Chapter 7.5 : Fragmented Memories
(Reiji's backstory)
A potted plant is a tragic thing.
In the beginning, it feels free. It drinks the water, leans into the light, and trusts the hands that tend it. It doesn't yet know the shape of its own cage. But as its roots reach out, they hit the cold, unyielding ceramic end. What was once a home becomes a coffin. The plant doesn't die from lack of sun; it dies from the inside out because the one thing it needed was the one thing it was never allowed: freedom.
I sat by the window, watching my sapling. It was leaning so hard into the glass it looked like it was trying to phase through it. I wondered if it knew that even if it got through the glass, it was still stuck in that ceramic pot.
I could hear footsteps coming within the house.
Not rushed. Not uncertain. Heavy, uneven steps that dragged through the hallway like something refusing to decide whether it wanted to arrive or collapse halfway there.
And then.
The door didn't just open; it splintered against the wall.
My mother didn't scream at first. She just stood there, her frame so thin her clothes seemed to hang off her bones like a shroud. Her breath came in wet, shallow rattles—the sound of someone dying, and the sound of someone who wanted to take me with her.
"Answer me," she rasped, her voice like dry paper tearing. "Did you do the work I told you?"
"I am sorry I—"
She slapped me.
The slap didn't hurt. It just made my face feel hot and far away. I didn't look up. I looked at the floorboards, counting the dust motes in the air.
"You have time to waste tending that stupid weed, but when I give you a task, you can't do it."
She reached out, her fingers cold like marble. She threw the pot. It hit the floor with a dull thud, then the sharp tink of breaking ceramic. Dirt spilled out—damp and dark—across the wood.
I watched the roots. They were pale, thin, exposed to the air like tiny, shivering nerves. The sapling didn't move. It just lay there in the mess, still angled toward the window, still trying to find a sun it could no longer reach.
"Look at it," she hissed, her face inches from mine. "It's just like you. Pathetic. Broken. A mistake."
The next blow was heavy. It caught my jaw and sent me sprawling into the dirt. I didn't try to get up. I stayed there, my cheek pressed against the spilled earth. It felt cool. I could smell the dampness of the soil—the same soil I had watered every morning like it was a ritual.
I reached out, my fingers trembling, and touched one of the broken leaves.
It was soft.
Real.
"Everything I gave you!" she screamed, her voice breaking as her fists came down again and again.
I didn't fight back. I couldn't. My body folded in on itself out of instinct, knees pulled to my chest, arms shielding my head. The blows were dull, heavy—like they didn't just land on my skin, but sank deeper, somewhere I couldn't protect.
"I am wasting away in this bed while you do nothing!" she choked. "You think you're better than me? You think you can just grow and leave me here to rot?"
Each word struck harder than her hands.
Ever since my father died, something inside her had collapsed beyond repair. When he was alive, he stood between us—not loudly, not forcefully, but enough. A quiet barrier. The kind that made things stop before they went too far. He took the weight of her anger, her grief, her disappointment, and even looked after her when she couldn't walk due to her ailment. Now there was nothing left to absorb it—nothing left but me.
Poverty didn't arrive all at once. It seeped in, slow and suffocating, until it filled every corner of the house. The leaking roof, the empty cupboards, the silence between arguments—it all pressed in, day after day, until breathing itself felt like work. And in the middle of it, there was always her gaze. Blaming. Searching. Finding me.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Her fingers tangled into my hair and yanked my head back. Pain shot through my scalp, forcing my eyes open.
I saw her—not the person she used to be, not the mother I remembered in fragments that felt more like lies with each passing day. What stood over me now was something worn down to its bones—eyes hollow, face sunken, anger burning in a body that no longer had the strength to hold it.
"You're nothing," she said, her voice dropping into something quieter, more certain. "Just something I'm still paying for."
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
Her hand rose again.
And then it stopped.
The strength drained out of her all at once, like something inside her had finally snapped. The anger vanished from her face, replaced by something raw and terrified. Her body trembled, then folded, a broken gasp tearing out of her chest. She collapsed beside me, the sound of her hitting the floor echoing louder than it should have.
Then there was silence.
I stayed where I was, curled up, waiting. My body didn't understand that it was over. It stayed braced for the next shout, the next reason I had done something wrong just by existing. But nothing came.
Slowly, I lifted my head.
She was on the ground, her breaths shallow and uneven, each one sounding like it hurt—like it cost her something she didn't have left.
I should have helped her. The thought came, distant and hollow. I should have reached out, called her name, done something.
Instead, I stood.
My legs shook under me as I stumbled into the hallway. My hands moved before I could think, prying loose the floorboard behind the radiator. The money was still there—crumpled, hidden, untouched. Everything I had worked for. Sixteen-hour shifts. Nights without sleep. Days without food. A future I had quietly buried so this one could keep going just a little longer.
It was supposed to be for her medicine.
I stared at it.
Then I grabbed it and ran.
Before I left, I went into the kitchen. I opened the drawer and grabbed the small paring knife. It was the one I used whenever the frustration got too loud—the one I used to make small, stinging cuts on my arms just to feel something other than her voice screaming at me.
The weight of it felt familiar in a way that offered a grim sort of comfort. It was a reminder of the many nights spent trying to endure the silence of that house and the echoes of her anger. The blade was tucked away carefully, a small piece of a life that was now being abandoned.
Then the flight began.
The door slammed behind me, the sound cutting through the house like something final. The night air hit my lungs, cold and sharp, and for a moment I thought I might choke on it. But I kept running—past the houses, past the streetlights, past the school I hadn't stepped into for months. I didn't look at it, but I felt it there, like a reminder of someone I used to be.
Someone who still believed things would get better.
That person was gone.
A sob forced its way up my throat, but I swallowed it down. Crying wouldn't change anything. It never had.
I hated her. I hated her for the pain, for the words, for the way she looked at me like I was the reason everything had fallen apart. But even as the thought formed, something inside me twisted.
Because I remembered.
I remembered her hands when they didn't hurt. Her voice when it didn't break. The way she used to look at me before everything started falling apart.
The memory came without warning.
A storm, years ago.
The sky had split open like it was angry at the world. Thunder rolled so hard the windows trembled in their frames.
I remember being small. Small enough that the bed felt too big. Small enough that the dark felt endless.
Every flash of lightning turned the room into something unfamiliar. Something dangerous.
I had been crying before I even understood why.
Another thunderclap hit. I flinched so hard I nearly fell off the bed.
And then—I felt her.
She didn't rush. She never did. She just came in quietly, like she was stepping carefully through my fear so she wouldn't scare it any more than it already was.
The mattress dipped as she sat beside me.
For a moment, she just looked at me.
Not in frustration. Not in confusion.
Just… gently.
Then she reached out and brushed my hair back from my face.
"There you are," she said softly, like she was glad I was still here.
Another thunder crack shook the walls. I curled in tighter.
"It's too loud," I whispered.
"I know," she said, and her voice had that patient softness like she was talking to something small and frightened. "It feels big right now, doesn't it?"
Her hand found my back, slow and warm, moving in steady circles.
"It's just a storm," she said. "It can't think. It can't come in. It can't touch you."
I nodded a little, even though I didn't fully believe her.
She smiled faintly—tired, but gentle.
"Come here," she said, like it wasn't a request but a place I was always allowed to be.
She shifted and pulled me closer into her side. Not tight. Just enough that I could feel her warmth through the fear.
"There," she murmured. "That's it."
Her hand moved up, lightly holding the back of my head against her shoulder.
"If it gets loud again," she said, softer now, "just listen to me instead. You don't have to listen to anything else."
Another flash lit the room.
I flinched again.
She didn't react. She just held me a little steadier.
"I'm right here," she said. "I'm not going anywhere. Not until you feel safe again."
Her thumb brushed my hair in slow strokes, patient, like she had all the time in the world.
And slowly… the storm stopped feeling like it was inside the room.
At some point… I stopped crying.
The memory faded.
I slowed when I reached the crossroads. My chest burned. My ribs ached with every breath. My fingers tightened around the crumpled bills until they felt like they might tear.
To the left was the bus station—a way out. No more shouting, no more fear, no more waiting for the next thing to break.
To the right was the pharmacy, its flickering light cutting through the darkness like something fragile, unsteady, fading.
I stood there, unable to move.
If I left, I might never come back. If I stayed, nothing would change.
The money in my hand felt heavier than it should have—like it wasn't just paper, like it was a choice I wasn't ready to make.
And no matter which way I turned, something in me would be left behind.
The bell above the pharmacy door let out a cheerful, mocking chime as I stumbled inside. The pharmacist looked up, his eyes widening at my disheveled hair and the fresh welt across my face.
For a second, he just stared. Not moving. Not speaking.
I hated that pause more than anything.
I didn't give him a chance to ask. I slammed the crumpled, sweat-stained money onto the counter.
"The… the prescription," I wheezed, my voice cracking. "For the pain. The ones for bone metastasis. Please."
His gaze flicked from my face to the money, then back again. Something shifted in his expression—confusion first, then understanding he probably didn't want.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"Son," he started carefully, like he was stepping around broken glass. "Are you—"
"I just need it," I cut in, too fast, too sharp.
Silence again.
He looked at me for a long moment longer than necessary, like he was deciding whether to argue, whether to ask questions I didn't have answers for.
Then he exhaled through his nose.
"Wait here."
He turned away.
The back room light swallowed him.
I stayed leaning against the counter, my reflection staring back at me through the glass—messy hair, swollen jaw, eyes that didn't look like someone making a choice, only someone trapped inside one.
For a second, the glass wasn't glass.
It was a window at night. Rain tapping softly. A warm hand on my back moving in slow circles, telling me not to listen to the noise outside.
I blinked again.
The counter was cold.
Behind the counter, I could hear drawers opening. Bottles shifting. The quiet, indifferent sounds of medication being sorted like it didn't matter who it was for.
But it did.
It always did.
And I was still standing there.
When he came back, he didn't say much. Just set the small paper bag on the counter between us.
I pushed the crumpled money toward him before he could speak.
He hesitated—just for a second—then took it.
The register opened with a hollow click. Notes disappeared. Change clinked against the tray.
I didn't wait for it.
I grabbed the bag.
I left without remembering when I started moving.
The night outside felt sharper than before. Cold air cut into my lungs like it didn't want me breathing it. My grip on the bag tightened as I walked faster, then faster again, like stopping would make everything catch up to me.
The night air hit my lungs, cold and sharp, and for a moment I thought I might choke on it. But I kept running—past the houses, past the streetlights, past the school I hadn't stepped into for months.
Something slammed into my leg. I stumbled, barely catching myself as a blur of movement tore past me. A cat. Thin. Fast. Gone—except it wasn't.
My hand felt suddenly, horribly light. I looked down. The bag was gone.
For a second, my mind refused to understand. Then I saw it—just ahead, clutched in the animal's jaws, dragging against the ground as it ran.
"No—" The word tore out of me.
I ran. My legs screamed, my chest burned, but I ran anyway. The street tilted under my feet, the lights stretching into long, wavering lines. "Stop—! Hey!"
The cat didn't look back. It slipped between shadows, forcing me to follow where I couldn't see. My shoulder clipped a wall; pain flared, distant and irrelevant. I couldn't lose it. Not this. Not after everything.
"Please—" I choked, though I didn't know who I was begging anymore.
The bag scraped against the pavement, catching just enough to slow it. I pushed harder—
And then the sky broke.
Rain came down all at once, heavy, sudden, drenching everything. The ground slicked beneath my feet. My steps faltered.
The cat stopped.
Just like that. In the middle of the road, soaked, unmoving, the bag hanging slack from its jaws.
My steps slowed. Something wasn't right.
The rain blurred everything—but not it. Not the shape ahead.
Someone was standing there.
My mother.
Not the one from the floor. Not the voice that screamed or the hands that struck. This one was still. Whole. The rain didn't touch her.
The cat lowered its head. The bag slipped from its mouth, landing softly at her feet. Then it turned and disappeared into the dark like it had never been there at all.
I couldn't move.
"Mom…"
She smiled.
And I stepped forward like I didn't have a choice.
My vision didn't.
At first, I thought she was real.
She was standing at the end of the road.
Just there.
Like she had always been there.
My mother.
Not the one from the floorboards. Not the voice that screamed or the hands that shook.
This one was still.
Whole.
Her hair wasn't messy. Her face wasn't tired. She looked like she did in the memories I wasn't supposed to trust anymore.
And she was smiling.
At me.
My breath stopped.
"Mom…" I whispered, but it came out wrong. Too broken.
She stepped closer.
The rain didn't touch her.
It didn't touch anything about her.
"You came back," she said softly.
Her voice was warm.
Familiar.
The kind of warm that didn't ask for anything in return.
My knees almost gave out right there.
I didn't think.
I just moved.
I ran to her.
And she caught me.
Her arms wrapped around me like nothing had ever been wrong. Like nothing had ever broken. Like I wasn't something she had hurt or something she had blamed or something she had almost destroyed.
Just… her child.
I clung to her.
Hard.
Like if I let go she would disappear again.
"I'm sorry," I choked out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
"Hush," she whispered, running her hand through my hair.
Slow.
Gentle.
Exactly like I remembered.
"You don't have to be sorry," she said. "You're tired."
I shook in her arms.
I didn't even know I was crying until I couldn't breathe properly.
"Sssh, it's ok let it all out." she said.
And something inside me finally stopped holding itself together.
My legs gave out.
Her arms were still there as I collapsed, still holding me as everything went dark at the edges.
But even then—there was something I couldn't let go of.
The medicine.
The reason I couldn't afford to fall yet.
I tried to stay awake.
I tried to keep my eyes open, to hold on just a little longer—just enough to make sure it reached her, just enough to make sure I didn't fail here too.
My fingers twitched like they were still gripping it even as my strength left me.
And still—her arms didn't let me fall completely.
And the last thing I felt—was her hand on my head.
And her voice again.
"I love you."