Untold Secrets (rewrite) (2/2)
part one
"Alright, that's it for me. I'm outta here. I'll see you guys tomorrow."
"See ya, Ishida. Have a good night."
"Thanks, you too." I begin to head out, anxious to get home to Yamato. It's been two hours since he last called. He was supposed to call me every hour, to let me know that he was fine and still safe. After he missed the hour, I gave him fifteen minutes and called him, but got no answer. Three more fifteen minute checks, and still nothing. I can't wait anymore. If something's happened...
I curse the new locks as I struggle to undo them, but when I get inside I see to my relief that Yamato's sleeping peacefully on the couch, fully clothed. Nothing in the area looks disturbed. I breathe out, the worry leaving me in a rush.
I just stand there for a few moments, watching him while he rests. Even though he's seventeen, in this moment he looks so much younger. Sleep has smoothed out the worry in his face, and hidden the pain that's often reflected in his eyes. Right now it's easy to pretend he's just like any other normal seventeen year old, with his usual worries of grades, crushes, friends, and band practices. Easy to pretend that he hasn't been through hell, hasn't tried to end his own life.
If only it could still be that simple.
He shifts in his sleep then, murmuring slightly. I cross the room to him and reach down, brushing back his hair. The touch seems to startle him, and he jerks awake, looking up at me in confusion. "Dad?" he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.
"Hey," I greet him softly. "Sorry I woke you. I just got home."
"Oh..." he sits up, and looks at the clock on the wall over the tv. "Sorry, I missed my last call..."
"It's alright. I'll admit, I was worried, but I'm not surprised you fell asleep. You've been so worn out lately."
He shrugs, I guess not having any response to that.
"You're okay?" I ask him, wanting to be extra sure.
"Sure. I'm fine, Dad. No need to worry."
"Alright then. Have you eaten? I think I could use some food."
He shakes his head. "Not hungry. You go ahead. I think I just want to get some more sleep, honestly."
"Okay." I leave him there and head for the kitchen, checking the fridge for leftovers. After I managed to burn a pan while boiling nothing but water, Yamato no longer allows me to cook unsupervised.
I find some leftover tonkatsu and easily turn it into a sandwich, washing it down with one of Yamato's bottles of Ramune. When I'm done I head back into the living room to ask Yamato for his laundry, but instead I find him already asleep again.
Mentally shrugging, I leave him be and head down the hall to his room to grab it myself.
I gather up all the clothes I can find on the floor and am just about to leave when something catches my eye. I look towards his bed. There's one of our bathroom towels half-shoved under his pillow. I frown and come closer. There's a few random spots on it. They're a dark, rusty red colour.
They look a lot like dried blood.
My heart starts beating a little faster, and I realize I'm a little scared. I shift all of Yamato's clothes up under my other arm, and reach out to grab the towel. It's still damp to the touch. As if it was only used a couple of hours ago.
I can feel another headache coming on. I try not to panic, telling myself the blood on the towel could be anything, but it's hard. Still, he told me he was fine--it's not a lot of blood, and he could have injured himself in any number of ways that don't require another person.
It's easier to tell myself that than to actually believe it, though.
* * *
I miss Taichi. It's boring sitting around my apartment all day with nothing to do. I want to see my friends and my brother again. I want to hang out with my band and talk shit about nothing.
Apparently some of them have actually called, but so far Dad's kept them at bay by telling them I've got a bad case of the flu. It's only been about a week and a half, so it's a plausible (if a bit stretched thin) excuse so far. And I'm sure it's easier to believe since even Takeru hasn't been allowed to see me.
But I've been stuck in this apartment mostly alone for another three days, and I'm about to go spare. TV puts me to sleep, video games frustrate me, and I can't seem to focus on writing or practicing any songs. I've spent too much time sleeping lately, and I'm sick of it.
I'd like to go out, but I'm too scared to. Scared that I'll run into him, or worse, one of my friends. And then there's the fact that strangers will probably stare at my wrists, and I'll feel ashamed and uncomfortable and wind up fleeing back home. No, it's easier to just stay at home. Even if it means getting stuck in my thoughts again...
Far too often lately I find myself falling back into memories I never wanted. It leaves me feeling used and dirty. I want a shower.
I grab a towel from the laundry and lock myself in the bathroom, turning the water as hot as it will go. I strip and climb in, not even taking notice of the scalding temperature. I've taken too many showers this way these past few months.
I don't know how long I stay in there, staring blankly at the wall and absently scrubbing at my skin, trying to wash the taint off my soul, but when I come back to myself the water's gone cold. I shut it off, wincing as I note the raw look to my arms. Hopefully Dad won't say anything about it.
I towel off and dress in my same clothes.
I head out and go down the hall to my room, stopping short in the doorway. He's there, lounging casually on my bed for all the world like he owns it. He hasn't been in my room since that second time, and seeing him sitting there, seemingly without a care in the world, I feel more violated than any of the times he's ever been inside me.
I don't even think, really. I just storm in, enraged and snarling. "What the hell are you doing in here? Get out!" I shout, and I haven't shown this much outward anger towards him since before everything began. It feels good. It's reckless and crazy and dangerous, and I like it.
He jumps off my bed, eyes flashing angrily. "You don't tell me what to do."
"I do when you're invading my room and my bed. Get the fuck out." Despite myself, I'm beginning to feel that familiar spark of fear again, the fear that kept me from telling someone and stopping all this madness. The fear that insists I do what he says lest he kills me.
"I don't think so. I'm not leaving until I get what I came for." He starts advancing towards me. His face is dark and ugly with rage, but even though I'm definitely afraid now, I stand my ground.
"You're not getting it. I'm through with this. I'm not going to let you do this to me anymore. Get. Out." I don't know where all the courage is coming from. Courage is generally more Taichi's thing, but I suppose I can't be friends with him for six years without picking up a bit from him.
"You don't get to decide that!" he yells. "I told you before, you're mine! Mine. I'm the one that decides when this ends, and it's not ending yet! I'm not letting you go!" He rushes forward suddenly, one hand reaching down into his pocket, and it only takes me a second to realize what he must be reaching for.
Shit. I turn and bolt, back down the hallway, not even sure of where I'm trying to go, just knowing I need to get away from him before he pulls that knife out. All that courage is gone now. Oh god, oh god, why did I push him?! Why did I make him angry? He's going to kill me now! I don't want to die! Not by his hand! Fuck, I've got to get out of here, now.
I can hear his footsteps behind me as I run down the hall, and I'm panicking, not thinking clearly. I pass the bathroom and dad's room, running into the kitchen, thankful that his grabbing his knife slowed him down and gave me a few precious seconds. If I can just get out of the apartment, out of the building, I'll be safe. He wouldn't dare do anything in public, with other people around.
Unfortunately, I'm running blindly, only thinking about getting to the door, so I completely miss the kitchen chair as I crash right into it. I go flying, landing on the tiled floor with a painful 'oof' as all the air gets knocked out of me. I don't have time though, he's right behind me, my legs are tangled up in the chair and I'm trying to get up, trying to break free, but he's on top of me now, shouting in my face, his fists are swinging wildly and the knife's still grasped tightly in one of them and I don't want to die like this.
"Don't kill me, please don't kill me, I'm sorry, so sorry, I won't do it again, please please," I babble, hardly aware of the words coming out of my mouth, but it doesn't do any good.
"Please," I moan, but then he's stabbing the knife into my shoulder and I close my eyes, bracing myself for the pain. There is none, though, at least not at first. There's just the feel of the blood, warm and wet and growing. I hear a door slam in the distance and realize I don't feel his weight atop of me anymore. I open my eyes to find myself alone.
Slowly, I drag myself to a sitting position, wincing as I start to feel the first twinges of pain. It's a low, dull sort of throbbing, but still bearable for the moment. I'm more concerned about the blood. I need to stop it.
Somehow, I get free of the chair and climb to my feet, swaying a bit once I'm standing upright. I'm feeling a bit lightheaded. And a bit sick. I need a towel. Right.
I stumble down the hallway, back towards the bathroom. I left my towel in there after my shower. I use the hallway to brace myself. I'm really dizzy now, and when I look back behind me there's a trail of blood spots. Do all stab wounds bleed so much? It's starting to hurt a bit worse now, throbbing a little more intensely.
I keep seeing black spots dancing around me. Everything's kind of gray and faded around the edges. It's kind of interesting, except I think it means I'm about to pass about.
I'm almost there. I take another step, and fall.
* * *
There's blood all over the floor. I'm motionless in the doorway to the kitchen, just standing and staring at the frightening scene before me.
It's not really much of a scene. There's a chair tipped over on the floor, a puddle of drying blood near it, and a trail of smaller droplets leading off into the hallway.
Amazing how those two things can make my heart nearly stop.
"Yamato?" I whisper.
I'm almost afraid to follow the blood trail. Afraid of what it'll lead to me. Afraid I'll find my son at the end of it, dead.
"Yamato?" I say again, a bit louder this time. Hoping that he's still alive, still able to respond.
But there's no answer.
Screwing up my courage, I step into the kitchen, past the chair, past the puddle. Down into the hallway, looking towards the end.
"Yamato!" He's in the doorway of the bathroom, a pale crumpled heap. I hurry over to him, leaning down to check him out. I don't see the source of the blood, but I'm very relieved to hear him breathing, even if they're raspy, shallow breaths. Carefully I maneuver him onto his back, stretching him out, spotting the shoulder wound immediately. He's been stabbed.
I've got the cell halfway to my ear before I realize I've called Akira's home number instead of EMS. But at this point I don't even care.
"Kaos residence, Kaos speaking."
"Akira-" I have to stop suddenly, choking up as the enormity of the situation hits me. Yamato's been stabbed. My son has been stabbed. He's passed out on the bathroom floor, probably from blood loss, and barely breathing. He could die. I could lose him. I'm going through this again.
"Ishida? Hiroaki, is that you?"
Right. Gotta pull it together. Yamato needs me. "Yes. Can you-Please, meet me at the hospital right away. Yamato's been-someone stabbed him. I want you there with him."
"I'll be right there."
He disconnects, and I waste no time, immediately dialing EMS. They promise to send an ambulance right away.
The waiting is always the worst part. I was allowed to ride in the ambulance with him, but they rushed him away to an OR the second we arrived at the hospital, and I was left to stand alone in the hallway. Akira found me a few minutes later, and led me to a waiting room, where he got me the admittance forms to fill out, something to distract me and take my mind off Yamato.
He offered to stay and wait with me, but I shook my head no. "Please, go find Yamato. See what's going on. Make sure he's gonna be okay."
He agreed, and left. He still hasn't come back. I don't know whether to take that as a good or bad sign.
Please, let Yamato be okay. Don't let him die. I can't lose him. I can't go through that. He's all I've got left.
It's some hours later before Akira finds me again, standing before me looking completely exhausted. I try to read his face for clues, but he's impassive.
"Yamato?" I say quietly.
He nods. "He's fine for now. Stable. They've got him in a private room. He's still knocked out from the anaesthesia, and the morphine drip will probably have him under for most of tomorrow as well."
I nod, expecting no less. "Can I see him?" I ask, not caring about any more of the particulars. Yamato's alive and okay, that's all that matters right now. The details can come later.
"Of course. I'll take you."
I follow him down the halls to Yamato's room silently, lost in my thoughts and worry for my son. I'm very tempted to call the police after this latest incident, but I'm not sure how much good it would do.
So far Yamato hasn't talked, hasn't even admitted he's been-abused. I don't know who's hurting him. I don't know who stabbed him. There's the DNA sample they recovered from Yamato that first stay in the hospital, but with no sample to compare it to, it's likely useless. Hell, his injuries didn't even point to anything conclusive. Unless Yamato is willing to talk, there's nothing much to really go on.
This whole situation pisses me off. I feel so useless, so completely helpless, and I hate it. I know I've never been the greatest father, but that I can't even protect him from something like this... I'm almost ashamed to even still call myself his father.
* * *
I come back to the world of the living slowly. The first thing I'm aware of is a steady beeping somewhere off to my right. I realize that I'm lying in a bed, most likely a hospital one. I don't feel any pain, but I'm incredibly exhausted and my head seems a bit foggy.
When I finally open my eyes, the bright light hurts and I wince, letting out a small noise of discomfort.
There's a rustle of clothes to my left, and then someone's standing over me. "Yamato?" It sounds like my dad. "You awake?"
"Mmhmm," I mumble incoherently. "...'wake..."
"How are you feeling?" Dad asks.
I look up at him, slowly adjusting to the brightness. He looks both worried and relieved, something I didn't think was possible. I pause for a moment to assess the answer to his question. "Thirsty," I finally whisper.
Immediately Dad grabs a glass of water off the bedside table, placing the straw up to my lips so I can suck. "Slowly," he warns me.
I try to do as he says, but the cool liquid feels so good sliding down, soothing my dry throat, that I can't help but drink it fast, trying to get as much as possible. He pulls it away after a moment, and I whine. "I'll give you some more shortly," he reassures. "You've been more or less out for two days though, you've gotta take it easy."
Two days? I can't even recall going to the hospital in the first place. What could be bad enough to put me here and knock me out for two days?
Dad must see the confusion written on my face, because he sighs and quietly informs me that he came home from work a few days ago to find me unconscious on the bathroom floor with a stab wound just below my shoulder.
"Wha...?" I try to think back through the haze, but it's hard. I remember something about a chair, and a towel...?
"Don't worry if you can't remember." He gives me the straw again, and I drink it down greedily. "You're still a bit doped up on the good painkillers right now. It'll start coming back as they begin to wear off."
Hmm. "High?"
He grins at that. "You were yesterday. You woke once. Not so much now though, they've stopped the morphine drip."
Oh well. "Tired," I say.
Dad smiles. It looks a bit sad. "That's not surprising. Get some more sleep for now. I'll be here when you wake again."
I frown, taking a moment to really look at him. There's two days worth of beard stubble across his jaw. His clothes are rumpled and a bit askew. His hair looks dirty and unwashed, and there's dark hollows under his eyes. I realize he's probably not left the hospital since I was brought here.
"Go home," I tell him, my voice hoarse. "Shower... change. Sleep. 'M fine."
Dad shakes his head. "I'm good right now. I don't want to leave you."
I try to give him my best glare, which under the circumstances isn't much. "Go," I insist. "Please. Want you to." I close my eyes, losing the battle to stay awake.
I'm pleased to hear the rattle of keys right before I slip back into darkness.
When I wake again, it's dark out and I'm alone. Dad must still be back at the apartment. Hopefully he's sleeping.
I feel a lot more clearheaded this time. I can remember what happened, why I must be in the hospital. I remember the fight, getting stabbed... trying to get to the bathroom to stop the blood before I passed out. Apparently I hadn't made it.
I just... I can't believe he actually stabbed me. Sure, he threatened to tons of times, and of course I've always been afraid of that threat, but still there was some part of me... some part that believed the old him had to be in there somewhere and that he wouldn't actually do it.
I feel tears begin to roll down my cheeks, but I make no move to wipe them away.
Why? Why is this happening to me? What did I ever do to deserve such pain and hurt, to be abused in such a manner? It isn't fair. I didn't ask for this, I don't want any of it.
I know I'm just wallowing in self-pity here, but right now, I really don't care. My whole life has been ruined-controlled, changed forever-all by one person's hand. Someone I used to trust, hell, used to love and call a close friend. And he betrayed me for it. He took that friendship and trust and threw it all back in my face. I'll never get it back. I don't want it back.
I hate him. I hate myself. Hate that I let him manipulate me, hate that I was too much of a coward to fight back or tell or do anything other than just let it happen. I hate that I hate him. I want my old friend back. I want things to go back to the way they were before. Before everything went to hell.
I roll over, burying my face into my pillow to muffle the sobs.
The apartment looks different this time. I'm not sure why. I was only in the hospital for a week, I really wasn't gone that long. But it seems-I don't know. Bigger, somehow. Emptier.
"Alright there Yamato?"
I nod, walking over to the couch and sitting down. I'm feeling a bit lost. I don't really know what to do with myself. I counted back while I was stuck in bed all that time. I haven't seen anyone other than my Dad and Dr. Kaos-he doesn't count-in seventeen days. Dad told everyone that what we thought was the flu turned out to be mono, and that I'm still too sick to visit. It's funny, I suppose, but I'm not laughing.
I don't know how much longer anyone will buy it.
At least the stitches in my wrists were taken out finally, so as long as I wear long sleeves to hide the one visible scar I can go back to school whenever I feel up to it. The cast can be easily explained away.
"Can I get you anything?" Dad's hovering around me anxiously, looking a bit lost himself. "A drink, something to eat maybe?"
I shake my head, silent.
"You sure?"
"I'm fine," I say softly. "Can we just, I don't know, sit here and watch some tv?"
"Sure," he replies, just as softly. "We can do that." He sits down next to me, grabbing the remote and flipping the tv on. I pull my feet up on the couch and curl into his side, taking comfort in his presence. He puts an arm around my shoulder, mindful of the wound, and begins to surf through the channels, eventually settling on some comedic movie we've both seen and liked before.
I close my eyes and just bask in the feeling of safety, only half listening to the tv. At some point I fall asleep.
I'm alone on the couch the next morning. There's a blanket draped over me, but no other sign of Dad. "Dad?" I call, feeling slightly panicked. Surely he didn't go to work and leave me alone in the apartment. Did he?
"Yes?" The relief I feel when he pops his head in from the kitchen is immense.
I muster up a smile. "Nothing. Just didn't know where you were." Then I pause, suspicious. "Wait. You're not in there cooking, are you?"
Dad laughs. "Just coffee."
We spend the day together marathoning movies. It's kind of nice now that Dad's quit pressuring me to talk about what's going on with me. He's usually so busy with work and me with school and my band that we don't get a lot of time together. I can almost make myself forget everything and just pretend it's some random weekend day where we're just having some father/son bonding time and enjoying ourselves.
It all grinds to a halt when the phone rings. It's somewhere around four in the afternoon. Dad reaches over and picks up the receiver while I pause the movie. I watch as he listens to whoever's on the other end. It's not a good phone call, because his face is getting increasingly unhappy and he keeps interjecting random protests every so often. They don't seem to be doing any good. Finally he sighs and says, "Look, I understand the problem, but I can't leave right now. My kid's too sick, I can't leave him home alone."
Ah. It's a work problem. I should have known. "Dad, you should go," I say softly.
"Hold on," he says into the phone. He covers the end of the receiver and looks at me. "No way, buddy. I'm not leaving you here alone anymore. Not after last time."
"You can't stay home with me forever," I point out. "And last time was my fault. I'll be fine this time. Just go. It'll only be for an hour or two."
He narrows his eyes at me. "How exactly was last time your fault?"
I swallow, and look away from him. "I... I might have undone all the locks after you left," I mumble.
"What?" He's incredulous, but I still don't look at him. "Never mind. We'll talk about that later. Look at me."
I do so hesitantly.
"If I leave you alone here for a couple hours, do you absolutely swear to me that you'll lock up everything and leave them locked? And you'll call me every half hour until I say that I'm coming back home. And if anyone with an intent to hurt you tries to get in, you will call for help immediately."
I look him straight in the eyes and nod. "I swear it, Dad."
I'm not sure, really. I stood up to him last time, and got stabbed for it. If he shows up again, I don't know if I can stay strong and not let him in. He'll always find some other way to get to me.
I can't tell any of this to Dad though, or else he won't leave. And I know his crisis at work must be important. Sure, he spends more time there than necessary most days, but they've only ever called him at home for true emergencies.
And it's only for an hour or two. Probably he won't even show up yet. I'll be fine.
Dad lets out another sigh and uncovers the phone, still looking torn. "Alright. I'll be there as soon as possible. Don't do anything until I get there." He hangs up the phone and looks at me. The movie's long since shut itself off. "Keep that door locked. I'm trusting you, Yamato. Please don't let me regret it."
"You won't. Go on, Dad. It'll be okay."
Once he's gone I put the chain on and double check the other locks are all done properly. Then I head into the kitchen and grab a chair from the table. I drag it back into the living room and shove the back of it under the doorknob, leaving it tilted at an odd looking angle.
It doesn't make me feel any safer. Maybe he won't get me today, or tomorrow, or the next day, but at some point I'm going to have to go back out there and live my life again. And unless I speak out against him, he'll always be out there, waiting for the right moment to strike. And next time I may not be so lucky to escape with only a shoulder wound.
But for today, there's nothing more I can really do. I've done what I can to keep him out, the rest just depends on the strength of my courage. Completely abandoning the movie Dad and I were watching, I head back into the kitchen, intent on getting something to eat. I rummage around in the cabinets and finally settle on a bowl of dry cereal. No one's exactly had time or energy to go grocery shopping lately. I don't even want to think about how long that milk's been in the fridge.
I finish eating, and decide to go try and nap on the couch until it's time to call Dad. I don't feel like doing much of anything. I just want Dad to get back home. I grab the blanket off the back and settle down, mindful of both my shoulder and my wrist.
I'm just starting to drift off when I hear it-the distinct sound of the doorknob turning. Someone's trying to get in. I bolt upright, eyes wide, and stare at the door. He doesn't even have to speak for me to know it's him. Blind sided by panic, I throw back the blanket and practically vault myself off the couch, running through the kitchen and down the hall, diving into the first open door-my dad's room. I slam the door and lock it, then jump onto his bed, frantically pulling covers aside and flinging them over my entire body.
I feel safer this way, far enough away that I can't hear him pounding on the door or yelling at me to let him in. It's easier to not be as scared when I don't have to hear him threatening me.
I stay huddled on dad's bed for quite some time, frozen by my terror. I don't even dare hardly breathe. I have no idea if he's still out there, or if he's given up and gone away. I don't really care. My mind is racing, jumbled thoughts tumbling through it, so many I can barely make sense of it all.
I don't know what I'm doing, standing up to him like this again. I'm just so tired of it all, so tired of living with all this fear and pain and betrayal... so tired of being in turmoil, tired of hating myself... I realize now, I don't want to keep this secret anymore. I don't want to handle it alone. I want to tell someone, to make it all stop.
If I just tell Dad, trust him enough to help me, then maybe it actually can stop and I can get my life back. Dad's told me before he's more than willing to go to the police, and that the hospital had a DNA sample and some other evidence from that first visit. Apparently they'd done some kind of evidence kit on me while I was unconscious, just in case. Back when no one was really sure what was going on yet.
That, along with a name... it'd probably be enough for the police to actually do something about him. Assuming I can be brave enough to say his name. I've avoided saying it for so long, not wanting to associate it with him, not wanting to believe that the person I was friends with and the person hurting me now are really the same person.
But it's been months now, and he hasn't changed back... I think I've got to face that he's not going to. That he's lost to me now, no matter how much that thought hurts.
* * *
I furrow my brow in frustration as I bang my knee on one of our kitchen chairs. It's sitting directly behind the door, blocking the path into the living room, and in the darkening room I didn't notice it.
"Shit." I curse the chair as I rub my aching knee. "What the hell are you doing in here, anyways?" I ask it. Of course I get no reply.
Frowning, I pick up the chair and take it back into the kitchen. I set it down at the table, where I then realize another chair is missing.
"What the hell?" I mutter.
I hear footsteps padding down the hall behind me, and I turn to spot Yamato coming up behind me, the missing chair held in his hands.
I raise an eyebrow at him. "Were you perhaps performing some kind of strange sacrificial ritual that happened to require kitchen chairs?"
He blushes slightly, shaking his head. "It's nothing."
I give him a strange look, and then decide to leave him alone. He kept his promise to call and leave the doors locked, and that's enough for me. "I brought some take-out home for supper," I tell him, changing the subject. I hold up the paper bag still in my hand. "Teriyaki burgers. You hungry?"
He eyes the bag with a mild interest, and nods. I watch in amusement as he carries the chair over to the table and then promptly sits down in it. I set the bag down and sit as well, and start pulling out food.
We eat in silence, the mood rather solemn. He seems to have something on his mind, and there's a strange blend of emotions playing across his face as he thinks. I'm not really sure how to interpret them.
Once we're both done, I stand and gather up our trash, tossing it in the bin. I consider heading to the living room to watch a bit of tv, or maybe finish our movie from earlier, but then I notice Yamato has yet to move from the table.
I sit back down and look across at him. "Alright buddy?"
He shakes his head but says, "Yeah, I'm fine."
I blink at that one. I wait for another few quiet minutes, then try again. "I'm willing to listen if you want to talk about anything."
"I know, Dad," he murmurs, but it's not said in the exasperated tone he usually employs of late. It's a good sign, but I don't want to push him and make him retreat again, so I stay quiet and wait for him to talk.
"Ken."
"What?" He speaks so softly, so suddenly that I don't really hear him.
He bites down on his lip, visibly swallowing. "It's Ken. Ichijouji Ken. H-he's the one. That stabbed me. He-he's been... hurting me."
I inhale, taking a deep breath, and then let it back out slowly. I'm horrified. Of course I know very well who Ken is. He and Yamato had become very close friends over the past few years, nearly as close as Yamato and Taichi are. Ken was even one of the ones who'd called and asked after him. He'd wished him a speedy recovery.
He's the one that's been hurting my son so horribly?
"God, Yamato... " I don't really know what to say. "I'm so sorry." I want to kill Ken.
* * *
It's out. It's finally, finally out. I'm both relieved and terrified. Dad looks blown away. He doesn't seem to know what to say. He keeps opening his mouth and then closing again, not able to find any words.
It's alright. I don't know what to say either.
We sit quietly for a bit. "Are you going to tell the police?" I ask eventually.
"Only if you want me to," Dad answers me, serious. "It means you'll have to talk to them, tell them exactly what happened, what he did to you."
I nod, having already realized this. "I-I think I can. I want it to stop, Dad. I want him to go away and never hurt me again."
"He will," Dad promises. "He will, Yamato. And-thank you. For telling me."
I give him a tremulous smile, ignoring the sudden lump in my throat. A few tears slip out and slide down my face, but I ignore those too. "You're welcome."
No more are there untold secrets between us. Somehow, we'll make it through whatever comes next.
It's over.