SuNNY-ShO-ShUN 黒潮

*The big white whale*

Attention: Concentration is the keyword for this chapter. Please let me know if it's too confusing.

Pirates and sailors think they rule the sea, but the sea's owner is not a sailor or its waves. The sea belongs to Moby; the whale waits patiently to strike you when you are not ready.

And Shota was about to be struck.

"Sir, please follow me."

The man was not Miyama San, and the car which waited for him at the school's gate did not belong to him.

Haruka must have contacted the deadly baaba, Matsumoto thought as the driver opened the car door for him.

"Oh, my goodness, what is this? Kento San to Barbara's. You look like a hooligan. Don't you even dare say a word or stare at me till you resemble someone of the human species."

Once at Barbara's, the show began, the kind you only see in the movie clones of Pretty Woman. Pampered to the brim, the women washed and cut Shota's hair. Another beautician came to manicure his hands and toes, which she coated with transparent nail varnish. A man brought suits and shoes for Shota to fit under the eyes of a woman who typed frantically on her laptop as she followed Matsumoto's stock options. Misako only lifted her head at the end of Shota's transformation.

"Son."

"Mother."

Misako Matsumoto was Matsumoto Zaibutsu [financial conglomerate] CEO. In possession of a majority of shares, her command was law.

Sometimes called the Ice queen, most people preferred calling her the Titan Fist. Others even referred to Misako in whispers as Cruella from hell because of the thick white strand, which ran like the milky way on the side.

The woman wore tailored suits at all times; she had what people baptized the business fashion chic. Lips and nails were always of a bloody red which contrasted with her white sheet skin.

Misako was beautiful, but one could not say Shota had inherited her genes. Those who met Akiko Matsumoto told the legend of the man's beauty.

Now Shota was all his mother had, and she dedicated her love to the only man on earth who resembled her late husband. Misako's face harbored the same expression 24h a day. Her son was the only person Misako's face twitched.

"Now I recognize you, thank you, ladies. Let's have dinner, Shota."

Dinner awaited at the mansion he hated so, a household with too many chambers and too many maids. Every time Shota entered the demeure, he was seized with panic. For it was a dreadful house filled with phantoms and that place—a darkroom in the neglected West wing where the family locked its past and secrets.

The dining room with a table that held twenty people on each side was another place Shota disliked. The chandelier and the French baroque style of the room gave it a gloomy atmosphere. Misako paid thousands of dollars to make her dining resemble an Agatha Christie decor. They sat at each end of the table; they would not communicate during the meal. That's how it always was ever since.

Control-control-control, Shota repeated in his mind.

Misako had everything planned; she always did this; she knew fear would chase him away. Shota resisted; he couldn't let him take control.

Fumi San took every plate Shota ate empty to his mother, who verified it was emptied of its contents to the last crumbs. There was nothing he liked. Everything which they served was meant for him. Misako desired to lure him out or the other one if you prefer.

Once the meal was over, Misako asked her son to play the piano once again; it was an ability he mastered. Shota's play was rusty; he fumbled on the keys making his mother cringe.

"No-no-no," yelled the woman leaping from her seat and striding to Shota's side, grasping him by the neck where she sunk her dagger nails.

"Play again and better," she ordered.

Shota threw a gaze at both sides of the room where the maids stood motionless, gazing at each other without twitching an eyelid at the scene, which was more than familiar.

The act was almost a routine interrupted by the heir's escapade outside the mansion's walls. Misako's constant travels had given him breathing space, but now the whale was back to wreck whatever haven he had built.

Shota played, but she wasn't satisfied, slapping him continuously and hitting him on the back with the bamboo cane she had; Shota didn't retaliate. Who would lift a finger against his mother?

"Play again!"

Shota played.

"Again."

He started from the beginning.

"No-no-no," Misako screamed, hitting him on each shoulder with her cane.

"Haruhi San."

"Hai."

"Fumi San."

"Hai."

"Matsumoto Sama will sleep in the West wing tonight."

°°°°

He had failed if he were her Shota, he would have slept in the comfortable East wing. Now he found himself condemned to that place again. The boy braced himself as he walked the room. Maybe she had renovated, and it was not the dreadful place of his memory. Shota could not be more wrong; everything was as he had left it. The walls still harbored the stigmata of his punishments.

The desk was still there in the middle with the pile of papers and the ink. There was no bed for one who did not sleep there.

Misako's rocking chair was there too.

Shota sat, waiting for her to arrive.

As soon as she entered, she clapped in her hands, Shota wrote and recited.

I AM SHOTA.

I AM SHOTA.

I AM SHOTA.

I AM SHOTA.

I AM SHOTA.

I AM SHOTA.

I AM SHOTA.

The walls, the floor, and the papers he wrote were filled with this single phrase. Misako did not seek medical assistance, scared the tabloids would make the story into a scandal that would weaken Matsumoto industries.

The company's heir could not be insane, and so she took upon herself to heal him from this pathology—a pathology which Misako had solely contributed in its making.

Troubled, Shota wasn't sick in her eyes; he was just going through growing pains. Her son's attacks were just ordinary mood swings with persistent irritability. All the house employees were aware of this, and they dared not tell the world. Afraid of not finding another job once, Misako would have branded them as disloyal employees.

Shota could feel himself slipping. The seat he sat in was drenched, and he knew the room temperature was low, for his mother hated the heat. It was him; he perspired, for he fought against himself, this other him who was waiting to be tagged to go in the ring and take his place.

No-no-no-control-control. It was vital to stay awake mentally, but he was falling.