deciphered

my letters to you IV

Oikawa's trauma was an accumulation of traces that always impacted him, a part of himself that never went away. His trauma was reoriented and altered into something he buried deep down, an intent for it to never be touched again. Just like a chipped vase, Oikawa had his own cracks within his body.

When you try to fix a vase, there is no way to remove the traces of the cracks even if you filled in the spaces with gold or other materials. In a sense, there will always be an element that is inherently cracked—the fact that it had been, that it was cracked. The trauma, in and of itself, was fundamentally not a part of Oikawa.

Yet, these said "cracks" within his body, while they did not make up the very essence of his being—he believed they still existed, outside of his own. Oikawa's trauma was an essential part of his world—although it was essentially not a part of his world.

One of the things Oikawa had struggled to live with, a trauma his body forced to cover up and repress down in the abyss of his subconscious—he had difficulty coming to terms with the absolute truth of a certain woman's death. Oikawa had to live with the fact he killed his ex-girlfriend—the main reason why he had fled the city of Osaka in the first place.

What he tried so hard to tell himself was that it was an accident—or so he persuaded himself for it to be. Was he so scared to admit that it was his bullet that killed her that day? When Oikawa explained to you about how his ex-girlfriend died, he told a version of that story that strayed from the truth. He had lied so much to himself about that particular incident that he believed it was the truth.

Oikawa wanted something he so desperately craved from others—sympathy. He wanted someone to reassure him that he didn't kill his ex-girlfriend, that it wasn't entirely his fault. He had lied to himself so much he truly believed he didn't kill her, making up a version of the story to manipulate your perception of him. He imagined himself out to be the victim in the story where he was, in fact, the murderer.

'Never rely on peoples' perception of me. Only you can determine that for yourself.'

At the pinnacle of his madness, Oikawa deep down was scared to relive the memory. He cradled his weak and sickly naked body back and forth on the damp concrete floor, only the underwear around his hips and the tattoos imprinted on his arms covered his skin. Burying his head deep into his knees, he heard the door to the room outside the isolation chamber open.

"Inmate 1099," the same guard from yesterday and the day before called his name, bringing down his food. "You have to eat, please. It's been almost three weeks."

Oikawa didn't respond, only the eerie creaks of the pipes inside the walls could be heard. The guard opened his cell door, stepping inside to place the tray of food on the protruding metal bar. He noticed Oikawa's grey jumpsuit folded neatly on the opposite side, grabbing the tray containing the stale food from yesterday. Only the two large glasses of water were empty, none of the food touched.

The correctional officer sighed to himself before turning around and exiting the isolation chamber, locking the heavy door behind him. The clicks echoed throughout the room, ringing contiguously in Oikawa's ears as he heard the guard walk away. Lifting his head up, his blurred vision shifted to focus on the tray.

His frail arm reached for one of the large glasses of water, his fingers slightly trembling from the lack of energy in his body. The second the tips of his fingers touched the condensed water droplets, he looked at the tattoo resting above his knuckles, reading the words "with God".

Somehow the words triggered the memory of him back in Osaka, receiving the tattoo from a famous artist that inked many men in the yakuza. It was only a few days before he was set out on a mission to run a drive-by on the Café a local police informant often visited.