deciphered

enigma's secret I

"I got five on it..."

Nagoya, Aichi Prefecture — Summer, fourteen years ago

The stench of rotting rubbish dispersed through the summer air, slowly trickling into the noses of the children kicking a ball to each other within the alleyway. Although they scrunched their eyebrows and pinched their noses; they continued their game nonetheless, running in circles with their open-toed sandals.

"Rin, I'm open here!" One of the boys called out to Suna, waving his arms over his head. He nodded and kicked the ball to the other kid's direction, watching it maneuver through the grime and scour of the alleyway concrete.

At the time, Suna was only nine years old, living in one of the poorest neighborhoods of Nagoya. He resided primarily with his mother and younger sister, as his father was rarely home due to constant business trips. On the best occasion, he'd be home for about two days out of the whole month. Though, most of the time, he'd be gone for weeks on end, sometimes going months without coming home—yet, this didn't bother Suna at all.

His mom mentioned it was because his father worked for a business all the way out in Osaka, so it was best for him to rent out a small space out in the city and come home from time to time. He used to visit more frequently when Suna was younger, but as the years progressed, his visits would become more sparse, dwindling by each one.

Suna's mother worked as a caregiver at the local nursing home, which meant money was usually tight. It was hard to get by living paycheck to paycheck—and if she got sick, Suna would unfortunately have to skip out on some meals while they made sure his sister was well fed. Sometimes his dad would send back money to help out, but just like his visitations, the frequency of the checks sent over began to dwindle as well.

His younger sister was still a baby, so Suna ended up having to take care of her whenever his mother worked the late night shifts. Whenever he arrived home from school, she would pass her off to him before she went to work, which also meant he barely got to see his mom as well. Throughout all of the struggle, Suna still didn't mind, as he thought his life was something normal to live through.

Suna rarely knew his father. He didn't even know which company he worked for; only the fact he just worked for one. Sometimes he forgot what his father looked like, even though his mother would constantly remind him that he resembled his dad to a stark preciseness. Despite the absence of his father, Suna still admired him greatly to where one day, he aspired to be just like him.

His mother adored his father as she spoke very highly of him—constantly praising his adorned looks, his work ethic, and how lovingly he treated her. She mentioned they met at the nursing home she worked at, where she was the caregiver for his old, senile, and mute grand-uncle. Unfortunately, Suna's great-grand-uncle passed away shortly after that, but his parents' relationship continued to live on, and eventually they got married and had Suna soon thereafter.

All was well from the memories he could recall, and for a long time, their lives were decently quiet. Although they lived in a shabby run-down apartment complex in the poorest district of Nagoya, young Suna was happy—and that's all he needed, truly.

After a long day of playing outside with his friends, the sun turned bright orange on the horizon, slowly setting for the night. Suna said his goodbyes to the neighborhood kids and made his way back up the five flights of stairs to his apartment on the top floor, trotting up triumphantly with each step.

His maroon tank top was dirty from playing in the alleyway, and he knew his mom would get upset at him again for it. He tried his best to dust it off before entering through the door, but before he grabbed the handle, he heard a long, drawn out wail of anguish erupting from his mother on the other side.

Suna didn't waste a second more before he swung open the door and saw his mother sobbing on the kitchen floor with her head buried deep into her palms. Her white cotton dress was drenched with the flood of tears spilling from her eyes. His baby sister stood up in her crib and was crying herself too, mostly likely stressed from their mother collapsing straight to the floor. The home phone was shattered on the kitchen tiles with a persistent dial tone still ringing, sitting next to his mother's foot.

"Mom?!" Suna worried, quickly rushing to her without closing the apartment door. "Mom, what's wrong? Did you hurt yourself?!"

He reached his arms out and grabbed his mother's wet hands, taking them away from her face as she continued to sob violently. He looked straight into her eyes and realized the joy his mother would radiate, even on the worst of days—it was entirely drained out from body, leaving a vessel that was completely vapid and void of any soul or will to continue on.

Soon, Suna began to shed tears himself where he could feel the warmth of his cheeks beginning to erupt. He held tighter to his mother's hands while her head dangled in misery. "Mom! What happened?!"

His mother went mute and ignored his further questions; only the sound of sorrow was to be heard throughout the apartment. Her cries were so loud that the old woman living next door scurried to their unit to check if everything was okay before promptly calling the ambulance. Suna was left in dismay, bursting into a rush of tears as his mother laid still against the kitchen cabinets while he was comforted by the old woman. Soon after, she was wheeled away to the back of the vehicle, her fate ultimately lying within the paramedics' hands.

There was something viscerally disturbing about the way his mother was almost lifeless and unresponsive on the gurney to the ambulance. Behind that phone call must have been extremely disturbing for her to react that way, especially when she was usually so calm and collected with almost any experience in life. Suna was left that day with more questions that he could think of, wondering what happened during that phone call.

While his mother was in the hospital, the old woman next door took care of Suna and his baby sister for a few days. She made some mediocre food, but at least she gave him a package of jelly sticks he would sometimes share with his sister. It soon became his favorite snack, almost in a coping way that eased his ruminating mind.

After the third day of his mother's rest in the hospital, Suna overheard the elderly woman talking on the phone while making dinner for them. He hid behind a small corner that was tucked behind the main entrance to the kitchen, slowly peeking his head out to hear the conversation.

"Can't the police do anything?!" The elderly woman raised her voice while she neglected the pot of soup boiling over on the stove. She sighed in disbelief, pinching the bridge of her nose while holding the phone up to her ear.

The topic was about his father and how she was stressed at the fact he wasn't the one taking care of his kids—all until she found out he disappeared straight out of the blue, abandoning his family. Suna didn't know when this happened, but he assumed from the lack of calls, letters, and financial support coming in that this was something he had planned to gradually phase out of—ultimately abandoning his family without a trace.

The old woman responded in a harsh tone to the person she was talking to, asking for clarification on the situation. "What do you mean by disappeared? His kids are still here! He can't just abandon them like that!"

Suna choked back tears falling from his eyes, swallowing down whatever pride he had regarding the integrity of his father. It was the last thing he wanted to hear, hoping the phone call was about his father and that he would be on his way to take care of him and his sister—but unfortunately, it was the exact opposite. He refused to accept that his father, his one and only role model, the man he looked up to—abandoned and betrayed him.

After that day, Suna no longer felt the thread of connection to his father. On some days, the cuts could be felt again, slicing through the fabric of his trust.