Some bruises fade. Others live beneath your skin.
The worst ones?
They don't bleed.
They speak.
They whisper every time someone raises their voice.
Every time a fork hits a plate too hard.
Every time your own heartbeat sounds like footsteps.
---
My father has always been a loud man.
But not in the cheerful, joke-making, beer-gut kind of way.
No, his voice is the kind that doesn't need volume.
Just weight.
He talks like his words are laws.
Like God handed him a stamp that says "Disappointment Approved."
---
I was seven the first time I realized my father didn't like me.
It was during Uncle Makoto's birthday party.
The house was full—relatives I didn't recognize, laughter that felt like background noise, and a long table filled with food we couldn't afford most days.
I held a glass of orange juice. The fancy kind, with pulp.
I was nervous. My hands were sweaty. Someone told a joke. I laughed.
And the juice spilled across the tablecloth.
---
Everyone stopped.
Even the dog.
Eyes turned to me like I had committed treason.
And then—snap—my father was on his feet.
He grabbed my arm.
> "Look what you did."
His voice was tight. Not loud. But deadly.
Before I could apologize, the back of his hand slammed across my cheek.
Right in front of the entire family.
The glass shattered on the floor.
No one said anything.
No one gasped.
Not even my mother.
They just looked away.
---
I remember biting the inside of my cheek to stop from crying.
Because boys don't cry.
Because shame tastes like pulp and salt.
I sat in the hallway the rest of the night.
They gave the dog more attention than me.
---
Back in the present, I sat at the dinner table.
The curry was cold.
The rice hard around the edges.
My chopsticks didn't match.
Across from me, my father popped open another can of beer. The fourth, maybe fifth.
He didn't look at me when he spoke.
> "Saw your face again. Online."
Sip.
> "Still trending. Must be proud."
Sip.
> "You're not even trying to fix it, are you?"
I didn't answer.
Because if I spoke, I'd scream.
And if I screamed, he'd win.
He leaned back in his chair. His face was red around the nose. His eyes, dull and already somewhere else.
> "You just sit there. Like you don't exist. Like a tumor."
That one got me.
Not because it was new.
But because it was true.
I didn't exist. Not to him.
Just something he had to feed.
Barely.
---
He took another long sip, then laughed. Bitter.
> "You know, I never wanted a son."
That made me blink.
He'd never said that part out loud before.
> "Your mom cried when she found out you were a boy. Thought you'd be like me."
> "Guess she was wrong."
He crushed the can in one hand.
> "You're worse."
He tossed it.
I didn't flinch.
But I felt the sting when the aluminum hit my temple.
---
He stood up.
> "Clean that."
Then he left.
Not dramatically. Just... left. Like the conversation was over.
Like the violence was punctuation.
---
I sat there, beer trickling down my cheek, mixing with sweat and the last pieces of my self-respect.
It was funny.
The house was quiet. The food untouched. The world small.
And still… I felt like I was buried under mountains.
---
I cleaned the table. Washed the can. Threw it in the bin.
Because I knew better than to leave anything behind.
My father hated messes.
Especially ones he made.
---
Later, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling again.
It was becoming a habit.
Counting cracks.
Making shapes out of mold.
Escaping without leaving.
---
I thought about all the times he "taught me how to be a man."
Yelling when I cried.
Yelling when I didn't cry enough.
Telling me I'd never be enough.
> "Stop eating like a girl."
"Fix your posture."
"No one respects weak men."
"You think anyone's gonna date a freak like you?"
Sometimes I'd wonder if he actually saw me.
Or just saw everything he hated in himself and projected it onto the lump of flesh that happened to be his son.
---
Once, in middle school, I won a regional art contest. First prize.
I showed him the certificate.
He looked at it. Said nothing.
Two days later, he threw it out during spring cleaning.
Said I "shouldn't clutter the house with trash."
---
I don't think he knows what I like.
Or what I'm afraid of.
Or what my name means.
He just knows I'm the thing that broke his marriage.
The thing that cries too easily.
The thing that makes him look weak.
---
Sometimes I wonder if that's what fathers are supposed to be.
Judges.
Executioners.
Gods with human faces and no time to learn how to love.
---
I miss my grandfather.
He was the only man who ever looked me in the eyes like I was worth listening to.
He didn't tell me to man up.
He just sat beside me.
He'd make tea. Hand me weird old comic books. Tell me stories from his time in the war that probably weren't real.
But they felt real.
Because he told them to me.
He'd say things like:
> "Being strong isn't about who you can beat, Yuuya. It's about what you can carry without breaking."
And I always thought that meant responsibilities.
Now I think he meant pain.
---
I sat on the floor of his old room, holding a photo of us at the zoo.
I was smiling.
He had his hand on my head.
We looked happy.
We weren't. Not really.
But we were together.
And sometimes, that's enough.
---
The trap door still glowed. Faint and pulsing like a heartbeat.
I hadn't opened it yet.
Not because I was afraid.
But because… what if it was nothing?
What if it was just another lie?
Another promise that leads nowhere?
---
But then again… maybe the real question was:
> What did I have left to lose?
---
My father's disgust wasn't going away.
Neither were the rumors.
Neither was the silence from Minako. Or the empty stares from classmates. Or the way my mother turned her face away when I entered a room.
---
If I stayed in this world any longer…
I wouldn't just die.
I'd dissolve.
Fade.
Cease to even be hated.
Just… gone.
---
So I stood.
Walked over.
Knees still bruised from last night's pavement prayer.
And opened the trap door.
Warm air hit my face.
And something deeper.
A whisper. Not in words.
But in feeling.
> "Come in, Yuuya."
So I did.
---
> To be continued.