Hikikomori

When I was nine, we went on holiday. The best day was when we went
to a wonderful beach, I forget where. It was out of the tourist season
so there was no-one there. We couldn't sunbathe, it was far too cold,
but we had the place completely to ourselves. The sand stretched out
ahead of us like a great golden path, for deserted miles and
miles.

Junko floured her hands, concentrating on shaping the rolls just so.
There, much better. She glanced at the clock above the fridge, shaking
her hair off her face to see properly. Soon Nori would be home. She
must hurry, be quicker with this in future.

After sliding the tray of dough gently into the hot oven, she went to
get a glass of water and leaned against the sink. At least the kitchen
was tidy for Nori. She'd got up a little earlier that morning because
she knew she'd have to fit the baking in somehow. As usual, she'd
ruined her timing. She turned her head to look out of the tiny window
behind her, to see if anyone was looking in at her, covered in flour,
but the strain made her neck ache and so she turned her head back,
glancing
at the kitchen clock once again, from habit. She must finish the meal,
Masuyo must be hungry again by now. She moved slowly, aching, over to
the kitchen door and reached down behind it to pick out his tray.
Opening the fridge, she gazed at the contents, trying to imagine her
son's mood and what would suit him this particular day. He'd probably
been up all night playing computer games - something to wake him up a
bit. Some pickles, onions in vinegar, spiced chutneys. She put a large
dollop of each onto a spotless white plate. And he isn't
getting enough sunlight with our small windows, she thought, and got
some tiny oranges from the cupboard and gave him three. Her eyelashes
were heavy and wet. She brought her fingers up to sweep away the tears,
repeating 'How should I know, how should I know, how should I
know?'.

Now I am fully awake. I wriggle down my bed a little, ferreting out
from the floor at the end of the mattress an old games magazine. I
grasp the edge of it carefully with my toes and then slowly draw it up
the length of the bed. When I can reach it, I grab it. I win!

I've read it many times before, but I'm happy to read it again. I
don't like new things, and I certainly don't want them in my room. My
mood is turning now, maybe not such a good day after all. I throw the
magazine into the corner. It lands on the mountain of refuse and skis
down its slope, landing at the bottom between Coke bottles. I should go
back to sleep. I close my eyes, but sleep has gone for today. I check
my watch. The digital numbers flash irritatingly, and the dancing man
graphic is slowly driving me mad. Hours until I can sleep again, hours
and hours of infuriating daylight. I undo the watch and fling that away
too. Maybe there's food for me. I crawl over to the door cautiously,
and don't get up off my hands and knees as I open it wide enough to see
outside the door. No food. She's late today.

I leap from the floor and fling myself onto my bed, hands under head,
watching my ceiling. Last night I had the same dream I've been having
for months. A barefoot woman with long long hair, wearing a dress and a
necklace made both purely of flowers, comes into my room. She hasn't
talked to me yet, just sits in the corner with my rubbish and watches
me. I am always here, on my bed, and from her face I cannot tell what
she is thinking.

Nori nudged the door behind him with his toe as he simultaneously
dropped his work-bag and folder in the narrow hall. The door slammed
with a loud bang. He heard the tinkling smash of broken glass from the
kitchen a second later. Damn that woman and her nerves! He was in no
mood to deal with her.

He threw off his thick blue coat and shuffled through the doorway into
the living area. He sat down in his armchair, enjoying how it seemed to
immediately cling to his body, seemed to know that master was home. He
gave a low grunt of satisfaction. Junko appeared hovering in the
kitchen doorway, wiping her hands nervously on her garish floral apron.
She smiled at her husband.

"Nori, dinner is almost ready. Would you like to eat in here this
evening, for the football? I can prepare you a-"

"Yes, yes." He was in no mood for a trivial discussion, he wanted to
make sure she realised that. Her face darkened, and she swiftly turned
away.

The food was good this evening. Better than yesterday. I am lying on
my front this evening, and I am looking at my duvet cover. I put my
nose to it. It smells of me, of body. Of my history. I am not sure how
long I have been here, but however long it is, my bedclothes and
clothes have not been washed. Mother asked a few times, but when I
never replied, she must have finally got the
message. I have heard her though, talking about the stench. Once she
screamed it at the top of her voice in a hysteria. I heard the sound of
my father slapping her and I think I heard his hiss, too - 'The
neighbours!' When you live in it, I guess you don't notice it.

There are noises from downstairs. Slammings and bangings from the
kitchen. I try and ignore them, concentrate on my duvet cover. It is in
a patchwork pattern, it looks like a row of rice fields, from the
pictures we used to study in Geography. Yes, my bed is like a big row
of fields. But their noises are louder now, muffled raised voices. An
argument. I am curious, I want to know if they're talking about me once
again. I clamber over some plastic packets to get to the door - they
make a sharp crackling sound and I imagine I am in the front line. I
sit back on my feet to open the door deliberately, so it doesn't creak.
I stick my head out into my piece of the hall. It is quiet. My head is
cocked to one side, I am alert. Then the voices start their shouting
again, but I still cannot hear them. It is a long time since I went
onto the stairs. Maybe I should. An adventure, enemy territory. I
remember the stairs well enough to know that I can sit, hidden behind
the banister bars, and they won't be able to see me from the front room
or the kitchen anyway.

I crawl slowly along the hallway and across the landing, noting the
new smells and seeing new things. There is a red rug on the landing
that wasn't there before. I stop to sniff it. It doesn't smell new, and
looks a bit worn in the middle. Satisfied, I move on.

The stairs leading down from under me are a series of terrifying
peaks, much more menacing looking than I remember stairs to be. I
change position so I can creep down them, and steel myself for a
giveaway creak. They probably wouldn't hear anyway, they're too busy
with their arguing.

"Something has to be done eventually, Junko! I will not feed that boy
until the day I die without hearing another word from him. I work for
that money! He should be out working too, with his own place, not
living off us and being cosseted until he does so. I know you take him
whatever he wants, don't tell me that isn't true!"

"He's your only son! Surely that means something? There's nothing to be
done, Nori. I won't have people thinking we're a problem family! That
we can't handle our own, or-"

"Junko, Junko. A man can't live, lying every day!"

"Nori. We have no choice. Masuyo is our only son and we love him. We
must support him. The end."

Then there is silence fraught with atmosphere. I go back to my room on
foot, deep in thought. I walk over to the window, kicking a pile of
dirty paper plates out of the way, scattering them, light as petals. I
yank the window upwards and scream into the night.

"Hikikomori! Hikikomori!"

Doors and windows begin to gradually open, people emerge, staring up at
our house. I make it into a kind of song, stressing the beginning and
end syllables.

"Hikikomori! Hikikomori!"

I hear the front door open downstairs, and by his strangled yelp of
rage, I can tell my father has gone out into the street. The door
bangs. I continue to sing. I hear my father's angry footsteps on the
stairs. I continue to sing, far out into the night.

Junko stands in the doorway weeping as Nori strides into the room and
takes hold of his only son by his long lank hair. Masuyo's eyes remain
downcast, hard to see. The old man's grip is weaker than he remembers.
Nori purses his lips close to Masuyo's hidden ear and begins to shout,
"How dare you? How dare you disgrace us?" He doesn't seem to be able to
say anything else. Seeing his son again after all this time has shocked
him. His son like a lord in his room of rubbish and dirt, his filthy,
filthy son. Masuyo twists and squirms like a trapped fish in his
father's grasp and then, with a kick at Nori's shins and a sharp spin,
he is gone, pushing his mother roughly aside, taking the stairs two at
a time. He reaches the front door, and pauses. Then he opens it.

Nori stands in the middle of his son's room, shoulders slumped, silent
and stony-faced, his lips compressed to a hard white line. His wife
lies sprawled in the hall, blocking the doorway, sobbing so hard her
shoulders shake. Outside, Masuyo is running. The cold night air hurts
his eyes and his ears, but he is running.