His name was...

Neon signs filled the night air of Yokohama with their ethereal glow as a petite man dressed in black rushed down the street, his long coat wavering behind his back. His facial expression revealed nothing but a slight crevice of anger and grief seething inside, burning his heart to ashes. Tonight he had lost yet another one of his subordinates. Their mission could have been accomplished successfully, but nobody expected the enemy organization to have among its members a powerful ability user. The mafia executive flew straight to the place as soon as he received the call asking for help, but still when he arrived, there was nobody left to save anymore. Livid, he could not suppress his merciless ability. Those who dared to araise the fury of Arahabaki’s vessel were doomed to be annihilated. The sense of loss was far from new for the redheaded man. He had experienced it multiple times before. He had seen the corpse of his friend falling out of the trunk, had heard the last words of the other, had seen a plenty of people he knew decapitalized, turned inside out, cut in pieces, burnt alive. He took revenge without missing anyone who happened to be involved in the incident and was guilty of the death of his allies. Nevertheless, no matter what he did, it could not help him bring them back. And so the sense of powerlessness, regrets for not having come sooner, what-if stories popping up in his head endlessly, were slowly eating him from inside, ripping off the flesh and causing him to writhe in pain on lonely, sleepless nights. His tear ducts were drained out of salty liquid to the core: he could not, he was not allowed to cry. It was all entirely his fault, the man thought. There was no need to blame anyone else. He was not enough, he was not born to be a leader, he could not cope with difficult tasks and make stratagems. After all he's merely an obedient port mafia dog. He does not deserve anything beyond that. The pale moon watched over him peacefully as he entered a convenience store to buy something matching the mild taste of a wine bottle in his collection he planned to open that night. He desperately needed some alcohol in his blood to deaden the noise of his own feelings. Stars did not make an appearance: city pollution might have been the cause, or maybe they were hiding, scared to be seen by some monster dwelling in the frightening woods of skyscrapers. The door opened easily, letting in the late customer. The place was more crowded than usual: after all, it was Saturday evening, as the mafioso eventually realized. He wandered the aisles aimlessly for several minutes, staring at the products arranged nicely on the shelves, his mind blank, before he remembered what he came here for. After scanning the contents of colorful packages with his eyes the man finally decided to buy some salmon. He headed in direction of the checkout when suddenly he stopped, frozen to the ground. From behind a subtle, thin, like a fragile spider web floating in the air, strange voice called his name gently. — Chuuya. Usually nobody dared to call the executive by his first name except his ex-partner — Dazai — who continued to do that mockingly ever since they were fifteen. But the voice reaching his ears was unmistakably female. A voice of a fine woman in her middle age. The man turned around slowly: it was true, a short lady stood there, holding a shopping basket in her left hand. She wore her hair loose, its bright red hue glowing in the dim lamp light. Her modest kimono revealed her once attractive and fit body shape. She was a few inches shorter than him. Two blue clear lakes looked at him with a hint of deep affection and care. Her skin was pale – maybe too pale for a healthy person. But all in all, the traces of an extremely gorgeous, beautiful woman were still visible on her face. A few wrinkles could never hide those features. He recognised her from the first glance. – I am sorry, – the woman said, granting him a sad smile, – you look so much like my son. Nakahara turned around, staring back at her dumbfounded, at loss for words. It was not the first time he met this woman. He had seen her before. …And he knew pretty well she was his mother, the woman who gave him birth, whose genes he inherited. They were separated when they kidnapped him to take to the laboratory at age five, in order to make experiences, take control over the singularity and merge him with a deity. They wiped his memory clear so that he never considers running away, irretrievably erased all the dear memories he once had with his own family, created multiple clones of him. However, the scientists’ plans were totally ruined when Verlaine sneaked in and took him away… but that’s a different story, too long and complicated to be resumed in a few words.Thanks to Ogai Mori, current boss of the Port Mafia, Nakahara received information about his parents and even were given an opportunity to meet them. But as soon as he saw them living peacefully, resigned to the death of their single child – Nakahara could not bring himself to knock at their door. Come to think of it, there would have been no sense in doing so – the “home” where he used to belong no longer existed. “My family is the Port Mafia”, he had said to the boss, and it was an honest claim. He did not need them in his life; nor did they. It is much easier to accept that your child had quietly passed away somewhere, then the fact that that child had blood on his hands and possessed a terrifying power able to turn a whole city into a deserted land. Every time he thought of that day when he was sixteen, riding his motorcycle, he thought of his hand marked with a little scar. That tiny, barely noticeable scar was significant for him, for it served as the only proof of his humanity. But he could not be sure. Never. He never felt human. He could not grasp the real meaning of the concept in the first place – and he knew someone who shared with him that feeling. Except that person had left him by his own will, without leaving a word of farewell – and he was once again soaked into the eternal void, like that in the space of which he used to float. Or in which Arahabaki used to float. At times it became hard for him to distinguish himself from the god he was forced to share the body with. But now his mother stood before him. She seemed somehow to know the truth, and maybe, on some subconscious level, her instincts confirmed that the person she was looking at was unmistakably her son. She smiled frankly and apologized. – I am sorry, – she repeated, and bowed slightly. Nakahara tried to hide his disbelief. He followed the woman to the checkout and, stopping her from pulling money out from the wallet with a kind gesture, paid for everything with his credit card. Actually, he had enough cash to buy the entire store. It was by no means a normal behavior for a mafia executive, undoubtedly, but he found no way to get a grip on the impulse. The woman, surprised, thanked him politely. He picked up her bags and volunteered to accompany her to her house, secretly hoping nobody of his acquaintances sees him (especially that mummified mackerel who wouldn’t miss a chance to make fun of him). He pitied this woman, because apparently she was living on her own unchanging, monotonous days as they went by, ported by a permanent current. At least that’s how he had always imagined his mother’s solitary life. – What was your son’s name again, Madam? – he called out, holding the door for her as they stepped out of the store. – His name was Chuuya, – she answered softly, her gaze directed at the sky as if recalling something incredibly pleasant. Chuuya chuckled nervously in reply as he sauntered beside her. They continued walking in silence until they finally reached the house. Nothing seemed to have changed there since he last visited this neighborhood: a bench still stood hidden under the branches of a zelkova tree in the vast front yard, dark vacant windows looked down at him in disgust. He hesitated when the woman invited him to come in and drink a glass, but, trying to be as respectful as possible, noticed at some point he were seated on a comfortable sofa in a little cosy living room. The design was old, mostly in Japanese style mixed up with Western creating a total mess. The woman brought a bottle of cheap wine — Nakahara could tell so by the look of it, but of course he didn't have a right, nor a will, to complain — with cheese cut in slices and chicken. She sat in front of him and, filling in two tall glasses, started to talk in a calm, nostalgic tone. — My son was kidnapped and killed when he was only five, — she began. Nakahara observed the shining brim of his glass. He still hadn't got rid of the itching grief inside, and right here came another gray emotion. Walls pressed on him unbearably as the woman kept on speaking. — Chuuya was such a good boy. He was a bit naughty at times, to be honest, but I was proud of him. His behaviour held beneath it a bright and kind-hearted nature, — the woman said, drawing her glass up to her thin lips, — He looked exactly like you. You know, I look at you now and think that maybe my son is still alive somewhere. Maybe it was just a big lie, just a mere mischief. I know I'm being delusional. The woman giggled sadly. — After all I'm just an old lonely woman. My husband was a general practitioner. He passed away four years ago. It was a great shock for me, and since I don't have any other family, I was left all alone in this world. I often think about Chuuya: I wonder, what if he were still alive, what if he were with me right now? Would he really look like you if he had lived? Would he abandon me, or would he be sitting here by my side? I have no way of knowing. Deep in thought, Chuuya hadn't touched his drink. — I'm sure he would have stayed with you, — he replied in a reassuring voice. He spoke the truth. He knew. — I didn't have any other children, because I didn't want to. Once was enough for me to grasp all the pain of loss. It was too much to bear, — she shook her head, as if brushing off the clingy dust of unsettled, distant memories. — Oh, by the way, — she stood up hurriedly, remembering something important, — I have an old album. Would you like to see it? The redhead frowned, considering if it was a good idea. Maybe seeing his own photos as a kid could help to get back some of his lost memories. But at the same time it could be too painful and risky. The woman interpreted his expression wrong. — Oh, I'm sorry, I'm so annoying, — she returned to the nest of a depression left on turquoise fabric and lowered her head, covering it with her hands, — I just… I'm sorry, I can't control myself. Chuuya reached out and held her hand tightly in his. He noticed a tear that rolled down her cheek as it fell to the ground with a weight of past long four years. — It is okay, — he said, — you're not annoying, not at all. I'd like to see your album. He forced a smile. This naive fragile woman just let a stranger into her house and now was about to show him their family album under pretext that he looked like her son. This fact alone had so much misery in it he could feel it twist in his chest. His mother came back with a thick book in her tiny fine hands. She opened it for Chuuya to see: on the first pages appeared the early shots of his parents. A young man was holding the woman's hand in his shyly, looking straight at the camera. The couple seemed happy and flourishing, carrying expectations and hopes for their mutual future. On the other page the two lovers were running through a field of violet flowers, the woman lifting the hem of her heavy yukata. Later pictures showed his mother cuddling him as a baby. His parents disappeared from the album shot by shot as it grew more concentrated on the boy himself – here he was playing football with friends, there he was eating an ice cream, vanilla cream spread on the tip of his nose. The rest of the book, its larger part, remained empty, as if life of the family itself had come to a stop. Eventually his mother sighed, glancing at him once again as if comparing to the little redhead of whom she had once taken all those pictures. He swallowed nervously. The resemblance was too obvious. The woman’s eyes studied his, perfectly identical, for several seconds before she spoke. – I miss him so much, – she said on despair. What else could she possibly say? – I’m sorry, it must have been very traumatizing for you to lose your child. His hands started to shake as the woman suddenly burst into tears. Her back trembled convulsively as she sobbed, smashed by the burden on her weak shoulders. He could feel her torment almost physically: at least he distinctly sensed a sharp blade carve the exact shapes of old forgotten scars on his heart. Nakahara hesitated before pulling his arms around her tenderly in an attempt to console, and she let him. His mind was occupied by a myriad of thoughts buzzing like a hive of vigorous bees, but each flew away so swiftly he could barely be aware of them. The redhead could not help but shed a silent tear himself – it surprised him how easily it came out, with no sense of guilt following, with no usual regret. He was not sure of what he was obliged to do in the delicate situation he found himself in. So he just sighed out the first words that settled in a perfect, straight line: – Please forgive me, mother.