「 THE BITTER END & STORAGE 」

[RYŪJIN]

[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: auto; font-size: 9.2pt; font-family:arial; line-height: 125%; text-align:justify; width: 500px"]Note: He smokes like nobody's business, in fact, you could probably argue that he has some kind of addiction. He tastes like nicotine and ash, and half the time you can find him with a fresh, new cigarette tucked neatly behind his ear or in his hands, lit and ready for him to take a drag.

[RYŪJIN]

[div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: auto; font-size: 9.2pt; font-family:arial; line-height: 125%; text-align:justify; width: 500px"][align=center]            ❝傷ついても涙こらえ 我慢してたよね?❞
[❅]  even though you were hurt, you held back your tears and endured it.

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[size=9pt]“Mama?” His words are ridiculously soft in pitch, spoken no louder than that of a barely audible whisper, warm, toffee colored eyes wandering over to the thin, frail-looking figure of the woman who sits quietly at his side. She appears hard at work, brow creased in a gesture of immense concentration, long, delicate fingers sorting through the varying pieces of a gorgeous, porcelain vase he had accidentally knocked over that same morning. There’s no immediate answer on her part, and instead, she continues going about her task, carefully coating the jagged, broken edges of glass in a lacquer of gleaming gold, before finally sticking them together with the same awe-striking precision he has witnessed time and time again. “Mama.” It’s louder this time around, more desperate sounding, his small, heavily scraped hands balling up into fists, clutching desperately at the hem of her ruffled shirt.

His pleading tone alone is enough to finally catch her once preoccupied attention, and with her head tilting downward, pale, pink glossed lips curving into the most gentle of  smiles, she responds, “What is it, my love?”

“Why--” His heart feels as if it's pounding now, the organ thrumming powerfully against the taming cage of his developing bones, a noticeable redness beginning to spread across his neck, onto his outward pointing ears. “How come don’t I have a Papa?” The statement tumbles rapidly from his mouth out into the open before he can stop it, voice cracking with a raw, newfound vulnerability despite his best of efforts to remain a strong boy, as his mother always tells him. “Theo -- he has one -- All of the other kids, they have one, too! How come I’m the only one who doesn’t?” There’s an uncomfortable silence that follows, and the over all lack of response is enough to send chills of utter dread running up and down his spine.

“Ryujin…”

There’s an undeniable tightening of his throat, saliva gradually thickening in his mouth, his eyes stinging with the beginnings of tears that threaten to spill down all too rosy cheeks, clearly distraught. “Is he -- Mama, is my Papa dead?” With an undeniable tremor in his voice, he feels his grip around his mother tighten, bruised knuckles turning white against the light blue fabric of her clothing.

“No, darling. Your Papa isn’t dead.”

“Then why-- Why can’t I see him, Mama! I don’t understand,” The tears he tries so hard to fight are falling freely now, clouding his vision, chest heaving and breathing ragged, as if he can barely take in any air at all. There’s a hiccup or two, and two quickly turns into four or five, before suddenly he’s blubbering away, wailing helplessly as years of unspoken sorrows finally catch up to him, loneliness crashing through his small body in merciless waves he is much too young to comprehend. “Doesn’t he love me, Mama? Why isn’t he with us. Why.” She doesn’t respond. Instead, he feels the coolness of her forehead press against his own, her reassuring hands cupping his face, wiping away the tears that fall from his eyes, one after the other. When he meets her gaze, he swears he can feel the steady ache within her heart deepen, and it only causes his cries to become louder, more desolate.

“My sweet, little dragon,” She says with the lightest of trembles, warm, hazel eyes closing in shame, pain slowly washing over her once carefree features. “Am I not enough?”

And she is, and that is perhaps the only thing that manages to slowly ebb out the pain that has ruthlessly invaded his all too gentle heart, tears drying, lips still quivering. “Mama, was-- Is Papa a bad person? Does he--” He takes a deep breath, little hands moving over her own. “Does he hurt people?”

There's a pause.

“Yes.”

Watching his mother once again open her eyes to reveal the glassiness and untold pain that lies beneath thick lashes, he finally understands.

It’s the last he ever asks about the matter.