Chapter 1
It was like an irritating itch that settled somewhere around her brain. A memory too fucking blurry to remember, but at the same time, one refusing to melt back into unconsciousness.
Isa knew the feeling too damn well, but usually, it was the exact opposite – unpleasant thoughts and memories she forced her brain to shove in the back of her mind. Foggy ideas she refused to dwell on – and a trait that a therapist she was once forced to see called a coping mechanism. Avoidance, like and thick wall she meticulously built brick by brick around her psyche to breathe. A wall that let her get up from bed every day and pretend that her mind wasn’t a fucking house of cards ready to crumble.
All that meant that she couldn’t decide if that itch plaguing her tonight was a good or bad thing. And, frankly, after a ten-hour shift, she couldn’t muster enough brain power to figure it out. Still, it was irritating enough that it didn’t let up the whole damn day. Even after she finally get back to her tiny box of an apartment, showered in an unpleasantly moldy and claustrophobic cabin and planted her ass on the blow-up mattress.
It was annoying enough that after pulling a blanket thickly around her shoulders, she crossed her hands behind her head and narrowed her golden eyes toward the ceiling. She didn’t even see the streak of mold weakly illuminated by a small lamp set up beside the mattress – the only ‘luxury’ she afforded her screwed-up brain.
Not that it was a choice, considering that without it, Isa could damn well forget about getting even a wink of rest. The embarrassment of being forced to sleep with the light on – at twenty-three – was something she learned over time was a small price to pay for getting a full night’s sleep without nightmares. It was even ironic, considering that otherwise, she loved darkness. The issue was, she figured, that in this place – the only apartment she could afford right now – there was no option of creating the complete darkness her brain found more comforting than weak light. Here, turning it off created shadows cast by streetlights outside into reminders of the great many things she refused to dwell on. Frankly, it brought back to the front of her mind too many memories of the orphanage in which Isa Kanai spent most of her childhood.
A hellhole where luxurious things like light at night weren’t allowed. And where that so-called counselor she was forced to see after her screams woke up their caregivers liked to get a tad too touchy-feely for her liking.
Not that any of the nuns believed that, until...
The thought poked something in her brain and that itching sensation suddenly snapped toward the front of her brain with an image vivid in its clarity.
A memory of a day that only at first started like any other – just like today. And one that made Isa sit up on the mattress, brushing dark hair back from her face before she smiled toward the shadows, wrapping her arms around her knees.
„Asa,” the sound that should be only a name sounded more like a prayer as she closed her eyes and resting her chin on top of her knees, attempted to recall the details.
Considering how often were her trips to the counselor’s office, Isa ended up escorting new and problematic kids to the east wing of the orphanage at the orders of ever-busy nuns. Not only that, but anyone who spent more time at Saint Mary’s knew that their importance and assigned tasks were based on a hierarchy that had very little to do with fairness. And in that hierarchy, Isa’s place was very, very close to the bottom not only because of the issues caused by her night terrors or incredulous accusations toward the orphanage’s revered shrink.
Mainly, Isa Kanai was old enough when she landed there to remember the way her parents – who had the misfortune of dying in a foreign land – brought her up believing in a very different religion. Her features – from exotic here mix of blue-black hair and bright golden almond-shaped eyes – added to her refusal to let go of her pagan beliefs in spirits made her something of a black sheep in the orphanage. The nuns always made sure to give her tasks far away from the eyes of any potential parents visiting the establishment – not that that was a flaw in her worldview. She hated that place, no doubt, but considering the horror stories about the great many foster families that circulated the orphanage, her goal was to keep her head down, do as she was told – most of the time – and get out as soon as the law allowed.
In that memory of not yet special day, she was perhaps fourteen – so about two years in that hell and four years before leaving it. It was right past one of the common meals if Isa couldn’t remember if it was breakfast or dinner. She only remembered a pale shade of relief when one of the always unhappy-looking nuns called her over. Thinking it meant she wouldn’t be required to help with washing a literal mountain of dishes, she barely paid mind to a blonde boy about her age calmly standing beside the dark-clad woman. Being ordered to escort the guy to the counselor she only nodded. She uttered a quiet warning once they were alone in a long quiet corridor leading toward the east wing of the orphanage. Just a word – nothing more – that Sister Dupuy, an elderly nun she honestly fucking doubted got a real license as a therapist, liked to get ‘handsy’ during sessions.
Perhaps what made this memory so stark in her head was his smile. Or maybe more than a little too careless shrug to that information – and her following wince with a thought he didn’t believe that warning.
Or more likely, it was the shriek of pain cut short about ten minutes after she ushered into that office that boy she then yet didn’t even know the name of. While hanging back to ensure avoiding that dishwashing seemed like a good thing to do, it also worked to give her brain another memory: of that kid’s smirk and another shrug as he left that room.
And another of the uproar that followed another nun later finding Sister Dubuy’s torn remains.
Only then did she learn that his name was Asa, and – more importantly – about his ‘shadow.’
„I was sent there because a guy who tried to punch me got both his arms broken,” he told her that day, too. „Not by me, but they never believe it. Same as that old bitch didn’t believe when I told her that touching me ends badly.”
He wasn’t there long – a few weeks at most – before freaked-out nuns shipped him off. However that story – and memory – remained with her for a while, mostly because they were reminiscent of fuzzy by then things her parents taught her. Of invisible spirits who would tear to shreds unwitting trespassers into certain parts of land considered sacred. Of bedtime stories, her Mom spun before their miserable journey here, about festivals held to appease those spirits. Of offerings made of the best food, performances of beautiful dancers and most talented musicians. How these nights of revels would be followed by bountiful harvests and hazy memories of unearthly pleasures. And sometimes these dancers – like her Mommy told her with pride – would be blessed with a golden-eyed proof of spirits’ favor.
A proof that was meant to be delivered back to those sacred lands upon reaching maturity.
But for Isa, that tale was nothing more than a hazy memory of a fairytale. Blurry impressions of a different land and life – where tall adults smiled and bowed whenever her Papa proudly carried her among them. In which her beautiful Mommy weaved colorful ribbons in Isa’s dark hair, and together among singing voices they brought her to a place that was filled with a sweet scent.
A nearly forgotten dream that trip here, into this cold land, turned into nightmares filled with blood and screams.
Isa shook her head and exhaled slowly as she wrapped her arms around her knees and looked toward the shadowed window. When she was little, after that, and whenever she woke up screaming, she would spend the rest of the time until dawn like this. Curled in, watching the dancing shadows and praying to return to that warmer place, where scents were sweet and soothing.
...where she didn’t have to deal with the daily harassment and bullying and where she wasn’t constantly called a freak.
The last five years – after she was finally allowed to leave that hellish place – also weren’t what she imagined.
Her first apartment – even more claustrophobic and rundown than this one – was the gracious ‘farewell’ gift from the system. Alongside her first work, that swiftly turned into another nightmare of the too-handsy owner who thought that she owned him something that she didn’t. That she was alone and trying to learn how to survive outside the system, meant that she made for easy prey. And like some of the more stubborn boys back in the orphanage, Isa taught him he was wrong with the cold press of a knife in his crotch.
He wasn’t the first or last – as was that work – and she didn’t stay long there after that.
These days, she was beginning to think that perhaps her luck was about to turn around. A month ago, answering an ad offering work at a small cafe buried among the maze of alleys near the train station, she didn’t even have much hope that it would be any different than before. Until an interview with an elderly woman, who despite looking fragile kept smiling. A cafe that despite long shifts, felt more cozy and warm than this rundown place. With agreed-upon pay that maybe – just maybe – would let her find a better and cleaner apartment. Where – so far, at least – she was free of ‘handsy’ men and women who found her appearance ‘exotic.’
Perhaps in a little while she could even save up enough to realize her childhood dream and go home.
...if she only knew where that ‘home’ was. According to her files in the system, her parents’ bodies were found in a dark alley – alongside her – but missing any documentation. The police report assumed that they were robbed, unwittingly choosing that misfortunate alley right after arriving in the city. Isa, traumatized and covered in her Mommy’s blood, couldn’t remember anything but her name. Perhaps ironically, her surname – Kunai – she was given after that alley once she was shoved into the system.
Today, sometime in the middle of her ten-hour shift, with a few customers – most regulars – taking most of the available seats, it almost felt weird when the delicate ding of the chime by the door brought a stranger inside. With a quite common in these parts snowstorm raging outside, that – strangers – still rarely happened in the cafe, as the owner taught her during training. The woman – Greta – needed to retire due to her age, but her cafe was something of a place where most customers were her years-long friends, also elderly, or their families. Isa within the first week pretty much knew everyone either by name or order. Greta even laughed good-naturedly at the fact that after a few days, many more of the younger, ‘available’ guys started to join their grandparents or parents for lunches or drinks, lured by Isa’s exotic beauty.
She didn’t mind that, at least as long as all of them knew to keep their hands to themselves and behaved. And knew that her smiles – appropriately polite – didn’t mean that she liked them any more than others.
A smile that she also tossed toward the stranger – hiding her surprise – when he was busy shaking off a layer of snowdrift off his jacket, pants, and boots by the door. A professionally welcoming grimace that lasted until he pushed back the wide hood of that jacket and that smile froze on her face when their eyes met. His face, a sight that put that infuriating itch at the back of Isa’s head and made her stare the whole time he ordered a coffee – black with sugar – then took one of the free tall seats right beside the window. The whole time he seemed to calmly watch the blizzard outside – or his phone – Isa couldn’t help but constantly look his way, bothered by that itching sensation of familiarity. And maybe she wasn’t even alone in that, a few times during that catching the slightly confused stares of his eyes toward her, too.
„Do I know you?” He asked wryly when setting his emptied cup on the counter once the storm outside lessened some. „And it’s not a pick-up line, but I have this... feeling that we met, but for the life of mine I can’t remember how or when?”
„Welcome to the club,” she replied with a sheepish smile and delicate shrug while pushing the bill his way. „I have the same feeling since you walked in, if I’m pretty sure I would remember if we did meet.”
It was answered with an indifferent shrug as he pressed his phone against the digital terminal, paying.
„Same to you,” he cocked his head slightly sideways, narrowing his eyes delicately as the corner of his mouth – pretty, full, and plush – lifted in a slightly self-conscious smile. „Are you Japanese by chance? No offense, of course, but I travel a lot, and perhaps that’s what makes you look so familiar. I was in Japan about two months ago, and...”
„Japan?” she couldn’t resist a tiny spark of hope as Isa leaned against the counter between them, watching him put his phone in the inner pocket of his jacket and zip it. „Do I look like people there...?”
„Very, hence my confusion,” he chuckled sheepishly, with a little confused crease between his eyebrows. „You didn’t know?” he asked incredulously.
„I... never mind,” she smiled stiffly, not about to disclose her circumstances to a stranger. „I hope you’re going to have safe travels and a nice day, sir.”
„Thanks,” he nodded, then hesitated momentarily before finally leaving with a delicate chime by the door Isa refused to look toward. He focused on ignoring that annoying itch for the rest of the day.
And now she regretted that, tightening her arms around her legs and grimacing. Knowing that that unexpected meeting was likely a one-off thing caused by the storm, she could only smile ruefully toward the window before she laid back down on the mattress and curled into a fetal position under the blanket.
„Japan,” she sighed and closed her eyes, then – surprisingly – drifted off to sleep filled with the sweet scent of home.
