cinderella
gojo is the first one to notice your wounds.
(!) warning: self-harm/non-suicidal self-injury (nssi), domestic and financial abuse, exploitation.
the dense, humid air of the march afternoon feels sticky against your skin. you’re on your knees on the kitchen floor, the coldness of the tiles seeping through your thin school uniform. a damp, grimy rag in your hand slides over the linoleum, picking up rice crumbs from your brother’s lunch and sauce stains from your sister’s. the scent of citrus detergent mingles with the residue of grilled fish that still permeates the house –a smell that seems to have permanently settled into your hair and clothes.
from the living room, you hear the shrill laughter of your older brother, kenji, as he plays his video game console –an expensive one that was well out of the budget, but which your father had decided to buy without blinking twice. the sound of digital explosions and thunderous victories serves as the constant soundtrack to your labor. your little sister, sekai, is watching cartoons, her high-pitched, cheerful voice singing along to the opening theme of some trendy anime. they are two worlds of noise and joy, while you exist in the third, oppressive silence of the kitchen.
your back aches. you’ve been in this position since you got home from school nearly two hours ago. the heavy backpack, filled with books you’ve barely been able to open today, rests by the door –a silent reminder of a future that seems to fade with every minute you spend scrubbing the floor.
you look at the wall clock, a square, unadorned thing your father bought at a 100-yen store. the hands move with agonizing slowness. there are only thirty minutes left until your mother returns from her part-time job at the local supermarket. thirty minutes until your second shift begins.
you close your eyes for a moment. only in that darkness can you see yourself in a white coat, a stethoscope around your neck, saving lives, diagnosing illnesses in time, doing good for humanity, being someone important. someone whose name isn't just ‘the middle one’ or ‘you, bring me this’. it’s a dream you’ve nourished in secret, hiding anatomy books borrowed from the school library under your mattress, reading them by the light of your phone when everyone else in the house is already asleep.
the sound of the front door interrupts your thoughts. it’s your mother. and as is her custom, she doesn’t greet you. she simply leaves her keys on the entryway table and walks toward the kitchen. she stops at the threshold, and you can feel her gaze evaluating you, judging the progress of your cleaning.
"still not finished?" her voice is flat, devoid of emotion, as always.
"almost, mom. just the back area left."
"hurry up. i need to start preparing dinner. and go iron your father’s shirts. he needs them for tomorrow."
you nod without saying a word. there is nothing to say. you lift the bucket of dirty water and pour it down the sink drain. just as you finish, your father enters the house. he is a large man, with a presence that fills the room and crushes it. he removes his shoes with a weary sigh and sits directly at the living room table.
"sekai! kenji!" he shouts. "come eat dinner!"
your mother already has the table set. four plates. four bowls of rice. four pairs of chopsticks. but one of them is smaller, with a lesser portion. it’s as if the fourth place exists for you only out of obligation.
you sit in the only empty chair, the one at the end of the table, far from everyone else. you serve the rice and the miso soup, your hands moving with a speed learned through years of practice. dinner passes in the usual silence, save for your mother's questions to kenji about his day at school and your father's stories about his coworkers. no one cares about yours. no one asks.
suddenly, your father sets his chopsticks down on the plate with a sharp click. everyone goes silent.
he looks directly at you, and his eyes, which usually pass through you as if you were transparent, are fixed on your face.
"i brought the mail in today," his voice says, low and heavy. "your grades came."
your heart stops beating. you knew. you had seen the envelope with the school seal on the entryway table, but you hadn't had the courage to open it. you knew they weren't good. how could they be? you spend your nights doing laundry, cleaning, serving. you study in stolen fragments of time –on the bus to school, during breaks when you’re not running errands for your brother, late at night when sleep finally overtakes you.
"well?" your mother asks, without looking at you.
your father pulls a folded paper from his pocket and spreads it out on the table. he doesn't read it; he simply leaves it there, like proof of your failure.
"a 4 in math. a 5 in science. what’s the point of you going to school if you can’t even pass the most important subjects?"
"i’ve been studying, father." you manage to say, your voice a trembling whisper. "it’s just that i don’t have time, with everything i–"
"time?" he mocks. "your brother has time to practice with the baseball club and still gets good grades. your sister has time for her piano lessons and is the best in her class. we scrape the coins from our pockets to give you all the best, and they do value the sacrifices. time is not the problem. the problem is you."
the words hit you like physical punches. they have invested the minimum in you while burdening you with the maximum, and yet, you are the one who doesn't know how to manage.
"we’ve already spent enough on you with middle school." your father continues, and now his voice grows colder, sharper. "high school is expensive. good prep schools for university are a luxury. and for what, if you’re only going to fail?"
your mother agrees in silence, cutting a piece of fish and placing it on kenji’s plate.
"your mother and i have been talking." your father keeps through, and every word is a nail pinning you to the floor. "it’s time you start truly contributing to this family. you will leave school after you finish this year. we will find a full-time job for you. some office work, perhaps. or in a factory. something that doesn't require a brain that is useless for studying."
the world stops. the hum of the air conditioner, the murmur of the television, the crunch of sekai chewing with her mouth open... it all fades away. only their cruel decision remains, echoing in your skull.
the dream of the white coat shatters. the stethoscope breaks into a thousand pieces. university, the career, the life you imagined –the only engine that kept you going, it all burns and turns to ashes from which no phoenix will rise, because you're not one. you’re not a person with a future. you’re a resource that has been exhausted. you’re an unnecessary expense. you’re a disappointment.
perhaps your father is right. you didn't try hard enough. you didn't memorize the periodic table or the anatomy of plants right. and those were such simple things at such a basic level; if you couldn't make simple associations, how would you ever treat patients, knowing for certain you would cause them some kind of harm?
you look up and see kenji cutting his meat, pretending he isn't noticing the drama. you see sekai toying with her miso broth, oblivious to the meaning of the sentence they’ve handed down to you. you see your mother looking at her plate, a silent accomplice. no one intervenes. no one is on your team. no one ever was.
"understood." you say. no tears. not yet. just a cold, enormous void where your hope used to be.
you finish dinner in silence. you do the dishes, as always. you clean the kitchen, as always. you prepare the bath for your father and brother, as always. every movement is mechanical, automatic, because it’s the only information your brain has successfully processed and learned.
you go up to your room, located right near the attic; it’s the smallest space in the house, a forgotten corner where the summer heat pools and the winter cold seeps in without mercy. there is only one small window that looks out onto the neighbor’s roof, and through it comes nothing but a faint orange glow from the streetlights. your bed is a narrow futon on worn tatami mats. next to it is a small metal shelf with your few textbooks, all of them with dog-eared corners and frayed covers. and under the bed, in a shoebox, lies your treasure: the borrowed anatomy book, with its full-color illustrations of muscles and bones –a map of a body you will never actually get to observe.
you close the door with a soft click. there is no lock, but it’s the only act of privacy you can afford. you sit on the edge of the futon, and for a few minutes, you just stay there, staring fixedly at the wood grain of the door. your body is still, but inside there is a storm of panic and despair.
your father killed you. he didn't kill your body, but he killed the person you could have become. all that silent struggle, all those sleepless nights, all those moments where you endured hunger because there wasn't enough food for you after serving the others... it has all been in vain.
the pain starts in your chest, becoming a physical weight that makes it difficult to breathe. it’s a beast inside you, a creature made of years of neglect, of silent insults, and the certainty that you were never enough. the beast writhes, claws, searches for a way out, but there is none. screaming would do no good; it would only bring more trouble. you can’t cry either, though you try with all your might to find some release. you spring up, driven by a feverish, desperate energy. washing your face will help, or so you think, but your hands are already searching for the bottle of pills your mother took for sleep –or something, anything to distract you from the helplessness you feel in this moment.
you open the sink drawer. inside, next to old toothbrushes and nearly empty tubes of cream, is your father’s old shaving box –the one he left there because it took up space in his room, and yours is a perfect storage closet. you open it with clumsy fingers. the metal blades gleam under the fluorescent light, sharp and promising. you don't think twice.
on impulse, you sit on the toilet lid with the box in your lap and take out one of the small, almost insignificant blades. you hold it between your thumb and forefinger, watching how the light reflects off its edge. it looks as peaceful as the sunrise projecting onto the sea's surface, the way waves welcome the glints of light.
you roll up the left sleeve of your school uniform –the one you haven't been able to take off because you haven't had a single breath even to go to the bathroom. the skin of your wrist is pale and smooth; the veins are a very pretty aquamarine color –attractive, seductive. you don't think. you simply act.
you press the cold edge of the metal against your skin. there is a brief sting, a puncture that is almost trivial. then, you slide the blade horizontally.
the pain is sharp and immediate. it’s a clean cut, not very deep, but deep enough. for an instant, the dull, constant ache of loneliness and hopelessness doesn't exist, only the pain of your skin breaking, just like everything inside you that is already broken. a drop of blood forms, bright and dark. it grows, gets heavy, and then begins to trickle slowly downward, tracing a warm, wet path along your forearm.
you watch it, fascinated. it’s the first honest thing that has happened to you all day. the first proof that you feel, that you are not invisible, that you are alive –because you bleed. it’s a hypnotic red that releases adrenaline and dopamine you’d never experienced before.
it hurts, of course, but it also leaves a sensation of strange calm. for this pain, you can use a cold compress with antiseptic to make it better; the other pain, however, hides like a coward and worsens every time you open your eyes. you have power over this pain, not over the other. you have found a way to control it, to give it a face and a place.
you wipe the blade with a piece of toilet paper and put it back in its box. as you pull your sleeve down, you wonder if it was the right place to do it and if you’ve had your tetanus shot, because you know this first cut won't be the last –not when it’s the only comfort you can provide for yourself.
-
three years have passed.
you are eighteen years old and you work at a cannery on the outskirts of the city. the work is repetitive, exhausting, and loud. you spend nine hours a day on your feet, on an assembly line, placing metal lids onto tuna cans that pass by on an endless belt.
the money from your paycheck goes directly into an account your mother manages. they give you a small weekly allowance for transportation, and nothing more. you live in the same house, in the same room.
your future is the weather report, your present is the implacable assembly line, and your past is a 4 in a biology exam.
the cuts are not daily, though they are frequent. you have learned to be discreet; one hot day when you wore a short-sleeved shirt, your mother saw them while you were serving tea. her reaction was not one of worry, but of irritation.
"and what’s that stupidity?" she asked with a grimace of disgust, gesturing toward the maroon line with her chin. "be careful. if you get an infection or cut too deep and die, the funeral will be very expensive. and don't you dare do that to us; we aren't going to shoulder the expenses of a daughter who died because she was clumsy."
your father, from behind his newspaper, added without looking up: "just one more burden, as if we didn't have enough."
that was how you learned the cuts had to migrate. now they hide in the soft skin of your upper thighs –a territory no one’s allowed to see. there, you can be more generous with yourself.
the lines are longer, sometimes so deep that fatty tissue surfaces and must be hidden beneath the fabric of your work uniforms and pajama pants. it’s a ritual you perform in the bathroom with the door closed, using a disposable razor blade stolen from your father’s pack or a pencil sharpener you disassemble with a patience you don't actually have –but it’s worth it when your skin opens and you feel the outside world fade away.
but sometimes, the blade isn't enough. sometimes, panic or rage strikes you in the middle of a work shift, or during a silent and oppressive family dinner, and you need immediate, more subtle relief. that was how you discovered the magic of friction.
at the factory, you use a pencil eraser. you rub it hard against the back of your hand, over and over, until the skin reddens, then blisters, and finally opens into a small, round burn. it is a sharper pain because the action takes its time; it isn't instantaneous. and when they ask, you have the perfect answer: "i burned myself in the kitchen, with a pan." no one doubts you. why would they? you’re the cook and the cleaner. it’s a believable excuse.
other times, you need a more blunt pain. when rage boils in your chest –a black, thick rage against your circumstances, against your life, against yourself–, you seek impact. you let the heavy wooden drawer where you keep your clothes slip from your hands and fall onto your bare feet. the sharp pain that shoots through your metatarsal bones is a shock that jars you and pulls you back to the present. or, if you’re feeling particularly brave, you jump from the tatami and land on your knees on the hard floor. the dull thud and the pain radiating through your legs, leaving you writhing on the ground, is a punishment you deserve –a way to discharge the destructive energy that threatens to consume you from within.
on the very bad days, when the anger is a beast that cannot be contained with cuts or burns, you attack yourself directly. you bite your arms, leaving a row of purple tooth marks on your forearm –a desperate bite into your own flesh. or you strike your head with your fists, against the wall, over and over, until the weight in your chest has subsided, your vision has brightened, and the energy has drained completely, leaving you empty and trembling on the futon. it’s the only way to calm the storm.
one saturday afternoon, you come out of the shower –with a fresh cut at ankle level–, wrapped in a fraying towel. the door bursts open without a warning knock, and sekai, now eleven, appears holding up her new doll to show it off, but she stops dead when she sees you. her gaze travels over your body. of course, the bruises from the blows on your arms are visible –a collage of purple and yellowish moles in various stages of healing. a recent eraser burn gleams on the back of your hand, red and sensitive.
"onee-chan, what’s wrong with you?" she asks, her voice a mixture of worry and sadness. "you’re hurt."
you look away, blushing slightly. is it from shame, or because the desire for someone –anyone– to see your pain has finally been fulfilled? the expression vanishes before it can take shape. instead, you find yourself reciting a line you’ve rehearsed in your head –a poetic, nonsensical justification.
"no, princess. do you remember that paintings are made on a canvas?" you extend your hand so she can take it, and she does, hesitantly. "my body is a canvas, and i’m just trying to paint it."
sekai frowns, confused. she doesn't understand what is pretty about that, but she quickly plants little kisses on the visible wounds and her small arms wrap around your neck, without letting go of her most prized possession.
"you’re the prettiest, even with those things." she says, her voice high and sweet. "if you get hurt, i’m right here to heal you."
you stay there, motionless, returning the embrace with a single hand. her words hurt you more than what you are already feeling. because in her eyes, there isn't a single flaw, but you know well that your art is trash. your body is trash. you are trash. the canvas is stained, the paint is ugly, and the artist is useless.
-
"security guard. requirements: 18 years old, high school diploma." you read it one day on an advertisement in a crowded train on the oedo line. it was the lowest possible bar, the minimum requirement society demanded of you –a constant reminder that your value was that of a mass that did nothing but occupy space: expendable and replaceable.
you submitted your application. the interview was a mere formality, as the contract was immediate. they needed staff urgently, and the fact that you were young and female was no impediment to getting the job. the uniform –a coarse fabric in a blue that pretended to be authoritative– didn't feel like a symbol of justice or authority. it felt like a prison of another kind, a set of rules and expectations that trapped you in a new role of servitude.
after a thirty-hour induction course in a classroom filled with other faces just as desperate as yours, you were assigned your post: access control for cargo and service personnel in an ultra-luxury corporate building in roppongi hills. but they didn't send you to the polished marble lobby or the offices with views of tokyo bay, of course not. they sent you to the basement, behind a gray formica counter, with a rickety office chair and a monitor showing six different angles of concrete and cars.
it was 3:22 in the morning. you were eight hours into your shift, and sleep, naturally, was pulling you down. you had tried everything: mentally reviewing the krebs cycle, each step that once fascinated you in science class; going to the bathroom to splash cold water on your face –the shock lasted barely a minute; drinking coffee from the vending machine, a bitter, chemical liquid that tasted like plastic and conformity. nothing worked.
upon leaving there, at seven in the morning, only your mother's shouts awaited you because the rice wouldn't be ready, along with more mountains of dirty laundry. being here wasn't so bad by comparison. your head drops forward, the monotonous hum of the fluorescent lights creating a lullaby.
clack!
the sound explodes like dynamite in the closed, silent space. a black leather glove strikes the formica surface with force, just centimeters from your face. you jump in your chair, an involuntary spasm of pure fright.
your eyes snap open, disoriented, focusing first on the perfectly stitched gloved hand, then traveling up an arm encased in a black fabric of insulting quality –a textile that absorbs light rather than reflecting it. the fabric, which likely costs five years of your salary, fits a muscular, defined arm. you continue to look up, passing a broad shoulder, until you find a face.
a tall man, with white hair tinged with lilac in the shadows and an undercut. his eyes, behind rectangular polarized sunglasses, peek out flirtatiously with a playful spark; they are a brilliant blue, almost electric, and they look at you with a mix of amusement and something colder, more analytical. a frisky yet cynical smile curves his lips.
"good morning, sleeping beauty." his mocking voice comes out like a silken sigh. "i'm glad to know the building is in such good and vigilant hands."
you remain silent, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.
"i... i'm sorry, sir. it was only a second, i..." you stammer. your mind, still dulled by sleep, cannot form a coherent sentence.
"a second is all it takes." the man in black interrupts, leaning both hands on the counter, invading your personal space. "in my world, a second of distraction is a life. you’re the first line of defense for this basement, and you're drooling on the desk."
he looks you up and down, lingering on your uniform that is a bit too large, on your hair pulled back in a rush.
"what a disappointment." he continues with cruel frankness. "if you're going to fall asleep on the job, at least have the decency to do it where you won't be in the way. it's unsightly and unprofessional."
he pauses to adjust his leather gloves with a slow, deliberate movement. "clean your face. you have a mark from the chair on your cheek."
he doesn't wait for a response. he straightens up and turns away as if he has already forgotten you. just then, another man –older and in a suit– hastens down the loading ramp, followed by two other bodyguards just as imposing as the first. the white-haired man moves with feline grace, positioning himself between the client and the exit door, his eyes scanning every shadow.
it was a three-second error. your lapse. the moment your attention vanished. and he had seen it all.
as the group disappears through the emergency door toward the armored convoy waiting in the street, he stops at the threshold. he turns back to you one last time. his smile has vanished, and now his blue eyes observe you with an intensity that completely disarms you. there’s no mockery now, only a cold and penetrating evaluation.
"you have a job as simple as guarding a door. do it better." he mutters neutrally. "next time, it might not be me who finds you asleep."
and with that, he vanishes. the metal door closes with a heavy, final thud, leaving you alone again in the silence of the basement.
-
the days turned into a torture of anticipation.
the physical exhaustion remained the same –a dead weight on your bones at the end of each twelve-hour shift–, but now there was a new element of stress.
occasionally, without warning, the white-haired man would appear in your basement. not always with his client. sometimes he came down alone to ‘review security protocols’, but you knew it was to ensure you were contributing and earning the taxes you cost.
his blue eyes would rest on you for moments. they weren't looks of curiosity or interest, but looks that judged you, that dismantled your weary posture, your wrinkled uniform, the dark circles that makeup could no longer hide. each of those looks was a nail, and each reprimand from your superiors –who now seemed to watch you more closely by his order– was the hammer that drove them in. and each time, there was a new scar in your collection of battles.
the canvas of your thighs had become too small, saturated with white lines crossing over the pink scars of the previous week. for that reason, you began to colonize the curve of your hips and the soft, vulnerable skin of your abdomen. that area was thinner, and the slightest movement –laughing at a joke of sekai's, bending over to pick up kenji’s plates, or simply breathing deeply when panic struck– sent an electric tug from the center of your body.
other times, you stole the cigarettes your father left forgotten in the living room ashtray. in the solitude of the bathroom, with the door closed and the extractor fan on to mask the smell, you pressed the incandescent tip against the skin of your lower back. the ravenous heat devoured layers of your skin until it left a red, throbbing crater. the smell of burnt flesh mingled with the kitchen detergent, creating a fragrance that only you could identify as that of your own destruction.
even when you didn't have a tool at hand, your body found a way to sabotage itself. your fingernails, which once dreamed of holding a scalpel with precision, were now just bloody stumps. you bit them with such fury that the raw flesh was exposed, making the simple act of buttoning your security uniform an exercise in pure agony.
and when the rage against your mother or the humiliation from that arrogant bodyguard became a physical knot in your throat, your hands would go to your head by pure instinct. you would wind strands of hair around your fingers and pull with feverish strength, enjoying the crunch of roots detaching from your scalp. every strand torn out was a thought you managed to extract.
one morning, when you finally return home, sweaty and exhausted, the universe decides to pull the puppets' strings to laugh in your face once again. you step into the main elevator, the polished steel one that is normally forbidden to you, but it was empty and you just wanted to get to the street as quickly as possible. just as the doors are closing, a gloved hand stops them, and he –the man who always wears those dark glasses and is irritatingly attractive– steps in.
he stands beside you; the distance between you in the small space is intimate and suffocating. his cologne reeks of an overwhelming economic status that you couldn't possess even in your best dreams, and his freshly glossy shoes look exactly like the kind that could crush you like an ant until you become a speck of dust. he doesn't look at you, of course; he simply stares ahead, but his presence is so overwhelming that the air grows thick.
the elevator begins to ascend. only four floors to reach the ground level, only four torturous floors before you can run out.
and then, with a jolt and a screech, it stops dead. the lights flicker for a moment before lighting up with a dim red emergency glow. silence.
"not now, please." you mutter to yourself.
an electronic voice with some interference crackles from the speaker: "apologies for the inconvenience. we have experienced a mechanical failure. maintenance staff is on the way. we estimate a repair time of approximately two hours."
two hours. two hours trapped in a 1.54 square meter metal box with this man.
panic hits you like a wave. your mind, in its desperation, clings to the immediate consequences. your parents. you'll be two hours late. your mother will scream, your father will look at you with that sickly contempt. breakfast won't be ready. your brother will complain, your sister won't stop asking you questions.
then, your gaze falls upon your feet. you remember some stockings you saw at the mall –charcoal gray, with delicate lace at the top that made you feel, for an instant, like a normal person, like someone who could have beautiful things. but you can't actually buy them, because the value of your time isn't yours, but belongs to the family you didn't choose to be part of. you don't see a single cent of your money. and now, because of this delay, your mother will demand that you request an extra bonus, and the shame will be unbearable.
anxiety climbs up your trachea like acid. you begin to sweat –a cold sweat that soaks your back under the uniform jacket. your hands become clammy. you need a way out. you need to feel something else, something you can control.
without realizing it, you start to scratch. you scratch your arm through the fabric of the jacket, over and over, with short, damaged nails that haven't grown a millimeter since the last time you bit them. there’s no relief. you tear at yourself harder, with more desperation, jaw tense, eyes fixed on the closed metal doors.
"you should take off the jacket." he mumbles, limiting himself to looking sideways at your circus act, unimpressed.
you startle. you’d forgotten for a moment that you had company. he is sitting on the floor, legs crossed, completely unconcerned, as if he were in a park instead of a broken elevator.
"no, thanks. it's not hot." you lie, the tension palpable in the very tone of your voice.
"i didn't tell you because of the heat," he says, and his gaze shifts from your face to your arm, which you are still scratching fiercely. "you're sweating and you're hurting yourself. it's obvious you're nervous. are you claustrophobic?"
the direct comment demobilizes you. you lower your hand immediately, as if you’d been caught stealing. you feel the blood rush to your cheeks, a mix of guilt and rage.
"i'm fine."
"you're not. you're about to have a panic attack, and the jacket isn't helping. take it off." his tone isn't a suggestion. it's an order, said with the same calmness with which one would thank a waiter for bringing an order to the table. there’s an authority in his voice you cannot defy –one you recognize from all your bosses, but multiplied by a thousand. and it is worse in the same proportion.
"i don't want to." you repeat, weaker this time.
he sighs, a sound of bored exasperation. he stands up with impossible fluidity, and suddenly he is far too close. he pins you against the elevator wall. he doesn't touch you, but his body creates a barrier you cannot cross. his blue eyes look down at you, and all the amusement has vanished, replaced by a frigid impatience.
"i don't like repeating myself." he raises an eyebrow, jokes aside. "either you take off the jacket voluntarily, or i'll take it off for you. and i don't think you want me to touch you. so choose. now."
who is this clown to force you? fear paralyzes you because of the certainty that he is capable of doing what he says, and no one would stop him. your resistance crumbles. with trembling hands, you begin to pull the zipper down, and time stretches to infinity.
finally, you manage to open it. you slide the jacket off your shoulders and let it fall to your waist, where you tie it clumsily, as if it were a life jacket keeping you afloat. you’d forgotten to wear a long-sleeved shirt, so you stand there in short sleeves. the cool air of the elevator hits your arms without the shield of the polyester.
his eyes shift to your arms, inevitably. there is no leniency in his gaze, but no judgment either. he sees the circular burns on the backs of your hands; he notices the destroyed nails and the purple, half-healed bite marks on your forearms. he sees the fresh red scratches you just gave yourself. he says nothing at first.
he is so accustomed to the perfection of expensive suits and efficiency that standing before a body treated like a waste container seems alien to him. why would someone go through life with that kind of mutilation? he could never understand it.
in silence, he takes two steps back and sits on the floor again.
"so this is what you do when you're not asleep?" he snorts ironically, analyzing the deactivated elevator buttons. "creepy. is it some kind of punishment? because there are people who channel their frustration better, and i hate to tell you this, but many have problems far more serious than yours."
the silence that follows his words is sepulchral. your hands tremble with a violence you cannot hide. you try to untie the jacket to cover yourself again, but your numb fingers fail to hook into the fabric. you huddle in the opposite corner, pressing your back against the cold mirror, desperately avoiding his glare. the humiliation of being accused by the man who represents everything you could never be –perfection, power, freedom– was the deepest invisible cut of all.
-
an hour passes.
the intercom only emits occasional static. the fluorescent light flickers for a few seconds, casting long shadows over the mess of marks on your arms.
"i'm sorry." he says out of nowhere, mortified by guilt. "i shouldn't have blurted out such stupidity."
he seems annoyed, scratching the back of his neck, though he sounds sincere.
"i've always believed weak people have the choice not to be, and they don't take it. that's why i despise them." he pauses, sighing heavily. "i suppose that wasn't right."
what kind of apology is that? you don't feel moved, but you nod with that empathy you feel for everyone but yourself, sliding against the metal and letting yourself fall into the corner, hugging your knees.
"did someone do that to you, or was it you?" he asks, with a somber expression.
"it's none of your business." you respond sharply, looking at him with distrust.
he shrugs. "we've got a long time. might as well kill time somehow."
he has a good point. the most surprising thing about the situation is that it's the first time you've had a small moment to let your mind go blank and do nothing. it's in this moment that you discover you haven't been granted a single minute of your adolescence to enjoy, to have hobbies, to simply idle.
then, sentimentality takes hold of you, and before you can cover your mouth, you are vomiting everything that has burdened you for more than half a decade.
"it's not that i wanted to be a guard," you begin, feeling chills as your own confession bounces off the walls. "i wanted to be a doctor. or a veterinarian. i liked the smell of antiseptic because it meant something was healing. do you think someone with better opportunities would choose such a grueling and low-paying job? just as you despise the weak, i despise the ignorant who speak from their privilege."
you let out a dry laugh that sounds more like a choked sob.
"my grades started dropping in middle school, not because i was stupid, but because i couldn't read about reproduction and algebra if i had to scrub the floor until two in the morning. if they saw me with a book, my mother would throw it away. she said studying was for people with money, that i was just another mouth to feed and my only function was to be useful. to be a tool. but they never said the same to my brothers."
you squeeze your knees, trying to shrink even more, feeling the tug of the cuts on your hip.
"i never had toys, let alone a cell phone. kenji has his console, sekai has her doll castles... and i have this uniform that itches my skin and digestive problems from stress. i work twelve hours here, and when i leave, i work another six at home without rest. and money..." you bite your lip until the metallic taste of blood floods your mouth. "i don't see a single yen. it all goes to my mother's account. the other day i saw some gray stockings, so beautiful for winter... and i started crying in the middle of the street like a dumbass because i realized that even if i work until i die, i'll never be able to buy even a thread on my own."
he doesn't interrupt. his silence feels like a permission granted to continue emptying yourself.
"that's why i do it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the mess of your arms and abdomen. "because everything in my life belongs to someone else. my time, my money, my future... it's all theirs. but the pain... the pain is only mine. no one can take it from me. when i cut myself, or when i burn myself, it's the only moment when i decide what happens to me. besides, i counteract the emotional pain with the physical. if i didn't, i don't think i could tolerate it. and i'm not allowed to kill myself either because it would be a waste of money. though if i did, they wouldn't bother burying me; they'd abandon me in a pit where other unclaimed bodies lie."
you finish the sentence and the silence falls again, blacker than before. you feel naked after handing your misery over on a silver platter to the man who an hour ago made you feel pathetic. you expect him to mock you, to tell you it's a weak excuse, but you only hear his ragged breathing in the dimness of the elevator.
he stays staring at you, and for the first time in his life, he doesn't know what to say. your wings had been clipped before you learned to fly, and now, you only used the bruised feathers to have a bit of control over your own fall.
"if it's hell... why do you stay?" he asks, stripped of sarcasm. "you're eighteen. you have a job. you could rent a room anywhere on the periphery, disappear from their radar. why let them continue draining you until there's nothing left of you?"
you shake your head with a sad smile that doesn't reach your eyes. "if i leave... who will take care of sekai? if i leave, she'll be the next one who has to scrub the floor and leave school." the mere thought makes your stomach churn. "and they're my family, the only thing i know. and i love them. if they don't accept me, why would anyone else?"
he snorts and runs a hand through his white hair, messing it up for the first time. "that's what i don't understand." he says, staring at you. "love isn't a debt you're born owing. love is earned, built, deserved. it's not given by default just because you share a surname, blood, or a roof. what you call love sounds more like a contract of slavery you never signed."
he looks at the elevator ceiling, as if his own past were being projected like a movie there.
"i was trained to be a machine since i could remember." he declares, removing his glasses as if they were the bulletproof glass shielding him. "there were no fairy tales in my childhood, only combat manuals and survival tactics. i was military because that's what was expected of someone strong. they trampled on me, used me like a chess piece in kings’ wars that weren't mine, and demanded i give my life for people who didn't even know my name."
he looks at his gloved hands, clenching his fists.
"and you know what i did? i got tired of being someone else's dog. i quit and became a private guard because here the money is more for less effort and loyalty is a business, not a sentimental obligation. i got up every damn time they knocked me down, but i did it for myself, not for them."
he finally stands up, shaking out his legs that remained cramped for so long.
"at the end of the road, when you die, you're not going to take your parents' thanks with you, nor the sacrifice you made for your sister. you're going to go alone. and the only thing you'll have left is the gratification, or the regret, of having made the best decisions for yourself. i decided not to be a victim. i decided no one else was going to decide when i eat, when i sleep, or how much i'm worth. if i live for others, i die before my time. you're already dead inside, and the worst part is you do it for 'love', but you're confusing it with morality, because love will never leave you like this: resigned and stagnant."
the metallic sound of the mechanism forcing itself open breaks the spell they were submerged in. the light from the hallway, much brighter and warmer than the artificial light of the silver box, floods the cubicle, forcing you to squint. outside, there is a small committee: sweaty maintenance technicians and an administrative representative of the building, falling over themselves with apologies and bows.
"we are so terribly sorry! a fault in the voltage regulator... please, accept this as a small compensation for the inconvenience and lost time." says the man in the suit, extending two envelopes with the complex's golden logo.
it's a modest reward, but for you, those bills represent hours of sleep you won't have to sacrifice this week. however, panic hits you before gratitude: your battered skin is exposed for everyone to see, and it won't be long before they make gestures of disgust.
before you can react, you feel a firm, warm weight on your shoulders. the guy with whom you shared secrets wraps his own jacket around you with a speed your eyes can barely follow. without saying a word, he places it over you, covering the map of your misery with the navy blue fabric. his hands linger an extra second on your shoulders, making sure the lapels hide your forearms well before the technicians get too close.
"she feels a little dizzy from the confinement," he announces, his voice regaining that cold, professional baritone tone. "give her space."
he takes his envelope with indifference and tucks it into his thousand-dollar trousers pocket. then, he looks at you one last time. there is no trace of the vulnerability of a few minutes ago; he has put his own armor of perfection back on.
"do yourself a favor." he whispers, so low only you can hear as he walks toward the exit. "use that money for yourself. not for food, not for your brother. for something that is yours alone."
he stops for a moment, his back to you, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and strides down the hallway with a firm step, leaving behind the coolness of his breath and the brutality of his truths.
you stay there, clutching the jacket against your chest, feeling the envelope in your hand and the stinging of your wounds beneath the fabric, wondering if you’ll ever have the courage to be as ‘selfish’ as he is.
-
you locked yourself in the tiny laundry room with the borrowed jacket, which had an elegant "gojo satoru" embroidered on it. everyone is asleep. you use the most expensive detergent, the one your mother only allows for the 'guest' sheets, and you rubbed the fabric with a delicacy you had never applied to your own skin. as it dries, gojo's fragrance invades the space, a tactile reminder that someone had asked about you for the first time in your life.
you kept it hidden in a plastic bag under your futon, protecting it from the vultures in your family who, had they seen it, would have tried to sell it or claim it as their own.
you've gone five days without drawing on your skin. it's the peak of the calm, that moment where the scars are closed but the mind starts to itch again. your nails have grown barely a millimeter, enough for the edge to feel sharp against your fingertips.
gojo has kept his word. now he doesn't just stop by to supervise that the s4 motion sensors are working; he stops by to scan you.
"you're still in one piece." he says one early morning, leaning on the counter with that characteristic arrogance. "five days is a personal record, i suppose."
he doesn't congratulate you. for gojo, being okay is the norm, not an achievement worthy of applause. but his way of encouraging you is practical, almost robotic, as if he were giving maintenance to a vending machine he wants to see working.
little by little, the security counter fills with strange, unnecessary luxuries. first, it was a purple silicone stress ball that you squeezed until your knuckles turned white, substituting the need to grip a box cutter. then, a professional rubik's cube, the kind that turns with a satisfying click.
"use it," he ordered you. "your hands need to be busy. if you manage to solve one side, maybe you'll stop looking like a psychiatric patient for five minutes."
he even brought you bubble wrap. the sound of the pops under your fingers was so pleasant that it calmed the noise of your mother's screams still echoing in your ears.
another early morning, the old radio from the warehouse was tuned to a station barely audible through the static. you were humming dino's the real thing, almost without realizing it, as much as your ability allowed you to follow a rap track.
gojo appeared out of nowhere, as always. he didn't say anything at that moment.
tonight, he leaves something on the counter, indifferent. it's a dino from seventeen keychain. by pressing a small button, it lights up with a crisp, white led light that changes color depending on how many times you press it.
"here." he speaks, lowering his glasses a centimeter. "by the way, your radio sounds like a rooster that forgot how to crow, and your voice isn't much better."
you look at the keychain and feel your own eyes lighting up. it's a gift from someone you barely know but who has learned to read you. a gift no one’s going to take from you, an object you don't have to share with kenji or hide from sekai.
tears ruin your mascara, and gojo observes you for a second longer than necessary. his expression doesn't soften, but a sly smile betrays his stone mask.
"don't lose it. and don't cry. it's so you can light the way when you decide to get out of here."
he walks away, leaving you alone with the small light of dino blinking in the palm of your hand.
-
"where did you get this?" your mother holds up the envelope you’d hidden under the mattress. the venom in her tone is as familiar as the smell of acrylic on her hands. "a second-rate security guard doesn't receive 'tips' of this size for watching a door."
"it was a thank you. the elevator stopped and..." you try to explain, taking a step forward with your hand extended, your heart thrashing like an earthworm sprinkled with salt.
"reward?" she lets out an incredulous laugh that makes you feel dirty. "don't lie. we know what kind of men pass through that building. what did you have to sell for them to give you this envelope? what part of yourself did you give them to be so selfish and hide money from the family that supports you? you are ungrateful and a leech."
that’s the straw that broke the camel's back. how dare she throw such an accusation at you, especially when you’d broken your back trying to please them? you lunge to try and snatch the envelope from her, but before your fingers could brush the paper, your father's heavy hand falls on your shoulder, pinning you in place.
"enough," he decrees, angry. "your mother is right. if you have this extra money, it's the least you owe us for all the mediocre grades and the expense you represent. this envelope stays in the house to pay for kenji's tutoring and the month's debts."
"it's mine!" you yell, tears of helplessness burning in your eyes. "i was the one locked in! i was the one working the shift! all i do is work for these pittances!"
"and for that arrogant tone, you're not going to sleep until this house is a mirror." he adds, pushing you roughly toward the kitchen. "there's a sack of azuki beans in the pantry that got mixed with pebbles. you're going to separate them one by one. and after that, you’ll clean every single window, inside and out. i don't wanna see a single smudge of your existence on that glass tomorrow morning."
the sound of your brother's television seems to mock your bad luck from the other room. you sit in front of the wooden bowl, with the red beans scattered about. your hands, the ones gojo had tried to keep busy with rubik's cubes and bubble wrap to distract you from your unhappiness, were now empty and desperate for an escape.
the peak of calm is over.
this time, rage is so potent that doesn't fit into one linear cut, or two, or a burn. you walk toward the small hallway, where the only mirror that belongs to you hangs –a cheap object with a splintered frame that you had bought with middle school savings.
upon noticing your reflection, you saw the weakness that gojo despised; the existence that you yourself despised.
you throw the first punch with a closed fist, and the frame shakes gracefully, smudging the glass with the oils from your skin. the second is brutal, your knuckles immediately turning scarlet. the third is lethal; a third of it shatters, distorting your own image, and you strike again, and again, and again, until the mirror is reduced to a spiderweb of disproportionate shards.
blood bursts and begins to spill, staining the wooden floor you would have to clean later. you look at your hands, some glass shards resting comfortably embedded in the skin; the knuckles are split open, throbbing and unrecognizable, but a sense of calm washes over you immediately, regulating your heavy breathing. you feel better, but your body has been wounded for so long that you don't remember it without marks. you don't remember it healthy. and that makes you feel worse.
-
the 4:00 a.m. shift in the s4 basement feels more freezing than usual.
you’re wearing white cotton gloves, the cheap kind sold in convenience stores for gardening work. under the fabric, your knuckles are a mass of scabs you can't stop picking at and raw flesh that sticks to the fibers every time you make a move. the smell of bleach lingers on your skin, after having cleaned every window of your parents' house until dawn. it was so strong it made you dizzy, and to top it off, you haven't slept a wink.
gojo appears with his classic elegance. there is no sound of footsteps; he seems to float around the perimeter. he stops in front of the counter as usual, and his uncovered blue eyes immediately fix on your covered hands.
there are no questions. there is no gasp of surprise or gesture of pity. gojo is not the kind of man who kisses your wounds and makes you promise you'll stop; he’s the kind of man who demands that you get up, even if you have no strength, or if you have to do it in an ocean of broken glass.
"cotton is a terrible choice for open wounds." he exhales in disapproval. "it's gonna stick when you try to take them off, and you'll have to rip your skin off all over again."
you don't respond. with him, you can afford the luxury of doing so.
"i have two pieces of news for you." he pursues, leaning an elbow on the counter, no compassion whatsoever. "the first is i have a friend. her name is shoko. she's halfway through med school and she is... peculiar, but efficient."
he pauses, letting the word 'med' float in the basement air for you to digest.
"shoko is looking for a roommate in a small apartment near the faculty. it's not a palace, but there’s no screaming, there are no children or vultures, just cigarette butts. besides, she gets bored easily, so she's willing to tutor you so you can pass the university entrance exam. we'll see if you really have the mettle to be a doctor or if you're only good with your own blood."
you feel a sudden dizziness, an acidic nausea that has nothing to do with hunger. for a second, you visualize yourself in that place where you should already be, and a paralyzing terror arises. your mind, trained by your parents to find the flaw in every light, immediately starts sabotaging you.
you think of sekai being left alone with the kitchen rag, of your father's fury, of the possibility of failing the exam and confirming that, indeed, you’re the idiot they said you were. but beneath that fear, there is a small flutter in your stomach. gojo isn't offering you charity, but a weapon.
"the second," he leans in a little more, his shadow completely towering you. "i have an idea and i need you to trust me. i'm going to introduce you to a different way for you to feel that balance on your skin without the kind of scars you have to hide under a polyester uniform."
he straightens up, adjusting his wristwatch with a metallic click that sounded final in the silence of the basement.
-
gojo pushes the heavy door open and gestures for you to enter.
the walls are covered in flashes –framed designs of dragons, lotus flowers, koi, and oni demons. the lighting is low and warm, creating an intimate, clandestine atmosphere. in the back, sitting in a black leather chair under a cool light lamp, is a man. he’s tall and slender, with long black hair tied in a low bun. he looks up from a sketchbook. his eyes are slanted, calm, and convey a peace that makes you feel you aren't being judged.
"suguru, i brought you the patient shoko told you about." gojo says, taking off his glasses and leaving them on a glass table with plastic bone legs.
this suguru dude stands up with an elegant unhurriedness. he approaches you and, without asking permission but with extreme gentleness, takes your gloved hand. he doesn't squash it, he simply feels the weight and the heat of the inflammation under the cotton.
"satoru says you have a temple you want to redesign. what identity do you wanna give it?"
the aforementioned man is standing, leaning casually against the wall near the door, with his hands in his pockets. he hasn't said a word since bringing you here; he literally pushed you from the roppongi hills building into a taxi and then to this shop. you didn't complain either.
"i don't have money for a tattoo." you stutter, turning red.
gojo laughs, rolling his eyes. "don't worry about that. it's on me. choose whatever you want."
what story do you want to tell? you don't know for certain, but being the author seems absurd, distant, and challenging to you.
the tattoo artist pulls a folder from under the counter and places it in front of you. it's full of drawings; they’re more personal, more artistic sketches. there are complex geometric patterns, delicate flowers with petals sharp as blades, animals that look ready to jump off the page.
"you don't have to choose right now." he reassures you. "look. think. if something catches your eye, if something makes you feel... something, tell me. we can modify it, make it yours."
your hand trembles as you reach your fingers toward the folder and touch the edge of the paper. it’s rough and textured.
for an instant, you imagine the machine's needle, the buzzing, the sharp pain piercing through you. but this time, it wouldn't be an act of desperation in a dark basement. it would be here, under the warm light, with the guidance of this calm man and under the inquisitive gaze of the person who truly saw you.
you look up and meet his eyes now, waiting for some kind of approval that you well know you don't need, but that you seek. he doesn't smile; he simply nods, almost imperceptibly, and it's all the encouragement that makes you take the leap into the void.
you open the folder and start turning the pages. on the sixth, you find an anchor, but it's not the anchor that catches your attention, but what is around it.
"this one!" you announce, to your own surprise, very excited.
-
"a broken rope with quotation marks above it." gojo murmurs, breaking the ice with a tone close to respect. "poetic and pretentious, so you."
you both admire the drawing on your left wrist, which now covers the first cut you ever made.
"in my mind, words no longer have a place to tie themselves." you reply, watching your steps on the pavement. "and the next one will be the half-face of the girl submerged in the water oval. sinking and floating at the same time. because that's how i've always felt, fighting to reach the shore."
he lets out a soft laugh, projecting the idea onto the starry sky. "floating is the first step to learning how to swim. suguru will be delighted to sink the needle into that concept."
you reach the main avenue, and he raises his hand with a lazy grace. a taxi pulls over with screeching tires, and gojo opens the door for you, waiting for you to slide onto the synthetic leather seat. he sits next to you, keeping his distance but leaving his hand in the space between you in case you need something to hold on to.
"where to, cinderella?" he asks, looking at the driver through the rearview mirror. "back to the basement or the vulture's nest?"
you take a breath, feeling the stretch of the tattooed skin. for a second, the image of sekai sleeping in that gloomy house smashes your heart. you think about the azuki beans, the clean windows, the stolen envelope of money, and the broken mirror. but then you remember the touch of the needle and gojo's voice telling you that love doesn't come by default.
"take me to shoko’s." you ask timidly, and yet, some kind of firmness slips through. "i'm not going back home. not tonight, not ever again."
he raises an eyebrow, but his lips lift into a genuine smile, one that lights up his blue eyes more than any streetlight in the city.
"final decision?" he asks, needing to be sure you won't regret it.
"final." you confirm, even though a treacherous tear slides down your cheek. "i’ll take care of sekai from afar. i'll send her money to an account only she can touch, and i'll help her manage it. if i stay there to save her, we'll both end up suffocating. from now on, i'm gonna focus on myself so i can do something for the people i love."
the taxi driver, sensing the tension, turns on the radio at a low volume. then, gojo dictates his friend's address, and finally, the vehicle sets off toward your destination.
"well," he sighs proudly. "it seems you've finally made the first real decision for your own well-being. and that, believe me, deserves something special."
as the taxi merges into the nighttime traffic, gojo reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a slender silk box wrapped in a silver ribbon. he hands it to you.
"what’s this?" you ask, confused.
"open it."
your hands tremble slightly as you untie the ribbon. it’s been a lot of emotions for a single night.
you lift the lid, and inside, resting on a velvet bed, are them. the stockings. the charcoal gray stockings with the delicate lace at the top you saw in the window display that morning. the ones you couldn't buy because your money wasn't yours. you stare at them, unable to believe it. how... how could he remember?
"you mentioned them in the elevator, and i went to buy them after they handed us the envelope." he remarks, as if reading your mind. "i knew something would happen, and i had to secure them for you."
you look up from the stockings and look at him. everything –the noise and the out-of-focus city lights, the unintelligible radio, the insistent honking of horns, the taxi driver's coughs– fades away. all that remains is the weight of the box in your hands and the grin on his beautiful face. it’s enough to remind you that, once you have hit rock bottom, the only way left is up.
and as you wonder what the next thing you should say or do to thank him, your mother wonders why the dishes are still dirty in the sink.
@kineticchangelingmoon ♡
