Magnetic purple slowly turned to look at ascreen made of black, being hidden a fewtimes by black and blue eyelids as a blondefigure blinked, having turned around to facea someone with a TV for a head.
Florence had been sitting upon the back stepsof Funkieâs house, a cigarette placed betweenbroken busted lips as it would burn away thecurrent pain that his body was experiencing,smoke gently rising into the evening air.
Funkieâs antenna slowly lowered as they walkedtowards the male, sitting beside them and Florence spent no time to let his head loll to theside and rest against the TV headâs shoulder.
âIt hurts.â
Funkieâs screen was blank as they stared upat the sky, listening to the quiet whisper that thepianist had ushered against the cloth of their shirt.
âI know.â
Funkie slowly wrapped their arm around the boyâsshoulders, bringing him closer to them in comfort asFlorenceâs buried his broken face further againstFunkieâs shirt, curling up slightly as blonde eyelashestouched his cheeks, eyelids closed.
ââŚHey Funkie?â
Funkie continued to stare at the slowly setting sun, their surroundings getting darkerâŚ
âYeah?â
A star appeared.
                      âIâ - â ââ âââ
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Iâm... putting this under a read more for reasons.
Taro hated being kept up at night, but it was all that much worse when it was his own thoughts that were preventing him from resting like he wanted to. Â Too many things kept him up, too much responsibility for a then-fourteen-year-old boy to carry.Â
 Having been under the sheet on his bed and staring at the celiing for what he felt had been hours, and without even the faintest hope that he might be able to drift off, he turned to glance at the beaten up old digital clock that sat on his bedside table.  3:42.  He huffed a little bit before sitting up where he was and pulling his legs and torso out from under the sheet.  He had been laying down for what, at least four hours?  Oh well.
Having figured that he wasnât going to sleep at all if he hadnât gotten to it already, the boy rubbed at his eyes a moment and stood up before exiting his bedroom and beginning his way down to the main area of the house.
He reached the foot of the steps quickly and quietly, every step carefully controlled so not to wake his mother or any of his four siblings, but froze dead in his tracks when he heard a noise coming from the kitchen. Â In that moment he could have sworn his heart had stopped, but nonetheless he continued toward the kitchen, grabbing the aluminum baseball bat that was propped up against a nearby bookshelf for good measure. Â Still, no amount of self defense was able to prepare him for the sight that he was greeted with upon peeking around the kitchen door.
The first thing that he noticed as he got closer and finally leaned in to look was the smell, sweaty and rotten and suffocating as if someone hadnât bathed after going out several times. Â And the manâs scruffy appearance was definitely in line with that. Â His back was turned toward Taro, but the boy had no doubt in mind that the short, stocky Vietnamese man sitting with his bare feet on the table with his father. Â And... what was he doing? Â Taro couldnât quite tell, but was something... burning? Â It smelled strange... like melting plastic or something. Â
When he saw the smoke drifting up from the pipe between his fatherâs fingers was about the time that it clicked in his mind that he should get out of there. Â However, just as he went to turn away, Taro heard the scraping of a chair on the kitchen floor and froze dead in his tracks. Â His heart rate picked up as he heard quiet footsteps on the kitchen floor and he was so startled when he felt a hand grab forcefully onto his ponytail that he nearly dropped the aluminum bat. Â âYou donât breathe a word of this to your mother,â he heard his father whisper in his native tongue. Â Taro tried to gulp his fear down as this was whispered into his ear, but he could barely breathe between the stench of burning plastic and the overwhelming scent of sweat. Â However, he managed a very shaky nod as an answer.
âGood,â his father hissed back, yanking the boyâs ponytail again before pushing him away and letting go. Â âNow go to bed.â
Akemi would never forget the day she first moved in with her uncle. It wasnât as if he was the best of options, but he was one of the only close family members who was willing to take her in. Some might say he was...a tad too eager. Most would simply feel that the man was supportive, family-oriented, and happy to prevent the young girl from being sent to a foster home.
It was a cool spring day, Akemi could remember that much. She remembered having to wear that thin, light orange jacket over top of her dark grey dress, her then-black hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and some group of adults had shown up to help the young 7 year-old bring her belongings into the vast estate. She remembered that one of those adults had a big mole on his cheek, heâd tried to make a friendly joke by saying they were twins for having beauty marks. She didnât laugh, she simply stared up at the bulky, balding man for a moment before turning around and tugging her small suitcase behind her. The man who was left behind allowed his face to turn to one of embarrassment. Was he a family friend? Akemi never bothered to look closely enough. Perhaps he was someone who had known her for years, maybe he thought she could use a small joke to break the tension of the day. A few weeks ago, perhaps, she would have laughed, but surely anyone would understand her lack of enthusiasm now.
She remembered the way the estate looked when she walked in...the vast, clean room was filled practically to the brim with flowers, wreaths, baskets, telegrams, well-wishes of some description, and now her previous life was stacked in boxes among the gifts. She was sure half of these things would be thrown out before long, they had no need for most of it. She paused, looking at the wreaths briefly to note their varying quality. Some looked more expensive and lavish, while others were humble in their condolences. The entire room smelled of chrysanthemums and lilies, a scent Akemi used to find rather appealing. Now it would simply serve as a way to make her feel ill...there was far too much of it here. Of course her uncle had decided to accept such gestures...and of course a flood of people had chosen to send things. That was just how this family ran. But she didnât care anymore...with every step she took into this house, she could feel parts of herself being shed and discarded, just like the petals of the slowly dying flowers on these wreaths.
The small girl could only allow one final tear to escape from her eyes before her uncle arrived, smiling his toothy, Cheshire cat smile and placing a supportive hand on her shoulder.Â
âWelcome, Akemi, letâs get your stuff to your room, hm?â
