Sequel: Shinjuku Princess ›
Lolita Love Story
余波 (Aftermath)
The sharp, bitter scent of cleaning supplies and sanitizer seemed embedded in every centimeter of the hospital. Kougou entered the ICU hesitantly, his bony, colorless hands curled around a large, glossy black box. His slender form drifted down the lonely hallway unmolested and he reached his father’s room quickly. Sliding the door open, he stepped inside and set his gift onto the nearest flat surface—a counter—next to a box of latex gloves and hand sanitizer.
In the bed, his father was stirring minimally, his receding black-gray hair sloppily placed on his head in a messy heap. His lips were colored a strange, pale pink-lavender shade and his eyelids seemed nearly translucent, veins tracing shaky blue-violet lines across the pallid surface. At his son’s approach, he tilted his head toward the doorway, his lips parting in a noiseless, grateful welcome. A fit of coughing shook his form and he brought a weak hand to his face until the spasm passed, leaving him breathless and aching.
Kougou’s eyes wandered to his father’s legs, or rather—where they should have been. The way the blankets were draped, falling away from his kneecaps, made his father’s recent amputation only too noticeable.
“Shouldn’t you be at school, Kou-kun?” the frail, bedridden father asked, drawing his son’s attention back to his face. He coughed again.
“I am on lunch break for the next hour. Hush, father,” Kougou said gently, lifting the box from the counter and presenting it to his father. “I’ve brought you some lunch, too. We can eat together from now on.” The thin young man slowly removed the lid from the box, revealing clean, delectable bento. Somehow, the contents hadn’t spilled or mixed into one another after the long trek from his new school to the hospital.
“Kou-kun…”
“Eat. I have brought chopsticks and furikake for you.”
Kougou watched his father hesitantly grasp the chopsticks and try in vain to pick up a piece of sashimi. The chopsticks clacked together audibly as his hand shook—each time, the sashimi would fall away from the utensil and back into the box. After many failed attempts, he gave up and drank his miso soup instead. Only his frustrated, shamed expression kept Kougou from offering his help. They ate in companionable silence until the two had finished.
“How is your new school?” Kougou’s father asked, having gained a little color after eating. “Have you made any friends yet?”
“It is good,” he lied, his face harboring not even a slight change in expression. “I have met a few people, but it is too soon to call them ‘friends’.”
“I see…” The father laid his head back, looking exhausted, and closed his eyes. Before he could think of anything to say, Kougou realized his father was sleeping. He stared for a moment, awed by how ill he looked, even in the peaceful escapes of dream. Kougou left another gift on the counter in a smaller box: otsumami. He picked up the bento box and replaced the lid, the glossy surface now smudged with his father’s fingerprints.
Kougou stacked it on top of his own box and took one last look at his father before slipping out of the room and returning to school.
In the bed, his father was stirring minimally, his receding black-gray hair sloppily placed on his head in a messy heap. His lips were colored a strange, pale pink-lavender shade and his eyelids seemed nearly translucent, veins tracing shaky blue-violet lines across the pallid surface. At his son’s approach, he tilted his head toward the doorway, his lips parting in a noiseless, grateful welcome. A fit of coughing shook his form and he brought a weak hand to his face until the spasm passed, leaving him breathless and aching.
Kougou’s eyes wandered to his father’s legs, or rather—where they should have been. The way the blankets were draped, falling away from his kneecaps, made his father’s recent amputation only too noticeable.
“Shouldn’t you be at school, Kou-kun?” the frail, bedridden father asked, drawing his son’s attention back to his face. He coughed again.
“I am on lunch break for the next hour. Hush, father,” Kougou said gently, lifting the box from the counter and presenting it to his father. “I’ve brought you some lunch, too. We can eat together from now on.” The thin young man slowly removed the lid from the box, revealing clean, delectable bento. Somehow, the contents hadn’t spilled or mixed into one another after the long trek from his new school to the hospital.
“Kou-kun…”
“Eat. I have brought chopsticks and furikake for you.”
Kougou watched his father hesitantly grasp the chopsticks and try in vain to pick up a piece of sashimi. The chopsticks clacked together audibly as his hand shook—each time, the sashimi would fall away from the utensil and back into the box. After many failed attempts, he gave up and drank his miso soup instead. Only his frustrated, shamed expression kept Kougou from offering his help. They ate in companionable silence until the two had finished.
“How is your new school?” Kougou’s father asked, having gained a little color after eating. “Have you made any friends yet?”
“It is good,” he lied, his face harboring not even a slight change in expression. “I have met a few people, but it is too soon to call them ‘friends’.”
“I see…” The father laid his head back, looking exhausted, and closed his eyes. Before he could think of anything to say, Kougou realized his father was sleeping. He stared for a moment, awed by how ill he looked, even in the peaceful escapes of dream. Kougou left another gift on the counter in a smaller box: otsumami. He picked up the bento box and replaced the lid, the glossy surface now smudged with his father’s fingerprints.
Kougou stacked it on top of his own box and took one last look at his father before slipping out of the room and returning to school.
♠ ♠ ♠
"Bento" is a general term describing Japanese lunch boxes."Furikake" is small flakes of dried nori (seaweed).
"Sashimi" is thinly-sliced pieces of fish.
"Otsumami" means "snack", and it is usually dried fish.