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Broken Bonds

MOMOI

I should’ve known better than to think that my mother’s homeland of Japan would save me. It wasn’t about escaping—it was about forgetting, or at least trying to. But the thing about trying to forget is, the more you run, the faster it catches up to you. And I wasn’t even running that far.

The moment I stepped off the plane, the air felt different—thicker, colder. There was a taste of something heavy in the wind, as if I was stepping into a world that didn’t care about my past, but sure as hell had a way of dragging it back into the light. The streets of Japan, at least the ones I saw first, were quieter than the ones I’d grown up in. But quiet wasn’t always a good thing. Sometimes, it just meant the storm was waiting.

I took what money I had saved up over the years through deals on the street and other unsavory activities… and yes, even the partial payout. Despite my feelings on the matter, it would have been stupid for me not to. My mother, much to my reluctance, also shoved some money at me to help me relocate from the only life we had ever known. Any other person in my situation would have been grateful for the extra income I would be taking with me. But culturally? All I felt was guilt and shame for my decisions—for my decision to leave my mother alone and vulnerable, still loosely involved in a dark, underground world.

I rented a crappy apartment in a building that smelled of mildew and cigarette smoke. It was the kind of place that made you want to scrub your skin raw, but I didn’t care. I didn’t come here to find comfort. I came to find something else— what exactly, I had no idea. A fresh start. Maybe. Or maybe just a place to disappear.

The problem was, I didn’t know how to disappear. The landlord made sure to remind me of my past by offering me a discount on the rent if I gave him monthly access to my body. All he did was laugh as I glared daggers in his direction, imagining how I would peel the skin off his face and feed it to him while he was sleeping.

I tried calling my half-brother, Kaito, after I landed, hoping for something— anything . A little support, maybe. Some kind of reassurance that he’d help me pull some strings, even if we never really had a brother-sister bond. He was still locked up, serving a life sentence for a dozen different things that didn’t matter much to him anymore.

Tonight, I caught him on a rare moment when he’d been allowed to call outside. I could hear the murmur of a guard’s voice in the background, his tired, resigned tone mixing with the tinny static of the phone.

“Momoi,” he said. “You left?”

“Yeah,” I said, staring at the peeling paint on the wall. “I’m here. Japan.”

There was a long silence on the other end, and for a moment, I thought he hung up. It wasn’t unusual for him to do that, to just disconnect. To pretend we weren’t connected by anything other than blood.

“You need more money or something?” His voice was empty, flat.

I leaned back against the wall, my hand tightening around the phone. I wanted to scream at him, to demand something, anything. I deserved reparations, didn’t I? But if my mother’s life taught me anything, it was that I was a mere speck in the grand scheme of things. With a sigh, I ran a hand through my dark hair. I already knew that Kaito wasn’t the kind of person who’d help. Not anymore.

“No,” I said, swallowing down the bitterness rising in my throat. “I don’t need more money. I need to get out of here. Out of this life.”

Another pause. He always did this, as if he had to think about every word before he said it. Like every ounce of emotion I threw at him was too much to carry.

“Well, you left,” he finally said. “Maybe that’s all you need. A clean break from the States. Hell, it’s not as if I could help you anyway.”

His words hit harder than I wanted to admit. His indifference was a punch to the gut, but it wasn’t the first time. It was just easier to feel nothing than to face the truth of who we’d become under the cloak of our family’s darkness.

“Right,” I muttered. “I get it.”

“You’ll be fine,” he added, his voice as dry as dust. “You always have been. Just—don’t get caught up in anything stupid. You’re not a part of this world anymore. Not like me.”

I wanted to tell him how wrong he was. I wanted to scream that this world had my name on it, that I couldn’t escape it even if I tried. My mother’s last attempt at escaping her living hell was to make sure I took his last name as proof… in case anything happened to her. But my brother didn’t need to hear what he already knew. He was too far gone, locked behind bars and trapped in his own mind, somewhere far away from the mess of our lives.

“You’re right,” I said, hanging up the phone before I could say something I’d regret.

Kaito didn’t care anymore. He’d stopped caring a long time ago. And me? I was just another name on a list of people who’d been abandoned by their own blood.

The days blurred together. I tried to find some semblance of peace—walking through the streets, avoiding the mess of emotions that kept flooding back every time I thought about my father’s death, the shitty payout, the broken promises. But peace wasn’t something you could find in a foreign place when you were running from the ghosts of everything you’d ever known. I spent most of my time alone, drowning in thoughts of what I was supposed to do with this life.

I should be looking for a job, creating some new connections, but it was as if there was a strong invisible barrier taunting me with each mental attempt, reminding me of my tainted past and bloodline and the fallacy of normalcy.

Every night, I went to bed, hoping that tomorrow would be different. But the next day always felt like the same old nightmare, just dressed in different clothes. Depression, the slithering old serpent with its fangs poised to strike whenever I dared to believe I might escape the mental prison I had inherited, the weight I continued to carry from home.

I spent hours wandering the streets of Sanya, trying to forget who I was and what my actual ambitions were. Sometimes, I stood at the edge of the city, watching the lights flicker against the dark sky. But no matter how far I walked, no matter how fast I moved, there were always shadows watching me.

Turning down a narrow alley, the air grew thicker, the flicker of streetlights just a distant hum. And there they were. A group of men lounging against the brick walls, their eyes locking onto me with the same tired, predatory look I’d seen a hundred times before. Nothing new here. Just another set of vultures circling, hoping for a weak moment.

One of them stepped out in front of me, that greasy grin spreading across his face in an attempt to make him look dangerous. "Where you going, sweetheart?"

I was lucky my mother always spoke to me in Japanese when I was growing up, so adjusting to the language here wasn’t much of a challenge.

I didn’t break my stride, didn’t even glance at him. "None of your business," I muttered, my voice flat, bored.

Another man laughed, his eyes running over me as if I was some kind of prize to be claimed. "A pretty thing like you shouldn't be walking these streets alone. Ain't safe out here."

I shrugged, not slowing down. "I'm not here for your opinion."

They chuckled, but it didn’t faze me. I was used to this—used to men in the States who thought they could own every street, every woman, like the world revolved around them. These guys were no different. I knew the game. They knew the game. And I wasn’t playing.

The first guy stepped closer, blocking my path. "You're gonna want to listen, girl."

I stopped then, dead in my tracks, locking eyes with him. The chill in my gaze was enough to make him hesitate. "You really want to keep talking?" I said, my voice as cold as the night around us. Did they see the dead look in my eyes? The haunting past that spoke of a woman who’d seen death plenty and wasn’t afraid of it? "Because you can. But I’m walking away either way."

For a second, he seemed to consider it. But then, they always did. They always backed off. They weren’t the ones with nothing to lose.

I pushed past him without another word. The men fell silent, but I could feel their eyes boring into my back. I didn’t care. This wasn’t the first time. It sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

Memories of my mother’s grimy motel rooms and the men whose stench lingered in the fabric of everything around us flickered in my mind as I wandered the streets, a ghost in this place—just another apparition in the slums.

It was the bright yellow and red against the drab grayness that yanked me out of my thoughts. Then I saw him—a monk. His calm stance and the polite bow, all caught me off guard, twisting my face into a scowl.

You didn’t see many monks where I came from in the hood, but you heard about them. And here was one, right in front of me, in the flesh.

I stood there for a moment, awkward, studying him. There was something in his eyes—something familiar—but I couldn’t place it.

He gave a small, serene smile before another bow, walking past me. I didn’t bother responding, just turned back to my own path, the weight of my own returning thoughts pulling me back down—the bitter aftertaste of something I couldn’t shake.