Joey wakes under a ceiling he can't reach, in yesterday's shirt, with no memory after leaving the shop. Fourteen notifications. He runs through the list he has kept for two years — doesn't hit anyone, doesn't break anything, sleeps at his own place — and finds two of them gone and the rest unverifiable. Downstairs there is breakfast, and a middle schooler at the end of a long table who says the word nobody has said to him in four years.
This is a translation of an original work on Pixiv.
Original Title: 12 朝食
Original Author: 葉人(@Hathor_yuki)
Personal site: https://prideshipping.sakura.ne.jp
Opening my eyes, that was the first thing I thought.
The ceiling is high. The ceiling in my room I can reach if I stand and put a hand up; here I can't. A good three metres.
The walls are white, with a band of fine moulding running round them. Where do you even buy that.
I'd been sleeping there.
A soft bed and a warm duvet. The air conditioning's on and my head isn't cold.
I raised myself slowly and put a hand on the bed.
My head hurts. Not splitting, as such. At any rate, I'm thirsty.
I looked round the room.
Wide enough that three of my rooms would fit. One bed, a table, two chairs.
The big curtains are drawn, so the window must be wide as well. Light comes in through the gap.
The floor is carpeted.
I checked what I was wearing.
Yesterday's shirt, still on. The jacket's over the back of a chair, and the tie was on the table. Beside it, a bottle of water.
Socks and trousers still on. My shoes were set neatly by the door of the room.
Whether I took them off myself, I don't remember.
That was where I stopped.
——I don't remember.
I tried to remember yesterday.
It was a send-off.
A place by the station, the room a tatami room, eight of us. Mr. Ando made me sit in the far seat. Partway through, beer changed to sake. Mr. Ando said, Wheeler can take it, after all.
We moved to a second place. One of the young ones went under, and two of them left to see him home.
The third place came up. We came out of the shop and it was cold outside. I was walking behind them.
That's as far as I can trace. From there on, there's no memory.
I looked at the table.
Phone and wallet, both there. That's all I went out with, so it's all present.
I looked for a clock and there wasn't one. Took the phone and looked at the screen. And then noticed I was wearing my watch.
8:50.
I stood up in a hurry, swayed, and sat back down on the bed.
Start is half past eight, and I haven't been in touch.
No, wait.
Am I working today?
No, I'm in the leave period. 15 to 28 February. Today is the 20th, a Saturday.
If it's Saturday, it isn't a working day. Then why am I panicking. Because for four years Saturdays had sites. Because even when they didn't, the phone rings.
No, that's not it. It's meant to be leave.
I looked at the phone.
Notifications lined up. Fourteen showing.
Five from the section chief, three from the office, and then unknown numbers, and messages.
I looked at the top one.
The section chief. 7:12 this morning.
Sorry about yesterday. Get in touch
Next.
Are you all right
Wheeler, get in touch
Below that, the six o'clock hour.
There are ones from last night too. 23:00, 24:00.
I turned off the screen.
What the hell did I do yesterday.
Think as I might, I can't remember.
Not remembering means I've done something.
My old man's face came up.
The morning he'd slept in the kitchen. At the time I was leaving for school, he was on the floor. Down by the sink unit, curled on his side. A few cans rolled about.
I went to step over him and get out, and he opened his eyes.
And then he looked at me, and said it.
"Why am I in a place like this."
I said nothing and left the house.
That whole day, I thought about it.
Thought about it in lessons.
Being asked why am I in a place like this, and thinking, the hell would I know.
At the time, I was thinking he really hadn't understood.
He'd gone to sleep there of his own accord, woken up in the morning, didn't know how he'd got there, didn't know where he was and was frightened by it. That went on every day.
It made me furious.
Why am I the one working out how he feels.
He took my money. In the summer of my first year of high school I worked and saved, and he took it, wallet and all, and by the next morning he said he didn't remember.
When I said don't think you can get away with not remembering, he hit me and told me not to lie.
His memory got rewritten to suit him, and all that had happened was that a wallet was taken and I was hit.
For some reason he remembered hitting me.
But maybe he only knew he'd hit me before. He'd done it so many times, maybe he'd decided he remembered it.
Because every time I answered back it turned into a fight.
How it really was, I don't know.
In the spring I was eighteen, I left the house just like that. Got the job, rented a room, moved my things.
I went while he was out of the house. Left no note. Deleted his contact too.
Four years since, and I've not been in touch once. I changed my number, so nothing comes from his end either.
Whether he's alive, I don't know.
I chose to break with him. And even so, now and then I think about it.
The one who threw the other away is me. The one who got thrown away is also me. Him and me, we threw each other away.
I came back to myself and found I'd stopped with the bottle in my hand.
There's no memory of last night.
Came out of the shop, walked, and from there nothing.
In that part that isn't there, I might have said something. I might have done something.
The part that matters, I don't know. Even if I did do something, I can't apologise.
Not being able to apologise means.
There, my hand shook, and I put the bottle on the table.
Rubbed the sweat off my palms on my knees.
It's the same, isn't it.
I'm doing the same thing he did.
Two years, I've counted. I go to work the day after I drink. I don't hit anyone. I don't break anything. I sleep at my own place. I don't fall behind on rent. I don't owe anyone.
Two years since I started drinking. I turned twenty, and two months after that I started being made to drink, and from then until today I've done nothing to be ashamed of.
That was supposed to be my proof.
Of every single thing he did. I haven't done it. I'm not him. So today I'm all right too.
That's how I counted.
Yesterday, I didn't sleep at my own place.
Last night, I don't remember.
Even by what I know, two have gone.
The rest.
Whether I hit anyone, I don't know.
Whether I broke anything, I don't know.
Not knowing — isn't that already the same as gone.
I looked at my own hands.
Not dirty. No injuries. If I'd been in a fight there'd be marks. But they're clean.
So what.
He didn't have dirty hands the day after he hit someone either.
I closed my eyes.
Behind my eyelids, that kitchen came up. The back curled on the floor. Around the time I was getting bigger, I feel like he was getting thinner.
By the time I was at middle school he already had that body. Because he didn't eat and only drank.
He slept in the way through, so I stepped over that back to go to school.
Once, only once, I woke him. Winter, when I was at primary school. Because it was cold that day. I thought sleeping on the kitchen floor would kill him.
I shook his shoulder, and he opened his eyes, and looked at me, and then he laughed.
"Hey, Joey."
That face, only that, I remember clearly.
I opened my eyes.
Stop it, don't remember that now. Damn it.
He took my money, and hit me, and forgot everything I said.
There's no obligation on my side to remember for someone who forgot.
Why do I remember.
I put a hand on the table and stood up. Took a big breath in, let it out.
Don't think.
Right now, think only about getting home.
Put the jacket on, put the tie in the pocket.
Put my shoes on at the door and left the room.
Out of the room there was a long corridor running left and right. Similar doors lined up along it. I counted, and there were six on one side.
Even walking, the carpet takes the sound and there are no footsteps.
On the wall hang pictures in big frames.
I didn't know which way to go.
For now, I went left.
There was a staircase at the end, and for now I went down. Another corridor.
Carrying on anyway, I came out into an open place with a high ceiling. There's a chandelier.
This is a house, presumably, but the scale is too big.
Walking the corridor, someone came. An older woman, in an apron.
"Mr. Joseph Wheeler, isn't it. Good morning."
"Ah — good morning."
"You're awake. My apologies for the delay. Breakfast is this way."
She said that and started walking.
"Um, excuse me."
"Yes."
"Where is this?"
Asking it, I half knew.
The woman stopped and smiled, just a little.
"This is the Kaiba mansion."
The Kaiba mansion.
Thought so. A house on this scale, I don't know any but the Kaiba mansion.
"…Um."
"Yes."
"Why am I here."
"Master Seto brought you last night."
"Kaiba did?"
"Yes, that is so."
Last night.
The car. The quiet engine. Seto Kaiba.
In fragments, but I remembered.
You. Again. What are you doing in a place like this, I was told.
Get in, I was told several times.
I was handed water and the cap wouldn't open, and it was opened for me.
Do not be sick, I was told.
That was all I could remember.
From there on, nothing.
"Um — did I do anything?"
"Meaning?"
"No, just — whether I was a nuisance."
The woman shook her head.
"You were resting in the car, so Master Seto said to put you in a room."
"…Right."
I started to ask again, and stopped.
"Breakfast is ready. Please."
"Ah, no — I'll head home."
"Are you sure?"
"I've got work."
Having said it, I stopped.
Work.
Today is Saturday.
Saturday, and the calls have come. Fourteen.
No, but it's also meant to be leave.
"Because I've got work."
The woman left a small pause.
"Regarding that, I am instructed by Master Seto to tell you not to concern yourself."
I opened my mouth.
"…What?"
"Regarding the matter of work, not to concern yourself."
"Not to concern myself."
"That is what I was to convey."
I got out the phone.
Fourteen notifications lined up.
Five from the section chief.
Sorry about yesterday
Are you all right
Wheeler, get in touch
Don't concern yourself.
Not a chance, I thought.
This is about my job. About our company.
Not something that disappears because he says don't concern yourself.
"Um."
"Yes."
"Where's Kaiba."
"Master Seto has been out since this morning."
"…Right."
"Master Mokuba is in the dining room."
Mokuba.
"Breakfast is this way."
Third time.
I followed.
The dining room was wide as well.
There's a long table. Ten could sit at it.
At one end, one person was sitting.
Middle school age now, I suppose. Black hair a bit shorter than before, not a suit but an ordinary shirt.
He was eating toast, and noticed me and looked up.
"Hey, Wheeler."
"…Mokuba."
"Long time."
"Long time."
Mokuba pointed at the seat opposite with his fork.
"Sit."
I sat. The chair was heavy.
A plate came straight away.
Toast, eggs, salad, and soup as well.
Coffee came too.
I was looking at the plate.
"You awake? Eat, anyway."
"Yeah."
I ate. It was good, but more than that, my head wasn't turning.
"Listen."
"Mm."
"About yesterday, I—"
"Ah, Nii-sama brought you."
"…Why?"
"Dunno."
Mokuba bit into his toast.
"I only heard this morning too. Driver says he carried you in, asleep."
"Carried me in?"
"Mm."
"I got carried in?"
"Don't know the details, but there's enough people, so I expect they managed."
Mokuba said that and drank his coffee.
"…Right."
"Wheeler, you're heavier than you were, aren't you."
"I'm not heavier."
"You are. What are you now, in kilos."
"About seventy."
"That's gone up, hasn't it. You've got a gut."
I looked at my own stomach.
In high school it was sixty-two. Four years and eight kilos on. What went on is drink, probably.
"Hey, Mokuba."
"Mm."
"Did I say anything yesterday."
"Dunno."
"Right. Course."
"If you want to know, ask Nii-sama."
"…"
I thought that if I asked, an answer would come back, and I stopped asking.
I drank my coffee too.
"Wheeler."
"What."
Mokuba put the cup back on the saucer.
He was looking straight at me.
"Pack in drinking like that."
I looked up.
Mokuba wasn't smiling. But he wasn't angry, and he wasn't fed up either.
"When you drink, it makes work for people."
"Work for—"
"Second time, isn't it."
"Second time?"
"Heard it happened last year too. Went under in the road."
Last May.
That reached him?
"That was, well—"
"Don't make excuses."
"I'm not."
"You are."
Mokuba took another mouthful of coffee.
"Look, drinking's fine. I can't drink, but that's what grown-ups do, isn't it."
"Sort of."
"But sleeping in the road isn't on."
"…No."
"That's dangerous."
Dangerous.
That word landed in an odd way.
When was the last time somebody said dangerous to me?
The section chief didn't say it. Mr. Ando didn't say it. He said, Wheeler can take it, after all.
"He can take it" means "he'll be fine."
They made me drink all that, and nobody said it was dangerous.
"Sorry about that."
I said.
"What's the use of apologising to me."
Mokuba said.
"…No."
"Anyway, it's fine. Just go easy from now on."
Mokuba ate the last of his toast. Having swallowed it, as though he'd just remembered, he said it.
"Come to think of it."
"Mm."
"Wheeler, aren't you on paid leave at the moment?"
I stopped.
"…How do you know that."
"Eh, I was told."
"By who."
"Nii-sama."
I stayed with my mouth open, looking at Mokuba.
"He said so this morning before he left. That you should be on paid leave."
"…"
"Aren't you?"
"…I am. It's leave."
"Then why are you drinking at a company thing."
I couldn't answer.
"Heard it was a send-off."
"It was."
"A send-off's a company thing, isn't it."
"…It is."
"And leave's meant to be a day off."
"Yeah."
"Then that's not right, is it."
the middle-school vice-president said.
I was looking at the plate. Half the eggs were left.
Not right. It isn't right.
I knew. Knew, and went. Went because refusing would turn into something. Went because I didn't want to leave a place I worked four years on bad terms at the end.
And that got finished off with that's not right, is it.
I couldn't say anything. I can't argue back and I don't want to.
Because having no argument means it's correct.
"By the look of you."
Mokuba carried on.
"You're getting loads of calls, aren't you."
"…I am."
"Today's Saturday, right."
"It's Saturday."
"On leave, on a Saturday, and why are the calls coming."
I looked at the phone.
Fourteen. It might have gone up since, so I didn't look.
"…Why is that."
"It's weird, isn't it."
"It's weird."
I tried saying it.
Having said it, it was.
Weird.
Four years, and I didn't think it was weird.
That's because there was nobody to compare with. Everyone in the office was the same. Kobayashi, and the admin staff, and the section chief. All of them the same, so I thought that was normal.
Someone to compare with is right in front of me now.
A middle schooler is saying, that's weird, isn't it.
"Wheeler."
"What."
"Eat, anyway. It'll go cold."
I ate the eggs and drank the soup.
That's good, I thought, and then something felt odd.
"…Mokuba."
"Mm."
"Thanks."
Mokuba looked up.
"What's that, out of nowhere."
"No."
"If you mean the food, I didn't make it."
"That's not it."
"Then what."
I hunted for words.
Hunted, and didn't find any.
"…Dunno."
"What's that supposed to be."
Mokuba laughed and stood up.
"I've got something on this afternoon."
"Right."
"Take your time, Wheeler. Nobody here, mind."
"Nah, I'll head off."
"Right."
Mokuba went to leave the dining room and stopped in the doorway.
Turned just his head back.
"Wheeler."
"What."
"Nii-sama went out early, you know."
"Mm."
"Today's Saturday."
I looked up.
"He works Saturdays and Sundays. Always has."
"…"
"Wish he'd think about how it is for the ones worrying. Not that it's for me to say."
That was all he said, and he went out.
I was on my own.
I sat at the long table on my own.
There's a plate. There's coffee.
Light comes in through the window.
I drank the coffee and got out the phone.
I opened all fourteen notifications.
Read the section chief's.
Sorry about yesterday
Are you all right
Wheeler, get in touch
You disappeared partway through yesterday. I looked for you and couldn't find you
Just get in touch
7:12 through to 7:40.
He must have looked, and couldn't reach me, and even come morning he was still waiting for word.
I went to type a reply, and my finger stopped.
What do I type.
Do I type sorry.
Four years, that's what I've typed.
Sorry, I'll be late. Sorry, I'll check. Sorry, in the middle of my leave.
For a while, I stayed frozen with my finger stopped.
Then, I typed.
I'm fine
That was all I sent.
Pressed send, turned off the screen.
Put the phone on the table and drank the rest of the coffee.
