Page 1

Tokyo

T he sounds of screams and crashing jerk me awake. The faint scent of stale smoke lingers in the air, and the flicker of a streetlight through the cracked blinds reminds me I’m still trapped here. I grumble, already pissed off that, once again, Mom and her deadbeat boyfriend are going at it. James’s rough, gravelly voice booms through the walls like a shadow that never fades from my life. It’s always the same—he cheats, he steals her drugs, they fight, he beats her, and then two days later she’s right back with him like nothing happened. I usually put on my headphones and crank the music to drown it out, but tonight feels worse. Sometimes I wonder if it’d be so wrong to wish she’d just take too many pills one night and never wake up. It’s not like she’s ever really been a mom to me anyway. And hell, it’s not like I have a dad either. But at least then I’d be free—free of this place and the guilt that keeps me trapped in this shitty two-bedroom apartment.

“WHORE!” James’s voice bellows through the walls, followed by the sound of something shattering. I groan, grabbing my Hello Kitty pillow and pressing it over my ears, hoping to muffle the noise. They’re louder than usual tonight. If I had somewhere to run, maybe a rave I could lose myself in, I’d already be gone. Their fighting is why I am never home. I’d much rather be out partying than being here during their fights, but I just didn’t feel like going out tonight. And, of course, it was just my luck that they decided to fight tonight.

“FUCK YOU, JAMES!” Mom’s voice screams back, louder and shriller, and then another crash echoes through the apartment, followed by the sounds of shuffling and more yelling. Then I hear it.

BAM!

That sound, without a doubt, is the sound of a gun going off. In a hurry, I toss my pillow to the side, pushing off my blanket and rolling out of bed. I swing open the door to my room and storm down the hall to my mother’s room, her door is open, and there she is, sitting on top of James’s stilled body. Blood drips from the side of his head. I watch as my mother turns to me slowly, feeling my presence. “I’m sorry, baby.” she says before she turns the gun towards her head and pulls the trigger.

My mind goes blank. I don’t scream. I don’t cry. I don’t move. I just stand there, frozen in the doorway, watching the scene before me unfold like it’s happening to someone else.

Blood is everywhere. It stains the floor, her hair, her skin. Slowly, the pool around her head grows, the deep red seeping into the cracks of the wooden floor. The coppery smell hits my nose, sharp and metallic, making my stomach churn. My eyes catch on a single detail; her chipped red nail polish, smudged with blood. I can’t do anything but watch. I’m too numb to even think.

Eventually, my legs begin to move on their own, carrying me toward the nightstand. My hands shake as I grab James’s phone, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. I dial 911, my breath shallow, like I’m afraid to breathe too loudly.

“911, what’s your emergency?” The operator’s voice feels distant, like it’s coming through a thick fog.

I try to answer, but my throat closes up. I take a shaky breath and try again. This time, the words come, but they’re barely more than a whisper.

“M-my mom... she shot herself. And her boyfriend.”

The operator keeps talking, asking questions, but I don’t hear most of it. My eyes are glued to the bed, to their lifeless bodies. The blood is still dripping onto the floor, each drop echoing in my mind, drowning out everything else.

My knees give way, and I catch myself on the edge of the nightstand before sinking to the ground. I pull my knees to my chest, feeling my silver-blonde hair fall around my face. I can’t bring myself to move. My heart is pounding, but I feel nothing.

I wished for this. So many times, I’d imagined her gone. In those quiet moments of rage, I’d wished for an end to all the chaos, the yelling, the endless cycle of her bullshit. But now that she’s gone, really gone, it doesn’t feel anything like I thought it would. There’s no relief, no peace. Just this crushing emptiness, a silence that’s too loud. Even the sirens blaring in the distance feel muffled, like the world is holding its breath.

Then there is a knock at the door—sharp, insistent. I stumble to my feet, slipping on the blood that’s still wet underfoot, and run to answer it.

When I open the door, the red and blue lights flash behind two cops and a pair of EMTs, their faces serious, their eyes heavy with the understanding of what’s inside. I’m pulled out of the apartment, the place I’ve hated for so long, and everything just... blurs. There is blood, there are bodies, and I can’t process any of it. The questions come at me fast, but I barely register them. I just keep telling them the same thing. I don’t know. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know how things got so bad. I didn’t hear enough to stop it.

But today’s the kind of day that keeps on giving.

Hours later, I’m sitting in the police station, curled up in the stiff plastic chair, numb. The sterile walls, the smell of disinfectant, the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead—it’s all too much. Everything feels slow, like I’m underwater, drowning in something I can’t name.

“We’ve called your father.”

The words hit me like a slap, jolting me upright. I stare at the officer, confused. “My father?” The words taste strange, foreign. I never thought I’d hear that name attached to my life. He wasn’t supposed to exist. Mom had made that clear—he was nothing more than a married asshole who didn’t want us.

It’s always been Riz and me. My mom and me, stuck in this shitty, toxic cycle. She wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but she was mine. And now she’s gone, and all I have left are the shattered pieces of the person she used to be. Maybe, in another life, she could’ve been a good mom. Maybe if things were different…

“Hey, kid.” The officer interrupts my thoughts again, his voice softer this time. “Your big brother and father are coming to pick you up.”

A brother? I nod without thinking, barely hearing him as he walks away. I look down at my hands, clean now, but I still see the blood, still feel it. No matter how many times I scrub, it’s there, a reminder of everything I just watched happen.

“A brother... a father.” I say it again, trying to make sense of it, but the words don’t feel real. They feel like someone else’s life, someone else’s problem.

I should feel something—relief, hope. But all I feel is this deep, simmering anger. He had a family. He had a son. While I was stuck here, watching my mom fall apart, this man—this so-called father—was out there living his life. Raising his other kid. While I was here, alone, fighting to survive, and no one came for me.

And now they think they can just show up, swoop in like heroes, and take me away from all this? Like I’m supposed to be grateful?

I’m not. I’m angry. I hate them both.