Why am I so heartless? Is it all my fault? Or was I just born this way?
Genzo lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about it for about ten minutes already, not moving, as if afraid to scare the thought away with a sudden movement. Sometimes a person really does just need to get up and tell everything to go to hell, but he didn't feel like getting up, and there was no one in particular to tell off, except himself.
He stretched, felt around on the nightstand for his phone, turned on the screen.
"Time, 7:50. I still haven't recovered properly. I probably won't go to school today."
The room was warm, the radiator under the window crackled quietly, warming the old wooden windowsill, on which stood a mug of yesterday's tea, already cold, with a film on the surface. Outside, dawn was breaking slowly, reluctantly, as if the morning itself wasn't in a hurry to begin either. Genzo got up, walked to the window, cracked open the vent, fresh, slightly frosty air drifted into the room, mixed with the smell of wet asphalt from below.
"Mom," he shouted toward the kitchen, "make me some fried eggs, yeah?"
"Make them yourself, your hands won't fall off," came the reply from below, but without any real anger, more out of habit of bickering.
"Come on, Mom."
"Fine, go wash up, I'll put the pan on."
He smirked to himself. Strange, Genzo thought, how a person clings to such small things, to fried eggs, to the fact that his mother would get up and cook them anyway, even while grumbling about it out loud. Probably everyone has something like that inside them: something small, secret, something they'd be ashamed to admit even to themselves matters. Someone wants to be pitied. Someone wants to be feared. And someone just wants somebody to fry them eggs in the morning and not ask why there are circles under their eyes again.
He texted Renji: "You're going to work alone today, I'm sick."
There was no reply for a long time. Genzo sat on the bed, listening to the oil sizzling in the kitchen, his mother clattering the pan, muttering something under her breath, familiar, domestic sounds that, for a second, made things feel calmer than they had any right to.
Renji read the message already at the warehouse, standing between rows of cardboard boxes, and felt the familiar metallic taste in his mouth, the one that had been showing up too often lately to be a coincidence. He swallowed, wincing.
"Why is it always me. Always this taste of copper mixed with self-pity."
He straightened up, rubbed his neck, and then felt someone standing nearby. He turned around.
Kaoru was looking at him without any expression. She lit a cigarette, unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world.
"K-Kaoru," Renji said, stepping back half a pace. "What do you want here?"
She took a drag, exhaled the smoke to the side, past him.
"You don't even understand what you're saying when you go on about telling everything to go to hell," she said in an even voice. "What if it turns out someone really needs you right now. Wouldn't that be funny."
"Came to preach your pseudo-philosophy?" Renji said, trying to make his voice sound firmer than he felt. "I won't call you a monster. Won't hate you either. Not giving you that satisfaction."
"Cute," she said without smiling.
He touched his neck reflexively, yesterday's bruises from being choked hadn't faded yet, he'd slept badly that night, waking up every half hour from his own breathing.
"You know, Renji," Kaoru said, taking a step closer, "I was just thinking. Does the thought that you could be killed not scare you, exactly, but maybe grip you in some other way? There are people out there for whom closeness to death makes them feel more alive than anything else."
"What are you even talking about?" Renji backed up, his spine hitting the shelving.
She grabbed him by the throat, sharply, casually, without any wind-up, as if she'd done it a hundred times before. She squeezed.
For a second, real, animal fear flashed in his eyes. He looked into hers and found nothing there. No anger, no pleasure, not even coldness. Emptiness, flat as a smooth wall.
"So, how do you like it," she said quietly, leaning closer. "Want to feel what it's like to be close to death? I'll arrange it for you, if you ask nicely."
"You're not empty," Renji rasped, clawing at her wrist, trying to pry her hand off. "You're not human... not a devil... not a god... who even are you, Kaoru..."
"What? What are you mumbling over there?" She smirked with one corner of her mouth. "Cute, the way you wheeze, by the way."
She let him go as sharply as she'd grabbed him. Renji doubled over, gasping for air greedily, feeling his vision darken and then clear again.
"What did she just do. This is complete madness, this can't keep happening every day."
Kaoru stepped back, brushed invisible dust off her sleeve.
"Like I promised," she said calmly, as if reading off a shopping list. "Every day, I'll either beat you or choke you. You'll keep walking the edge. Eventually you'll either finish yourself off, or I'll take you apart piece by piece. This isn't a threat, Renji. This is just how it's going to be."
He looked up at her from below, still not fully straightened up.
"Aren't you scared yourself?" he asked hoarsely. "That one day this comes back on you?"
She didn't answer. She turned and walked away between the shelves, leaving behind the smell of tobacco.
The rain started drizzling again, light, ordinary, as if it had no intention of impressing anyone. Renji walked up to the warehouse gates, where the foreman stood by the empty trucks, scowling at the sky.
"Renji, at it again?" he said, without turning around. "I warned you about being late."
"Sorry," Renji mumbled. "Couldn't get out earlier."
"Fine, get to it. You're working alone today. Where's your partner, Genzo?"
"Sick, probably."
"Some workers," the foreman sighed, but without real malice, more out of habit. "Come on, don't just stand there, the boxes won't unload themselves."
"Right."
The foreman went back into the office, and Renji picked up the first box. The work was simple, carry, stack, check against the manifest, and there was something almost soothing in the monotony of it: the body moved on its own, and the mind got to stay quiet for at least half an hour.
A message came from Genzo: "Screw you and your... anyway, I'll be waiting for you by the café today, don't be late."
Renji smirked despite everything, typed back a short "ok," and kept working.
An hour later the foreman stuck his head out of the office again.
"Renji, someone's here for you. Classmates or something. Aya and that one with the purple hair. You can step out for five minutes, it's quiet right now."
"Aya. Not her, please," Renji thought, wiping his hands on his pants.
Standing in the doorway were Raiden, tall, in a dark shirt, with long purple hair falling over his eyes, and Aya, staring at the floor so intently it was as if something important were written there.
"What do you want?" Renji asked, walking up.
"Heard you got a job, figured we'd stop by, see how you're doing," Raiden said. "How's it going, anyway?"
"Fine, in general." Renji glanced at Aya."Why'd you bring her along?"
"Renji," Raiden said, quieter, more serious, "just look at yourself. Your neck, your arms, all bruised. What's been happening to you after school?"
"It's nothing," Renji said quickly, instinctively pulling up his collar. "Just fell. Bad luck, that's all."
"Renji." Raiden wouldn't let it go. "Are you actually okay? Honestly."
Aya had been silent this whole time, not lifting her eyes. She was ashamed, not just of coming here, but of a lot of things in general, all at once. Sometimes it feels like the whole world has shifted somehow, without anyone warning you exactly when it happened. Relationships aren't worth anything, if you really think about it, everyone just demands from each other things they're not willing to give themselves. The world hadn't really changed; they had, stopping being the kids they'd been just a couple of years ago. Time had run out, and all that was left was this, this tangled mess of guilt and conversations that went nowhere.
"Raiden," Renji said quietly, "if it's not too much trouble, go, please. I have to work."
"Fine." Raiden shrugged. "We already said what we came to say. Let's go, Aya."
"Renji," she suddenly said, stepping forward, "forgive me. For everything. I was stupid, I swear."
Raiden turned and walked toward the exit without waiting for her. Aya stepped closer, too close, and before Renji could say anything, pressed her lips to his, quick, clumsy, as if she herself didn't fully understand why she was doing it.
Renji froze for a second, more startled than by anything else that day. Then he gently pulled back, moved her hand away.
"Don't do that," he said quietly, without anger, more tired than anything. "Really, don't."
He turned and walked back into the warehouse without looking back, leaving her standing alone at the entrance.