Going back to the park later in the day felt like a sin in itself. My inability to help the girl who was getting bullied was something that was ebbing away at me for hours now.
Turning my head as I sat under the tree, I scanned the park for anyone nearby, but I never saw any familiar faces. I appeared to be all alone except for a couple playing with their dog, which barked quietly as the man threw a tennis ball.
I didn't feel like reading at the moment—I didn't feel like doing much of anything except sitting by myself and thinking about what I had seen.
Taking a deep breath I leaned back against the tree and sighed to myself, attempting to make my body enter a tranquil state, even for a moment. I had entered such a state before.
The last time I did so was when I was a small writer. I had always been one to express my creativity, not through arts like music or dancing, but rather through quiet and simple tasks like drawing and writing.
I wasn't very good at drawing, but I still see the drawings I made when I was about twelve to thirteen years old on the fridge, some of which were stick figures with happy suns, while others seemed more grotesque and almost disturbing.
Even at the age I was now, which was fifteen, I can almost recall drawing like a child when I was thirteen. Something told me I was some sort of coping mechanism, other parts of me told me they weren't even my own drawings.
One of them showcased a monster eating a goat alive, blood and bodily organs exploding outwards like sinister fireworks. The first time I saw it, I felt my head begin to spin and my ears began to ring as if I would faint.
My amnesia I was diagnosed with only gave me questions about myself, and not answers. It wasn't a topic my parents discussed often—maybe even at all.
After the diagnosis they took me out for an ice cream, something that felt out of character for them. Maybe they felt bad or they were so disturbed by what they heard they wanted to calm themselves down.
Otherwise, it was a shitty attempt to light the mood. I bleakly remember getting home from the diagnosis, how I sat in front of the TV for hours watching whatever mind-numbing cartoon was on.
Its colorful and overstimulating scenery and characters almost acted as a stimulant, an attempt at forgetting what had happened. And I guess it worked to some degree. Does that mean I owe an anthropomorphic porcupine a favor?
I adjusted my sweater, which overlaid on top of a collared shirt, before looking back at the rest of the park. By the time I registered my surroundings, I realized the couple and the dog had left.
I wanted to stand up, but the dream and thoughts I had had been nagging at me for what seemed like days even if it's been only about five hours—it was akin to a weight that wouldn't stop pressing on top of me.
All of a sudden in the corner of my eyes I saw a figure. She appeared to be five foot three, she had tousled black hair tossed into a bun, a pair of petite oval glasses and was wearing a collared shirt and sweater similar to mine. In her hands was a small purse.
"I usually sit there..." She said, her voice low and hushed, as if she was hesitant to speak to me.
My eyes widened when I saw the girl. It was the girl from the park yesterday, the girl I was tormenting in my dream, the girl who has been haunting me!
"U-uhm..." I fell silent, unable to speak for a few moments. My heart felt like it was going into overdrive. It wasn't from romantic feelings, but rather from anxiety and the raw pressure of seeing this figure before my eyes.
"Are you ok?" The girl's eyes softened as she knelt down, her expression shifting and her lips parting slightly.
"I'm sorry!" I blurted out, turning away from the girl and burying my head in my hands, my breaths quickly becoming shaky and irregular.
"Sorry...for what?" Confusion was evident in her voice. She sat down next to me on the tree, reaching into her purse and taking out a few items.
One of them was a gingham style blanket, laying it out beneath her, shielding her from the plush grass and dirt. She did so with an eerie refinement and an almost regal look to it.
The other item she had taken out was a small lunch bag which had dampened slightly at the bottom from the food inside it. She opened the bag and removed the food inside.
The food she had laid out was a small dish of rice, some sliced tangerines, tamagoyaki, and a small amount of grilled salmon. Accompanied by the meal was a selection of various sauces and seasonings.
"You're quiet." Her words broke the silence which mostly consisted of rustling paper bags and kids snapping open. I was roused from my frenzied shock and jolted.
"I'm sorry...was I too quiet?" I asked, a small amount of sweat building up on my forehead that trickled down to my cheeks, which were threatening to be washed away with tears.
The black haired girl smiled softly as she shook her head. "No, nothings wrong with being quiet. I've always seen quiet as peace."
She took out a plastic fork and punctured the salmon with it, bringing the meat to her lips and taking a bite. The more she ate the more I felt my stomach grumble—a silent sign of my own hunger. The reliance on canned and convenience store food wasn't the best lifestyle, but that didn't mean I wasn't grateful to begin with.
"You seem fine after what happened yesterday." I didn't know why, but the words slipped out of my mouth.
The girl turned back to me and swallowed her food. "It wasn't too hard of a beating to be honest—the worst that happened was a little suffocation."
Hearing her words I felt my heart twist into an unsolvable knot. She felt pain to begin with, and she doesn't think it's that bad?
"That's still awful what they did to you." My voice gradually lowered as I spoke, almost becoming a whisper that blended with the gentle breeze.
"I know, people treat quirks like a hierarchy. Those without one lie at the bottom and those with quirks have free reign to control and destroy."
She took a bite of her rice and sighed. "Sometimes I wish I had a quirk, any quirk to be honest. I'd have it any other way than getting bullied for my lack of one."
The girl then fell silent, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her round nose. "Unfortunately my mother and father were quirkless too, therefore I was born without one. But deep down, I wish something happened—some kind of miracle."
The silence of the park seemed to amplify the atmosphere. I took a deep yet silent breath. "I don't really believe in miracles."
"Why?" She turned back to me, her brows creasing inwards towards her nose.
"I don't believe much in the supernatural—but I do believe in my dreams."
The girl clasped her hands on her lap as she pushed aside her food. "What do you dream about?"
I fell silent. I recalled the dream I had where I had suffocated her, how I called her quirk-less and other harsh names.
"I don't know."
All of the sudden she chuckled. "What do you mean you don't know?" her voice rang with amusement and a small amount of teasing.
I felt a pit form in my stomach, and I felt my heart dash up to my head, giving me an awful headache.
"I see...blurry images, faces I don't recognize, other stuff like that."
The girl leaned back against the cherry tree and smiled, looking up at the branches adorned with pink flowers that had started to bloom. "Science tells us that you can never see a face you don't recognize when you dream."
"Then...why don't I recognize anyone I see?"
The girl looked back at me, tossing her black hair into a messy bun over her head. "I can't answer that, but you should start journaling what you can remember."
"Journaling..." I was somewhat familiar with such a concept.
"It's basically writing down what you see and think, it's almost like meditation."
"I see." I leaned back against the cherry tree, looking up into the now blue sky. All of a sudden, it hit me like a freight train.
"I never asked you your name."
"Ayumi." She replied without hesitation, as if I were a drill sergeant asking her the question.
I wasn't exactly familiar with Japanese names, even though I had been living in Japan for almost all my life. My family moved from America to Japan, though I don't remember any of the trip—only that my parents told me.
I do find it weird that my parents never questioned my memory issues until after my incident.
"It's a nice name, it suits you." I complimented, a small smile forming on the corners of my lips.
"And yours?" She cocked a playful eyebrow.
"M-my name is Isaac...I'm from America."
Ayumi leaned up from the tree, her eyes widening slightly as if she were a curious cat. "You're a foreigner? Are you an exchange?"
"If by exchange you mean exchanging currency, yeah. My Father found a better job opportunity here—so we moved."
"What was America like?" Ayumi kept pestering me with questions before I could answer them all.
It was times like this where I could curse my amnesia. I wish I could remember anything about my past—but unfortunately my amnesia came into play—a very depressing play.
"I can't recall anything."
"Oh. you must've been young when you moved here?" Ayumi grabbed her fork again, taking a bite of the diced fruit in her lunch.
"I don't remember that either." I gave a self deprecating chuckle, scratching the back of my head.
"Well, I don't think that's a bad thing. For example, what if you slipped on a rock and fell in front of a bunch of people. That must be hella embarrassing."
I couldn't suppress a chuckle as I blushed a little, thinking on if that would happen to me. "That would be awful."
All of a sudden my stomach rumbled loudly, but not loud enough to attract major attention. Ayumi's face shifted to slight concern as she handed me the box of diced fruit. "You're hungry." Her voice was deadpan, almost like she was forcing me to eat the fruit.
"I-I can't take that, it's yours." I gently swatted my hand, causing Ayumi to lower the food and sigh. "Promise me you'll eat something at least?"
"I promise." My stomach grumbled again, this time even louder.
...
This time the papers were stuffed in the garbage can inside the kitchen, instead of being placed on the counter in a somewhat decent manner. My father had already fallen asleep in the armchair by the television, which had been playing a comedy in the background.
I slowly let out a long sigh as I approached the trash can and removed the papers—which were luckily not stained with any weird substances. The weird juice the trash bags would leak still gives me irreversible trauma to this day.
I don't even know why my father makes me do such a weird and mundane task. I never see where the other papers go after they've been filtered. But the only thing I can possibly confirm is that we've been paying our bills to a certain extent, as the government would have made us move out by now.
"The park again?" My mother asked, standing by the stove and cooking.
"Yeah." I sat down at the table and slammed the papers sideways against the surface of it, straightening them out like a deck of cards.
"Do we have any spare notepad by chance?" I asked, looking up as I set aside another fundraiser form.
"Not that I remember." My mother replied, not looking back at me."You can always staple the papers you're holding together and flip 'em over, that's a good option."
I mean, whatever saves money. But there was one problem, the papers were all too big. The journals I remember seeing in convenience stores always had smaller appearances, and they were all spiral bound.
"I don't know if that'll work. Just please tell me we have scissors around here somewhere." I ground quietly as I continued the task absentmindedly.
"I think we have some in the bathroom."
"Ok." I stood up and left the kitchen area, going down the hallway and stepping into the bathroom, feeling the cold tile underneath my bare feet. Socks weren't something that we could afford aside from the ones my father wore, which were torn and had his front toes sticking out.
I opened one of the drawers underneath the large, cracked mirror and began to shuffle through. The contents of the drawer consisted of cheap dollar store lotions, soap, brushes and some styling gel my father used when he had to attend business meetings.
I pushed aside a crumpled up tissue and let out a yelp of pain as I felt the edge of my fathers razor cut my finger. Watching the crimson blood slowly leak from the small gash caused my heart to tighten. I wasn't one to really be afraid of many things, but the sight of blood made me nauseous.
I opened the cabinet above the mirror scrambling through for a bandaid or anything I could use to seal up the wound, but my vision went dark before I could do much of anything.