respect that.”
“Y-you’re a monster,” she pants, using all of the strength she has left, but still not quite closing her eyes. She wants me to see, to feel the hate coursing through her veins. I know it all too well.
“Am I? Hmm, I wouldn’t know,” I shrug, leaning down to get a better look at her beating heart as it struggles to keep her alive, the smell of salty iron and too many emotions in the air. “Your heart is fascinating. Much stronger than I expected. Do you mind if I keep it? I’m not sure if I have one of my own.”
No answer, as expected. I trail one rubber coated finger down the side of it, feeling the change in texture between thick muscle and fat, and she winces. “By the way, sweetie, it really would be helpful to know your name for my own convenience. So, before you bleed out, if you could just refresh my memory.”
“Go fuck yourself,” she scathes, words still managing to bite despite their lowered volume.
“Beautiful. What is that? German? Ah, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore,” I mumble, her eyelids fluttering as she struggles to keep them open. There isn’t enough time for my words to sink into her dulled mind before I wrap my fingers around the muscle and cut the tubes holding it in place, cradling it in my palm as it continues to beat, losing speed by the second. I barely even hear her screams as blood fills the empty space, losing power just the same as my new toy, and ending before she even has time to register what it feels like to be heartless.
“You fought so hard. I’m proud of you, in an odd sort of way,” I tell her, striding over to the freezer in the corner of the room and taking an empty plastic bowl from the cabinet next to it, dropping the heart in and doing my best not to smear blood on it as I snap on the lid. “In you go.”
Pulling off my gloves I open another drawer, finding my label maker and typing in the appropriate letters. When I slide the bowl into the freezer I make sure to have the ‘go fuck yourself’ part facing out. What can I say? I’m sentimental.
As I turn back around, my high starting to wear off, I groan, eyeing the mess I’ve made. Cleanup is always the worst part of having company over.
“All this,” I sigh, looking back over at the woman as if she can still hear me. “And the only thing I learned is that taking someone else’s heart isn’t a proper substitute for not having one. What a shame.”
I step up to the woman’s body, smoothing down a bit of her hair that hasn’t touched the blood, her face oddly peaceful after everything I put her through. “You really are beautiful, my dear. And I was right in saying you didn’t deserve this. But, duty calls. Or…hobbies call. I do wish I could’ve learned something from you though.”
I leave her side, striding to the other half of the room and opening the cabinet where I keep the cleaning products, the smell of bleach and spray kitchen cleaner hitting the wall of warm blood scent. The worlds of before and after colliding.
“I guess there’s always next time.”
***
One incessant beep after another, item after item swiped across a counter, thousands of faces passing, never quite the same, and thousands of grubby dollars shoved into my palms daily. Swipe, beep, bag, pay, and off they go, back out of the automatic glass doors they entered from carrying my fingerprints away with them. A piece of me resides in hundreds of households across this city, making no impact on the people who will never recall my face no matter how much I wish I could forget theirs.
Cashier isn’t exactly the type of job I had in mind years ago when every adult I encountered asked ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’, but sometimes things just don’t work out the way they should. Sometimes dreams don’t come true and you end up wearing a bright red polo and khakis with an intimate knowledge of what brand of paper towels most families tend to use. I prefer Bounty, more absorbency, but, ya know, Viva is cool too.
“Excuse me? You rang my mouthwash up as ¥480” the rather angry woman with a frosted a-line haircut and large brown sunglasses (who wears sunglasses indoors?) pulls a plastic bottle of green liquid identical to the one in my hand from the bag turnstile and holds it out to me, eyebrows raised.
“If that’s what showed up on the screen then yes,” I answer, swiping the second bottle and looking up at her as ¥480 flashes across the screen. “Is there a problem, ma’am?”
“Yes there is. These were on sale two for ¥560. You should know that.”
Oh yes of course, because it’s my job, the cashier, to memorize every price in the store. How silly of me. “Sorry about that,” I smile, no hint of anger in my voice. “I’ll call in a price check.”
“Can’t you just put it in? I don’t have time for this,” she sighs, pulling off her glasses so I can get the full affect of her ‘I will not hesitate to speak with a manager’ expression.
“Sorry ma’am, its policy. We like to be thorough here at good ol’ Target Inc.,” I shrug, picking up the phone on the wall divider behind me and switching on the intercom. “Kei, I need a price check on register four.”
Tsukishima takes about five full minutes to reach the register, just as I knew he would, the woman practically steaming from the ears when he arrives. “What can I help you with?” He asks, monotone voice and monotone expression.
“She says the mouthwash is on sale two for ¥560 but the system is pulling them up as ¥480 each. Could you run and check it out for me?” I give her a reassuring smile as Tsukishima turns and walks back the way he came. “He’ll get right on it, don’t worry.”
“Can you at least ring up everything else while we wait? I’m late picking up my daughter from soccer practice.” Of course you are. I could tell just from looking at you. You scream soccer mom.
“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea. Sometimes the system is really touchy when we go back to alter things, and then we’d have to rescan everything and that would take far too long. It’s better just to wait.” She puts her sunglasses back on and folds her arms, literally tapping her neon pink running shoes on the tile impatiently. The customers behind her grow restless, leaving line to find a more efficient register, and I am having way too much fun.
“Yeah they’re two for ¥560,” Tsukishima mumbles when he finally returns.
“Oh, great! I’m glad we cleared that up. Thank you so much, Kei, I’ll fix this right away.” He nods and leaves, and I can feel the woman’s glare behind the dark plastic lenses as I finish scanning her things, the cherry on top of the customer harassment cake. “All done, ma’am! That’ll be ¥5882.”
She shoves a ¥10,000 bill at me, and I dole out her change, ripping off the receipt and handing it back with too big of a smile.
“Is there a supervisor I can speak with?” There it is.
“Yes, of course! And she loves hearing about how well we’re doing, but you don’t want to keep your daughter waiting any longer than you already have. It’s supposed to rain this evening.”
She lets out a particularly nasty sigh that sounds more like a growl, taking her bags and stomping off without a word. “Have a wonderful day!” I call behind her, waving and grinning like an idiot, the expression falling as soon as she’s out the door. “Good thing you bought so much mouthwash. Maybe it’ll help your rotten fucking attitude.”
“Language,” the next customer barks, pulling me back to my actual job. The man across the counter is much more pleasing to the eyes; sturdy shoulders and an unbuttoned shirt collar showing tanned skin above his loosened tie, but he wears the same sort of sour expression as the soccer mom. “There are kids in here.”
“Of course, sir. My apologies.” He nods, taking out his phone to check a message, and I begin to scan his items. At first I’m confused by the haul of children’s clothes and the rather large stuffed cat, but it all makes sense when I see pudgy fingers quietly sneak a chocolate bar onto the end of the conveyor belt. The little girl returns to the man’s side after deeming her operation a success, grabbing onto his pant leg and lifting her head to peek at me over the counter, barely able to see on her tiptoes.
“Is this for you?” I ask, lifting up the cat and making one of the pink paws wave at her. She nods, and I scan the tag, handing it over the counter for her to hold. “Does she have a name?”
“Uhhh,” she answers, hugging the animal to her chest as she thinks. “Miss Kitty. She’s a princess.”
“Very clever,” I smile, scanning a pile of skirts as I speak. “She must be very important. Does she have a prince?”
“Noooo,” she laughs, sticking out her tongue. “Boys are icky.”
“Oh, I see,” I chuckle, watching the little girl attach her hand back to the man’s pant leg as he puts his phone away, a look of concern in his eyes. “Aren’t they, Daddy? Boys are icky aren’t they?”
“What?” He asks, the crease in his brow lessening as whatever he was thinking about goes forgotten so he can pay attention to his daughter. “What do you mean? I’m a boy. Do you think I’m icky?”
“You’re not a boy, you’re my Dad,” she answers, looking at him like its common knowledge.
“Oh, okay. Well then, what about him?” He asks, pointing at me. “Is he icky?”
“The ickiest,” she nods.
“Yeah. I think so too.”
“What? You don’t even know me!” I pout, watching the way he man tries to suppress an amused smile and succeeding, the twitch of his lips barely discernible. “That’s just plain rude and I don’t think Miss Kitty would approve.”
“All boys are icky except dads. I don’t make the rules,” she shrugs, and I look her straight in the eyes as I scan her candy bar and drop it behind the bag turnstile into the plastic trash bin. I’ve never seen a child look so betrayed.
“Cute kid,” I smirk, turning away from her and back to the man as she tries to process how to tell on me without revealing that she snuck the candy in the first place. “I have a nephew just about her age. They sure are a handful.”
“That’s an understatement,” he mutters, eyeing the total on the screen and slipping a card from his wallet.
“Sorry, sir, our credit card system is down right now. It says right there,” I tell him, pointing at the paper taped to the machine. “Sorry for he inconvenience.”
He glares at the paper for a second as if it’s the culprit behind the faulty technology before putting the card back and counting his cash. “Shit, I only have a ¥5000 on me,” he swears (who needs to watch their language now?), looking through the bag for something to put back.
“Ah, don’t worry about it. I’ve got ¥1000 in my pocket. You can pay me back later,” I say, swatting his hand away from the bag and reaching into my khakis. “We’ll call it an icky favor from the icky man.”
“That’s stupid. How do you expect me to pay you back…Tooru?” He asks, checking my nametag before folding his arms over his chest, the thin material bulging a bit, and waiting for my answer with one thick eyebrow raised.
“Easy. It’s this crazy concept called exchanging numbers; don’t know if you’ve heard of it. We can even set up a play date or something,” I quip, leaning against the counter with one hand on my hip.
He opens his mouth to retort just as his phone rings, the look of concern returning as he reads the caller ID. “Sorry, I really have to take this,” he mumbles, shoving the money in my hand along with a glossy paper card he pulls from the pocket of his slacks. “Thank you,” he adds, nodding as he answers the phone and grabs his daughter’s wrist and the bags all in his other hand.
I’ve grown so used to gathering information like this from strangers that it has almost become second nature, like a predator stalking prey even when hunger isn’t a factor of motivation. But sometimes the animal stalks something much too big or strong to be easily caught, lighting the fire of need in the pit of their stomach. The need to fight, the need to overpower, the need to win.
I can feel that fire as I flip the card over in my fingers, ignoring the people slowly trickling into the line for my register, my eyes moving over the text as if they could taste it.
Iwaizumi Hajime
Sendai City Police Department
Detective
Most people who share my, interests, would run at the sight of law enforcement, but this feels like a challenge, and I am insanely competitive.
This will take careful planning; my new friend isn’t some girl I can pick up and strap to a table, but there is no doubt in my mind that this is a battle I will win. Welcome to the game, detective; I hope you enjoy losing.
***
When my break rolls around, too many clueless blabbering customers later, my salvation is short lived. I’m scrubbing my hands with that useless pink bathroom soap (honestly, what does that stuff clean?), getting rid of whatever has managed to crawl on my kin from touching so much money, when Kageyama pops his head through the door.
“Kiyoko’s looking for you.”
“I hope she finds me. I hate it when I get lost,” I mutter, shaking water from my hands and eyeing the empty paper towel dispenser. There is absolutely no way I’m using that air dryer, uninterested in having a warm torrent of accumulated germs lowing all over my already tentatively clean hands. “We’re out of paper towels in here, by the way.’
“That’s nice,” he says, rolling his eyes dismissively. “She wants you in her office before your break is over.”
“That gives me…seven minutes,” I answer, checking the tie on my phone. “I think I’ll grab a snack.”
“This is why no one likes you,” he mutters, shaking his head as he leaves, letting the heavy red door swing shut.
“That’s not true. Lots of people like me,” I reply, mostly to myself. Actually, only to myself. “I’m a very likeable guy.
I stop by the vending machine in the break room on my way out, punching in the code for a peach tea and some pretzels, adding a pack of skittles as an afterthought. Kiyoko’s office door is open when I get there, her head bent over a stack of payroll check, snapping up when I toss the candy onto her desk.
“For you,” I smile, knowing she’s predisposed to be immune to my bullshit. “Because you’re so sweet and beautiful.”
“Sit down, Tooru,” she sighs, pushing the skittles to the edge of the desk with the tip of her pen.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, love?” I ask, plopping into the chair across from her and opening my snack.
“I received a call a little bit ago from a very angry woman saying you were rude and inefficient? Is there anything you want to tell me about this?” She puts one hand under her chin and looks at me with those hard, gray no-nonsense eyes.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I reply, nibbling at the edges of a pretzel.
“She also mentioned something about mouthwash.”
“Oh! Her! Lovely lady. I’m sure she had some wonderful things to say.”
“Tooru,” she groans, rubbing at her temples. I am one big pressure headache to her, and yet, for some reason she hasn’t fired me yet. “You can’t harass the customers. They’re rude, I know, but it reflects poorly on me and I can’t let it slide.”
“This wasn’t a customer, Shimizu, she was a heathen. I swear, some of these people just enjoy testing my patience,” I tell her, sipping at my tea and thinking back over the encounter. “You know, I’m not always this charming. The customers should really be grateful.”
“You should be grateful they aren’t lined up outside my office door daily. And that I haven’t stuck you in the warehouse yet,” she says, and I can see the unmistakable want to fire me and unexplainable want to keep me around battling in her mind.
“Actually you should be grateful they aren’t lining up here. It’s not too spacious,” I shrug, chewing on another pretzel. “As for the warehouse, maybe you should send me. I don’t mean to brag but I know my way around a box cutter.”
“Keep it up and I will,” she warns, stern but with no true meaning behind it. “Speaking of moving you, I’m putting you in the food court for the rest of your shift.”
“What? Why? Where’s Asahi?” The food court is the worst place in the entire store. I’ rather scrub toilets with Kageyama than work there.
“I sent him home. It’s his mom’s birthday and she’s flying in to visit but he was too afraid to request the day off,” he tells me, leaning back over the checks she was signing when I walked in.
“That’s not my fault. Come on, Shimizu, put someone else on it. What about Shouyou?”
“You know exactly why that’s a bad idea,” she answers, not looking up at me, her mind set. And she’s right; we don’t need another ‘Nacho Cheese Incident of ‘15’.
“Fine. Goddamnit. I’m taking my skittles back,” I grumble, my patience already growing thin at the thought of touching the food and watching the disgusting animals we call customers sit and shove it down their throats. I didn’t come here to be a zookeeper.
“Please do,” she nods, pushing them towards me. “And, Tooru? Be nicer, okay?”
“Yes ma’am,” I mutter, walking out of her office and back down the hallway to the sales floor. “I’ll behave if they do.”
A familiar blonde head waits or me when I slip behind the counter, tying a black apron around my waist and clipping my nametag to the front. God forbid the customers not know my name when they call and complain.
“You got roped into this too?” I ask, eyeing the half empty popcorn machine and sighing. At least the store is slow right now.
“I volunteered,” Yachi answers, straightening her visor so it doesn’t tug on her ponytail. Not many people can pull off the side ponytail aesthetic but I must say she does a great job.
“Of course you did,” I say, rolling my eyes and reaching out to ruffle her hair she just fixed. “Wouldn’t have you any other way.”
“Tooru!” She yells, slapping my hand away and taking off the crooked visor, glaring at me in that completely non-menacing way only she can manage.
“What?”
“Don’t patronize me,” she whines, pulling the hair tie out and letting what hair was in her ponytail fall to her shoulders.
“I’m not! You’re such a goody goody, I love you,” I tell her, and I mostly mean it.
“Well one of us has to be,” she mumbles, trying to add annoyance to her gaze but I watch her lips quiver as she fails to hold back her smile.
“That’ my girl.”
Some people embody the feeling of sunshine. Some people break through the dark clouds that consume the rest of us and wrap their flaming arms around out screaming souls to lift us up to the world they live in, and I hate them. My world is carefully constructed, meticulously pieced together like a patchwork quilt of pessimism and misplaced aggression. But somehow Yachi is a permanent resident here. She’s my best friend, my sidekick, my partner in crime. Literally; no matter how much she hates it and how little she deserves it.
We both lean against the back counter, watching the trickling stream of customers pass, some glancing our way and some continuing forward purposefully toward aisles of things they probably don’t need and expenses they don’t particularly want. Fascinating species, humans are, but much too prone to routine and naivety.
“How was your weekend?” Yachi asks, pulling me away from observing the wildlife.
I glance down at her sideways, a familiar look in her chocolate eyes. “True or false?”
She takes a deep breath before answering, shoulders slumping like she lost a battle with herself. “False.”
“I met a nice girl at the supermarket and we went out on Sunday. I took her to dinner and a movie and then we had some wine at my house. I had a great time but I’m not sure she liked me much. We weren’t very compatible, I guess. I doubt she’ll call me again.”
Yachi nods, accepting my words because those are the rule of our game, but her bottom lip quivers ever so slightly. She knows the truth, she always has. Growing up as the children of the only Catholic priests for miles in a small town dominated by Shinto culture it was hard not to be close, hard not to know every detail about each other. Daddy’s church was small, but he and Yachi’s father worked diligently to keep it running. There’s honor in a passion like that, o matter how worthless the beliefs as a whole.
“Hitoka?”
“I’m fine,” she sniffles, turning to wipe her eyes as if I won’t see it. I know it should probably make me feel bad. “What was her name?”
“True or false?”
“True.”
“I don’t remember.”
She nods again, angling her head so her visor blocks my view of her face.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask, watching a woman pull multiple carts out of the line near the doors to check the wheels and leaving them all scattered in the walkway.
“No, Tooru,” she sighs, looking up and giving me a strained smile. “I’m not mad at you.”
“Are you disappointed in me?” I don’t care, I never do, but her opinion is one of the few things that mean at least something to me.
“A little.”
“Okay,” I mutter, fiddling with the edges of my apron. “Wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation now.”
She chuckles lightly and I pull her into a quick hug, the warm scent of her shampoo welcoming instead of revolting as it wafts up into my nostrils. “Why do you put up with me, Hitoka?”
“Because I love you, Tooru. And you need me,” she mumbles against my chest, her small frame fitting there perfectly. “Well, you need someone, and so far I’m your best option.
She steps away, her big brown eyes glistening, and I ruffle her hair again. “I just haven’t found a replacement for you yet. No one has responded to my wanted ads.”
She doesn’t have time to try and glare at me before a customer finally steps up to the counter and I shuffle off behind the soda machines to avoid the confrontation. She smiles widely as she helps the man, voice chipper an bright, and I start to think about her words. Do I need someone? I’ve always been content with being alone, with keeping m thoughts to myself, but I realize now that I never truly have. Yachi has always pulled information from me; from the first time I accidentally snapped the neck of a baby bird we found behind the church at eight years old, feeling it take its last breath in my dirty, thick fingered palms, she knew. Not only did she know, she never told. It’s s if she holds the burdens I don’t care to feel for me, her shoulders sagging from the weight of both of our emotions, both of our humanity.
Maybe I do need her. Maybe I am more dependent on her than I ever would’ve imagined. And yet, it’s a completely selfish need. She is my emotional storage unit. Do I honestly care about her? I believe I do, but it’s always so hard to tell. I don’t want to hurt her, at least. I guess that’s a good enough answer for now.
The man leaves the counter after Yachi hands him his paper drink cup, walking over towards where I stand but unable to see me behind the tall machines. There’s a loud beep before the sound of liquid hitting the hollow cup, wet and sloshing as air pushes up and over the rim. When he returns for his food Yachi pushes he bag of popcorn over the counter with a smile and a nod but the man is unimpressed.
“Your slushie machine is broken,” he tells her; tilting his cup so she can see the very blue, very non-slushie liquid inside.
“Actually I just put a new batch in so it’s still freezing,” she answers, shrinking a bit under his gaze, her shoulders tensing and head bowing.
“Why sell me a slushie when you don’t have slushies?” He gestures with his hands too much when he speaks, as if the movements would add meaning to his pathetic words.
“I’m sorry, sir, but-,”
“She didn’t sell you a slushie,” I interject, stepping up beside Yachi before actually forming the command in my mind, legs moving instinctually forward and arms gently pushing her to the side. “You ordered a sods, which as you can see by the menu is a whole different item. Also, the service light on the slushie machine tells you when they aren’t ready, and it even explains it right there for you, but you went ahead and ignored that. And if the light isn’t enough it beeps when you turn the handle, but I guess that just men you’re deaf and dumb.”
There’s a long pause when I finish speaking as Yachi’s hand tightens on my arm and I watch the man’s face turn slowly from pink to red to purple. For a moment I think he’s going to ask to see a manager, but instead he empties the full cup in his hand on the counter and leaves, blue syrup running over the counter and off of both ends, making a steady splashing sound on the tiles below. Fantastic.
“Oh!” Yachi jumps back, the mess splattering an array of blue dot on her shoes and khakis. “Oh no, this is going to stain.”
“I think it’s an improvement,” I chuckle, red fading from my vision as I look down at the splashes of color across my own pant legs.
“Tooru! You can’t talk to the customers like that,” she chides, standing on her tiptoes to slap e on the shoulder and looking at me as sternly as she can muster. “You’re lucky he’s not going to Shimizu. She’s already upset with you. Also that’s not what deaf and dumb means.”
“Whatever, I got my point across. And what’s she going to do? She already put me in literal hell. Anything else is a blessing,” I shrug, grabbing a handful of napkins and handing them to her. “I didn’t like the way that guy was talking to you.”
“I was fine,” she huffs, pushing away my words with her thin hands. “But you need to be more careful. She could fire you.”
“Really? You promise? Because I’ll march over there and tell her myself right now.”
“Oh, stop it,” she sighs, looking at me like an overly flustered mother after hours of trying to wrestle her kids to bed. “Go get the mop.”
“No it’s alright, I’ll clean it up,” I say, shaking my head. “This is my fault.”
“I meant for you,” she replies, putting her hands on her hips and raising an eyebrow at me. “And make sure you get it all. We don’t want a sticky floor.”
“Oh no, of course we wouldn’t want that,” I mumble to myself as I head towards the back, stopping when I hear Yachi call my name behind me. “What?”
“Thank you,” she smiles, sunshine leaking out of the corners of her being, lighting up the small piece of myself I allow her to touch. “He was kind of scary.”
“I’m kind of scary too,” I reply, winking before ducking through the doorway.
While I mop up the syrup mess my mind wanders, somehow landing on those nature documentaries everyone always thinks are so adorable when two seemingly incompatible wild animals become friends. Cats and rabbits, dogs and birds, a fox and a deer. Yachi and I are sort of like that, I think, but more…extreme. A lion and a gazelle, more like it. One built to kill, and one sleek and beautiful, living a life that is just begging to end in bloodshed.
By the time my shift end, multiple insufferable customers later, my mind I buzzing and my patience growing thin, my needs threatening to break through the weakened barrier. It’s like boiling water in a covered pot; always bubbling under the surface, rapidly splashing up against the lid, but once in a while the pressure builds, and heat escapes with a sizzle between the carefully constructed edges. And sometimes, I just remove the lid altogether. Just for a bit of fun.
I change out of my uniform quickly and head out, trying my best to avoid contact with anyone on the way. My hands shake when climb in my car and turn the key, stopping only when I take the wheel with a white knuckled grip. “Not tonight. You’ll be fine. Not tonight,” I whisper to myself. I don’t like choosing targets when I’m worked up. It always ends up messy, and I prefer enjoying the hunt rather than rushing to calm my nerves.
After a few deep breaths I start to pull out of the space, turning to navigate the hectic pedestrian filled aisles of the parking lot. I’m almost out when he red taillights of a sleek car grabs my eye, a pretty, dark haired woman in the driver seat checking her phone as she backs up. Sometimes opportunities just fall in your lap, and it would be rude to turn them down.
I speed up a little, putting my car just behind the slowly moving Lexus, and smile as the back end bumps right into the side of my fender as planned. The woman’s head snaps up from her phone, wide and terrified eyes reflecting at me from the side mirror. Funny, she doesn’t know the true feeling of terror yet. I put on my best surprised and sympathetic expression before climbing out of the car, slipping m hands in my back pockets for just the right amount of unthreatening casualty.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry! Are you hurt?” Words fly from the woman’s mouth as she scrambles out of her car, looking me over with worry. “I didn’t see you behind me.”
“I’m completely fine,” I smile, reassuring her with a nod before pointing my thumb at the not at all large dent in my car. “Can’t say the same for him, though.”
“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” she apologizes again, unzipping her purse and fishing out her wallet and an insurance card. “Do you want to trade information? I have great coverage I’m sure they can get that fixe or you no problem.”
“Hopefully,” I laugh, rubbing the back of my neck and taking a step forward, getting closer without her really noticing.”My insurance company probably hates me by now. I’m such a klutz when it comes to driving.”
She giggles, most of the tension and ear releasing from her muscles, and she even reaches out to gently push my shoulder as she speaks. “No don’t you worry at all this was completely my fault.”
“They probably won’t believe me even if I told them that,” I tell her, making sure to smile as much as I can without it seeming unusual. I know I’ve got her when she looks down and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Fish are better at avoiding hooks than this. “Have you had dinner yet? How about we grab a bite while we report the damage?”
She looks as if she’s going to argue for a moment, lifting her phone to check the time and making a face, but bad judgment weighs out. “Sure, here’s a great place just down the street.”
“Great! Just lead the way,” I answer, extending my hand before she gets back in her car. “By the way, I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Akane,” she answers, taking my hand; her skin warm and soft against mine. “And you?”
“Tooru. My name is Oikawa Tooru.”
Professional worst nightmare.