ambiguous

push me

hate me

make me feel horrible about myself

shove me

tell me you don't love me

tell me we're through

so maybe by then,

maybe by then, i'd have a reason to hate you

to resent you

to not look for you.

but all you gave me is silence

and for reasons more than one,

I feel like I’m in a jail.

No, it’s not the kind of jail that people would go to once they’ve been found guilty of murder, or of robbery, or of any sort of felony. It’s not the kind of jail where cops and people with authority hold your life and your fate, deciding when or how you will be on the death row and such. It’s not the kind of jail where you only stay in one place for as long as your punishment stretches for your crimes, not the kind of jail where you only get three meals a day, get the same amount of sunlight in one place, get to see your relatives barely twice a month. No, it’s not that kind of jail.

This kind of jail I’m in is far more comfortable. I know what you’re going to say, that I’m just exaggerating. I can’t blame you, but if you were me, you’d probably think that way as well. This kind of jail lets me go to school and get educated, lets me sleep in a comfortable bed, lets me have my own room, my own comfort zone… but as comfortable and as nice as this jail may seem, it’s just as bad and as rotten as any other jails in the whole world.

I’m being held prisoner by my own family.

I wake up every day to the sound of my parents cursing each other and fighting over such petty things. And when I try to interfere, you bet that one hand will go and strike me wherever it lands, leaving a mark of its tyranny. A cruel hand that burns scars wherever it lands, that’s the kind of hand I grew up on. Each day is a struggle, you just don’t know what to do. In the breakfast table, a normal family would go like this: father is reading the daily newspaper with a cup of coffee on his hand, dressed according to his usual work attire. Mother had just joined everyone else for breakfast as she finished cooking the remaining sausages. Brother is eating cereal as usual because eating something like bacon and eggs for breakfast makes him feel nauseous later at school, sister is eating what mother has cooked for them and is talking to brother about the upcoming events at school despite her being only an 8th grader and him being an 11th grader. The youngest sibling is seated on the high chair, playing with the plastic spoon that mother had given him to keep him busy. Despite the fact that everyone seems to be busy, they don’t forget each other and make sure everyone is well-fed before leaving for school and work.

But my family is never like that. If you go downstairs even for a second late, expect that a plate will be thrown your way. It doesn’t matter if you get hit and get hurt, you are late for breakfast and therefore you’ll get none. When I first became late for breakfast, my father got so angry that he threw a fork at me and it hit my thigh. While I was on the floor, trying to get the fork out of my bleeding thigh, he was scolding me and yelling at me, telling me crude things that I didn’t want to remember. Ever since then. I just don’t feel like joining them for breakfast anymore. Father will soon leave for work, all grumpy and pissed off because of the earlier fight he and mother had. Mother will be off to work soon. My parents both work so I always get left behind with my older brother. My little sister was taken away by my aunt last year because my aunt found out that my little sister has been going through a lot of abuse because of my parents. While my sister was taken away, my older brother and I were left behind. People only want the young kids to take care of. Once the young grows up, they just leave them behind thinking they can fend for themselves. That’s how the world works nowadays, I guess.

My brother doesn’t wait for me and goes on ahead, grabbing his backpack that barely holds anything useful, aside from a notebook and a packet of weed to use at a later time. It’s sort of impressive how he doesn’t get caught at school. I move on ahead as well, taking my bag with me and making sure to lock the front door before I completely leave for school. It’s silent as I plug my earphones in, almost all the outside noises blurs for a moment, and I find myself getting lost in the labyrinths of a well-developed song. The bus stops right in front of me, its doors opening for me, and as I step into the bus, I see all these children -- children of broken marriage, children of despair, children of a wealthy family that wants them to follow daddy’s footsteps, children who just don’t care -- seated in their usual seats, gossipping, talking, shouting, and the like. Their noise overpowered the full volume my phone could provide. The whole ride to school is noisy and even more distressing, but I have to endure; that’s the only way I know to survive a day.

Classes aren’t all that boring, but sometimes they can be, especially when there’s nothing else to do but do a whole lot of worksheets and problem solving. It’s not that I’m smart to think classes are boring, it’s just that sometimes students make it boring. They think a pile of worksheets can help them get a better picture for their instagrams and twitters. Now that I think of it, almost all of the students in this class only live for social media praises, thinking they’re worth living for, and it’s the only kind of praise they’ll ever need. If they only use their free time in developing their talents and other things, they might be praised not only for their pretty faces, but who am I to say anything anyway?

Lunchroom is a sea of students with their own businesses. It’s the only place in this whole school fit to wreak havoc and chaos. One can throw a piece of pizza and yell, “Food fight!” and the others will join in. One can just pull another student’s pants down and immediately all cellphones will flash its way, one wrong move can get everyone’s attention and get you condemned for the rest of your high school life, enough to ruin your future… if you will ever see it. To avoid these kinds of trouble, I keep myself away from the people who have power. I try to be as invisible as I can be so that no one will notice I am ever there. At the center of the lunchroom, there the most popular students sit, their sardonic laughs ring throughout the whole place as they make fun of the silent girl they noticed in one of their classes. They call her names, lifting up her skirt, touching her in places that she’d feel most uncomfortable… and even when everyone sees it, no one tries to interfere and I am reminded of the tyrannical hand that scalds my body. Maybe everyone else is just as afraid as I am when it comes to intervening.

Almost as if on cue, my phone vibrates. It’s out already, the picture of that silent girl with her skirt torn from her, revealing her undergarments. Within a few seconds, comments flood the comment section and it’s shared everywhere. People are laughing, telling her how beautiful her skin is and how untainted it looked. Some of the comments are so disgusting that I have to look away from my phone for a bit. It’s saddening how people can easily become a victim of the social media. If this girl doesn’t come to school tomorrow or the next week, the next thing we’ll know is that she quit her own life. Another sad thing is that this school is a breeding ground for all the evils the world can have. And no one wants to stop it.

After classes, I went home as quick as I can to avoid anything that might cause me trouble. I don’t want trouble so anything that piques my curiosity, I immediately shut it down. Every time I open the door, I see no one else in the house, my parents always come home at around dinner time, still pissed as they were when they left. My brother comes home a little later after them with red eyes and a soul as high as the skyscrapers in New York. Moments after my parents come home, I hear them yelling again and again, it will end with clothes sprawled across the carpeted floor of the room and bodies intertwined with each other in a hate-filled sex, trying to shut each other from the ruthlessness of their minds. If they don’t end up that way, they will leave the house again, with father off to the usual brothel he goes to, and mother to a club where she spends her money and her body on other men. They go home in different times, drunk off of their minds. Without a rational mind, the first thing they do is find something to make them angry, the second is to let it out in an enraged tantrum. And most of the time, that tantrum falls on me.

No matter how locked my door can be, they will always find a way to break it down and tear me apart with their hands that can burn my skin with every touch. Their hands feel like acid every time they hit me and pull on my hair and kick me as I try to figure out if I didn’t do all the chores before going to bed. They don’t care if I bruise or if I don’t make it out alive, they just use me as a means of release, a means of relieving themselves from the pent-up anger and sexual frustration from not being satisfied with whoever they had sex with.

The worst thing is, I can’t get any help. No matter how hard I try to escape from the hell I’m in, people will look at me like I’m crazy, tell me it’s all in my head, tell me I’m just exaggerating, that my parents love me so. They don’t see the bruises those monstrous and deadly hands lay on me, they don’t see the cuts on my wrists that keeps on growing every time I go home. They don’t see what I see. And because they don’t see, they don’t believe me when I tell them I am a prisoner of my own family.

I don’t feel like I’m in a jail. I am in a jail.

It’s stormy that night in the city of Yokohama.

Fyodor lies awake next to his sleeping companion, Poe, at 11 o’clock in the evening. He doesn’t ask himself why he’s not asleep despite being tired the whole day. Only insomnia comes into his mind. Insomnia isn’t uncommon for someone like Fyodor; it has happened so often that when it comes by again after a busy day, he doesn’t question why he isn’t able to sleep -- it has become some sort of routine for him now.

Thunder roars ever so faintly within the confines of Poe’s home and somehow it reminds Fyodor of the abnormally loud thunders he hears back in the prison cells he’s been in whenever he gets arrested. Living this kind of lifestyle must be nice, he thinks, but he doesn’t dwell on the subject matter for long. Instead, he diverts his attention to the sleeping man right next to him, his overgrown hair brushed away to reveal his closed eyes. There are dark rings under his eyes but other than that, his face is completely clear -- free from any acne or breakout and sometimes Fyodor wonders how the other manages to have such a clear face despite having his hair cover the half of it most of the time.

He lifts his hand to touch that seemingly porcelain skin and gently rubs his thumb on Poe’s cheek. The novelist’s nose scrunches but he doesn’t wake up and for some reason, Fyodor is grateful for that; somehow, he doesn’t want Poe to catch him like this: transparent and obviously lovestruck. Fyodor stares at Poe a little more, tired magenta irises trailing from the male’s forehead to his slightly parted lips -- so tranquil and equally balanced.

“Fedya? W-What are you doing, still awake?”

Fyodor blinks dumbfounded for a moment, unaware that his constant caresses has woken up the novelist next to him. He retracts his hand, setting it down on the mattress underneath him. He feels sort of idiotic for falling into a trance and being unable to sense the world outside his own mind. Poe’s eyes flutters open like shy windows and Fyodor is, once again, allured by those crystalline eyes. He can fall asleep right there and then, just staring at his lover’s eyes, but wretched insomnia reminds him that he can’t.

“I…” For the first time in his whole life, he doesn’t know what to say, and he realizes it often happens whenever he’s talking to Poe. “I can’t sleep.” He finally admits after a moment of silence. For reasons unknown, he can’t bring himself to lie to Poe -- not with those eyes of his asking for honest answers. Ever since the two became more than acquaintances, Fyodor has told nothing but the truth towards the other, even when Poe doesn’t require him to be honest. Perhaps it’s the relationship itself that makes the Russian quite the truthful person towards the novelist, or that he can’t bring himself to hurt the latter male.

“Y-You can’t?” Poe asks, shifting to a more comfortable position but refusing to look away from Fyodor’s magenta eyes. He has always found solidarity and acceptance within those tired eyes. It’s not long before the novelist sits up, an idea coming into his mind. “If you’re not so tired, will you accompany me somewhere, then?”

“What about you? Aren’t you sleepy?” Fyodor asks, sitting up now. He runs his hair through his royal purple tresses, too tired to even move a muscle but he doesn’t want to leave his lover hanging so he swings his legs to the side of the bed and stands up. Poe does the same on the opposite side of the bed and replies, “I can’t sleep knowing you are still awake in the dead of night, Fedya.”

Fyodor fights a smile and follows suit. “Well, if you insist.” The two then briefly leaves the master bedroom and now walks down the hall. The Russian recognizes the two right turns immediately -- they’re heading to the piano room but he doesn’t say anything until they reach the inside of their designated destination.

“I take it that you’ll play for me, Poe-kun?” Fyodor asks, following the novelist and detective to the center of the room where the piano idly sits by, patiently waiting to be used. Poe sits down on the chair and places his slender fingers on the keys and Fyodor grabs a chair, placing it near the piano. He doesn’t sit next to Poe, however, for he has always found it fascinating to watch Poe instead of his fingers pressing the keys.

“How else would you want to spend a stormy night than with a nice piece?” Poe asks  and says nothing more, seemingly collecting himself before finally pressing the notes to a surprisingly unfamiliar piece.

The first bass key takes Fyodor’s mind back to when he was but a child wandering the snowy grounds of Russia. Underneath his bare feet was freezing powder of white stuck to the concrete ground. He ran away from another one of those child protection programs again and he couldn’t stop thinking why they’d want to care for him anyway. Perhaps they wanted publicity? Wanted to be praised? The possibilities were never-ending, but Fyodor never wanted to be part of someone else’s plan.

He was ignored by most of the people -- who would want to pay attention to a 13-year-old orphan anyway? They probably thought he was the most unfortunate being to ever exist yet did nothing to help him. It wasn’t that he wanted help, either. He remembered walking past shops and botiques and appliances stores, all of which he paid no attention to. He was just aimlessly walking around, barefooted and barely clothed to withstand the freezing temperature, but he didn’t seem to be affected by it.

But then he heard a faint noise within the sea of chattering people and noisy vehicles. Somehow, that noise stood out among the condensed and compressed noises, catching his sensitive hearing almost immediately. Curiosity piqued, he tried to look for the source of the noise. He had a hard time tracking the actual source given that the whole plaza was crowded and noisy, but in fifteen minutes’ time, he managed to find it:

It was a small place, looking like a shop but it was a place where young teenagers learn more about playing a certain musical instrument. Somehow, the faint tune caught Fyodor’s undivided attention and there he was, standing in front of the large glass windows of the building, trying to listen carefully.

Inside, he saw a boy about his age, striking blue eyes looking at the scattered music sheets on the mahogany floorboard as an older woman stood next to him, looking down on the papers as well. The woman spoke for a bit and then the boy stood up and walked to the piano and began pressing the keys. Fyodor couldn’t see which keys he was pressing, but he was somewhat amazed by how well the boy was able to play such a magnificent tune; it was mellow and soothing, even if it sounded faint outside the building.

As the boy was playing, his eyes trailed from the piano keys to Fyodor who he noticed from the glass windows. It was probably Fyodor himself that caused the boy to stop playing the piano almost immediately. The two stare at each other for a brief moment before the boy’s eyes turned to look up at the woman next to him, seemingly scolding him then.

“Wait a moment,” Fyodor picked up from the movement of the boy’s mouth. “I have to do something.” The Russian teen wasn’t well-educated considering that he had been mostly out of school due to his destitute lifestyle, but somehow he could read, understand, and write English. The boy grabbed his coat from the rack near the door and almost ran out of the building. Fyodor was about to leave when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder, causing him to look to the side and see the same striking blue eyes he saw from the inside.

“U-Uhm…” The boy began, seemingly nervous. It was probably hard for him, an aristocrat, to talk to some lowlife like him, but Fyodor didn’t say anything yet. “You’re probably cold.” And without saying another word, the boy draped his coat over Fyodor’s slim frame before running back inside to shelter himself from the freezing cold.

The coat felt nice and warm -- so warm that Fyodor could just lay down and fall asleep while wrapping it around his body.

His eyes droop close, and when he came to, he’s back to reality. Back to the stormy night, his insomniac state, and Poe’s performance. The piece is almost ending, it’s soothing mellow tunes lulling him to sleep. Now he recognizes the piece; it sounds so familiar now.

And then it slowly fades until Poe stops playing.

The novelist opens his eyes, revealing striking blue eyes that almost bore themselves into Fyodor’s magenta ones. “You seem to finally feel sleepy.” He says, cutting through the silence. The Russian rests his arms on the piano and stares at his lover, “Your performance doesn’t fail to lull me to sleep, дорогой."

Poe smiles at the endearment that Fyodor has said and stands up, moving close to him. Once he’s close enough, he places a small kiss on the latter’s head down to his forehead and then to his lips; chaste but sweet. Fyodor returns the kiss sleepily. “Let’s head to bed soon.” The novelist says as he pulls a chair next to Fyodor.

“No, I’d rather we stay here for a little more.” The magenta-eyed man replies, tired eyes staring at the large window in front of him. Poe doesn’t say anything more and sits still beside him and there’s another moment of silence.

“Дорогой, will you show me your eyes again?” Fyodor asks as he turns to look at Poe. The other male doesn’t question why although he’s a tiny bit curious. Brushing his hair to the side, he reveals his eyes once more to his lover who stares for a few seconds before turning away with a small smile. “I knew it.”

Poe lets out a small sigh and smiles as well, “It really is a small world, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“This piece I just performed… It’s the same one I was learning when I met you years ago.”

Gymnopédie. It’s the name of that piece that bound them together.