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For: Fujitaka

Series: Card Captor Sakura

Snip#: 01

 

Posted: 2001-11-27

Last Revised: 2002-05-01

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            somewhere between

            our dreams and the world

            the rain must fall and fall

 

            - Chung Yee Chong

 

 

All he had was a frayed green sweater, two paperbacks with the covers missing, a small tin toy car, and a marble.  

 

“Oh no,” they shook their heads, “that won’t do at all.”  They marched him back to the bedroom, where he stood and watched as they stuffed his case with clothes.  They then ran a comb through his light brown hair, tucked a coin in his pocket and led him down to the kitchen, where a meal of rice, fish and sour plum was ready for him.  As he sank on the mat, they took their places at the other end of the table and watched him. 

 

He stared back. 

 

            “Eat,” they told him, “or people might think we haven’t been feeding you.”

 

            “I’m not hungry,” he whispered. 

 

            “It’ll be a long train ride to Tokyo,” they said.  “You have to eat something.”

 

            He bowed his head and picked up his chopsticks. 

 

The window by the sink was partly open, letting in a bit of the morning chill and giving him a glimpse of the sky, which was slowly beginning to lighten.  Or at least he thought it was.  No matter how hard he squinted, all he could see was a thick indecipherable haze.

 

“She’ll have to get him glasses,” one of them observed.

 

“Oh, she will,” answered another.  “She’ll give him everything he needs.”

 

He felt his stomach lurch slightly.  He knew what he had to do --- leave the House by seven, walk to the station, buy a train ticket to Tokyo, get off at the last stop and look for the woman bearing a sign with his name written on it.  He imagined himself walking down the platform towards a smiling woman in a suit and heels.  Kinomoto Fujitaka? She’d ask.  Fujitaka-kun, isn’t it?  I’ve been waiting for you…

 

He lifted his head.  “What if she doesn’t come?”  

 

“Oh, she’ll come,” they reassured him.  “She’s been waiting for you for months.”

 

He frowned into his bowl of rice.  The more he thought about it, the more he disliked the idea of leaving.  His thoughts trailed back to the upstairs bedroom, where an empty square of floor lay between mattresses.  He was supposed to fill up that space, to lie in his futon, dreaming.  He was supposed to be roused minutes earlier by an insistent hand on his arm (Oi, Taka-nii, okiro!), to push himself up on his mattress with a yawn, rub his eyes, and mumble weary greetings to everyone.  He was supposed to trudge down the hall to the bathroom, where children were busy grabbing toothbrushes and wrestling for towels and splashing water on their faces and rushing down the stairs at the call for breakfast---

 

With their backs to him, they watched the clock.  For a moment he contemplated on saying something like I don’t want to go; this is my home, I’ve always lived here but he did not know where to begin.  Something heavy lodged itself in his throat.  He swallowed painfully, letting his gaze drift from their backs, pale twisted necks and neatly spun chignons of hair, then up to the wall clock, which finally read seven o’ clock.

 

His heart sank.

 

“It’s time,” they said, getting up from the table. 

 

He put down his chopsticks and set them on top of his bowl, neatly so that the ends were aligned with one another, and slowly bowed his head.  His forehead grazed the tabletop --- the scratched wooden tabletop that had born witness to so many meals, so many birthday toasts, so many afternoon teas…  A deep, heavy sort of languor suddenly fell over him. 

 

“I don’t want to go,” he whispered.

 

“Come,” they said.  They pulled him up, led him to the small dim foyer, then thrust the case in his hands. 

 

He pulled his shoes on, turned to them, and hesitated.  Would he dare say goodbye?  Could he bring himself to say it?  The thought of parting filled him with so much pain, it was almost unbearable.

 

“Itte kimasu,” he mumbled.

 

There was an audible sob.  One of them suddenly clutched at her chest, breathing hard, then threw her arms around him and started crying in his hair.  He staggered a bit under her weight and reached up to awkwardly pat the sash of her kimono.  Over her shivering shoulder he saw their faces crumple, eyes filling with tears, hands clenching on their faded kimonos.  And past their tearful gazes he spied a lone figure standing at the foot of the stairs, tugging at the waist of his pajamas, rubbing the sleep off his eyes.  “Taka-nii?”  It was a roommate.  “Taka-nii, where’re you going?”

 

Fujitaka hastily wrenched himself free from the embrace that held him, grabbed his case and started to fumble with the door lock.  If he stayed a moment longer, he knew he would never be able to leave.

 

“Where’s he going?”  The child continued to ask.

 

“Fujitaka-kun’s taking a very long trip,” said somebody, hoarsely.

 

“Where’re you going, Taka-nii?”  The child had turned to him.

 

“I don’t know,” he croaked, feeling his face burn.  He was a bad liar, he knew.

 

“Taka-nii tteba.”  The child sounded dubious.  “Are you coming back for lunch?”

 

As if on cue, the lock finally gave way and the door slid open with a small shriek.  Gripping suitcase in hand, he stepped outside and breathed in the crisp morning air.  There were was the distant scent of autumn, barely perceptible in the brew of so many familiar smells --- the aroma of baked bread from the nearby bakery, the woodsy scent of burning twigs wafting in from the neighbor’s yard, the sharp stench of gasoline from the service shop.  The morning sky now stretched over the town in a sea of golden amber.  He stared up at it for a moment, feeling his chest tighten.  It was the last time he would be standing on the front steps, looking up at the bit of heaven that lay over the town, his town, his home.

 

Home.

 

“Fujitaka,” they said, jolting him from his reverie.  “It is time.”  They had been watching him the whole while, unmoving shadows in the foyer.  He turned to face them. 

 

“Go,” they said.

 

He opened his mouth to speak.  He wanted to tell them how happy he was and how much they made him feel loved and how grateful he was to have met them, but there were too many words, too much that had to be said that he could not bring himself to start.  He was running out of time.  Swallowing hard, he bowed as deeply as he could. 

 

Sayonara.

 

He then straightened up and turned to run out the gate. 

 

He thought he heard someone yell after him, but he kept on running.

 

He never looked back.

 

 

[ cut ]

 

 

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