Page 11

11

Drowning in the Dark

TATSUYA

I could feel the tension in my chest, the weight pressing down on me harder than I ever expected. I had been training with the monks all morning, yet it was like none of it was sinking in. The usual calm I felt within these walls—the peace that had always eluded me outside—was slipping away from me, leaving nothing but frustration. The other monks had begun to notice it too, their eyes following me, their silent whispers trailing behind me reminiscent of sticky ichor.

"Something is off with you today, Tatsuya," one of them said, his voice gentle but laced with concern.

I didn’t answer. How could I? What was I supposed to say? That I couldn’t stop thinking about her? About Momoi ? My mind kept replaying the moment she looked at me, her eyes full of anger and confusion.

I needed to get away. The walls of the temple were closing in on me, suffocating me. I needed space, air, anything to clear my head. So I slipped outside, making my way to the small garden that bordered the temple. The sight of the quiet pond and the swaying bamboo should’ve calmed me, but instead, the more I breathed in the cool air, the more I felt my anger gnaw at me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about her. God, Momoi —what mess had she gotten herself tangled in this time? Every thought of her sharply twisted a blade in my gut, a reminder that I hadn’t been able to protect her—not the way I wanted to. Her survival instincts kicked in, and she lashed out like cornered prey. I had seen it plenty growing up around my mother’s friends. What little friends she was able to have in her line of work.

But I had gone to save Momoi, hadn’t I? At least, that’s what I told myself. But the moment I reached out to touch her, to offer some sort of comfort, she pulled away as if I was the enemy. Her eyes threw daggers in my direction. Anger. Fear. Confusion. All mixed into one violent storm that I couldn’t understand.

Why was she angry at me? At me —the one person who’d been trying to help her, to keep her safe from whatever nightmare she had woven around herself? She turned her back and fled like I was the last person she ever wanted to see.

I hadn’t been able to control myself. I’d just wanted to touch her—comfort her—but the moment my fingers grazed her arm and her immediate reaction, a fuse had gone off in me. My rage flared up out of nowhere, the anger I’d spent years trying to suppress surging to the surface. It was as if all the walls I’d built around myself had crumbled in an instant. And she had ignited it. Her rejection, her fear—it was all too much.

I couldn’t make sense of it. I was supposed to be in control, always. That’s what I’d been taught, what I’d drilled into my own mind. But in that moment, none of it mattered. I had lost control—lost control of my emotions, lost control of myself.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I clenched my fists, and took a sharp breath, trying to calm myself. But the more I replayed the moment, the more my anger flared akin to wildfire. And worse... there was a part of me that wanted to feel that way. There was a part of me that didn’t want the anger to stop, because underneath it all was something else—something that terrified me.

I craved her presence. I wanted to feel her near me again despite everything. It didn’t matter how she looked at me, blaming me for all her problems. Even though she ran from me as if I was some kind of threat. I hated it. I hated how she made me feel things I had no business feeling.

I wanted to scream, but instead, I stood there, hands trembling at my sides. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just let her go? Why couldn’t I just focus on what I had to do here, what was important?

But all I could think about was Momoi. And it pissed me off. She was a distraction I couldn’t afford, yet she was everywhere, lodged in the back of my mind, clawing its way to the surface, making me lose focus, making me... angry.

The monks were probably right. Something was wrong with me today. But I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how to shake her off—how to forget the way her skin felt under my fingertips or how her eyes flashed with something I couldn’t name before she ran.

I gritted my teeth, frustrated with myself, frustrated with her, frustrated with everything. But no matter how hard I tried to push it away, the desire to see her again, to be near her was a magnetic pull beyond comprehension.

And that thought scared me more than anything.

I took a deep breath, grounding myself, forcing my body to relax with each inhale. I lost track of time, staring into the distance. The cool night air filled my lungs, and I let it sit there for a moment, savoring the stillness of the garden. One breath at a time, I pushed the chaos of the day— her —to the back of my mind. The anger, the confusion, the burning need to just… touch her, to make her see something I wasn’t sure I even understood myself.

I focused on the rhythm of my breath on the way back to the temple. In. Out. In. Out. The monks taught me to find peace in stillness. To quiet the mind and separate myself from the world. It had worked before—calming the storm inside me, letting the darkness fade away into silence. But tonight, the peace seemed farther out of reach than it had ever been.

The distant temple bells tolled, signaling the evening’s quiet. I stood there for a long time, letting the silence wash over me, waiting for it to settle. But it didn’t. My thoughts swirled relentlessly, tangling themselves with the memories of my past—the blood-soaked nights that defined me, the violence I could never escape.

I clenched my jaw. No. I wasn’t going to let that take over tonight. Not again. Not when I had worked so hard to bury it. So I pushed the thoughts back, took another breath, and forced my feet to move.

When I finally returned to the temple, the monks were already preparing for rest, the dim candlelight flickering as I passed them in the halls. I didn't look up, didn't acknowledge their subtle glances. I didn’t need to. They could see the storm inside me. They always could.

The quiet of my designated quarters did little to ease the heaviness in my chest. The room was small and simple, a futon spread out on the floor, the walls adorned with only the barest necessities. I sank down onto the tatami mat, my hands trembling as I undressed, my mind too unsettled to even focus on the simple task. The dark, empty space around me felt suffocating.

I closed my eyes, hoping sleep would find me. But sleep, like peace, evaded me.

The moments I tried to escape into the stillness were fractured by flashes—violent, haunting memories of a life I couldn’t outrun. The bloodshed. The screams. The cold, ruthless reality of being born into a world I never asked for, a world I hated with every inch of my being.

I could still hear the sound of my father’s fists hitting flesh, his rage, and his drunken roars reverberating through the walls of the dingy apartment we called home. He was never home much, not when he was sober, but when he was, he’d stumble back in from the bar, swearing, his anger looking for a place to land. And that place was always me if he couldn’t find my mother.

He never failed to remind me of the one thing that had defined my existence—my blood was worth nothing. Every time he looked at me, there was a kind of disgust in his eyes, condemning me as a mere image of her, a byproduct of a world I had no place in.

And the worst part? I didn’t know any better.

I was just a boy back then, powerless, trapped in the cycle of violence that seemed to define the men around me. His anger was a constant storm, and I learned early on that there was no escaping it. There was no shelter from the fists, from the words that cut deeper than the beatings. And my mother? She was a shadow, always too far gone in her own world to protect me from his wrath. She was never the mother I needed. In the end, she was just as much a ghost as the man who called himself my father.

The violence. The hatred. The chaos. No matter how hard I tried, or how deep I buried it, it was always there, just beneath the surface, waiting to break free.

And now, as I lay here in the dark, trying to escape the memories of the past, they refuse to let me go. They merge with the more recent pain—pain I’d tried to keep buried. Momoi’s face flashes in my mind again, her eyes full of anger, full of fear. When she pulled away from me… it felt too damn familiar.

It made me question everything. All the years of control, of training myself to suppress my rage, to bury the monster I’d once been—was it all just a lie? Would I ever be free of this darkness? Or was I destined to drag it with me? The longer I allowed it to hold me down, the heavier it became.

I turned over, trying to shake the thoughts from my mind, but it was useless. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back there—back in that apartment, with my father looming over me, his fists raised in anger, his cruel laughter echoing in my ears. The sound of blood. The smell of sweat. The cold, suffocating realization that I was never meant for anything more than to become a reflection of the monsters around me.

And as much as I wanted to forget, as much as I tried to escape it, the truth always came back to me: I was the son of a prostitute, raised by a man who couldn’t see me as anything more than a burden. And no matter how far I ran or how much I tried to bury it, that blood, that history, would always be a part of me. Always.

I forced my eyes open, gasping for breath as the nightmares lurked just beneath the surface.

But then, everything shifted.