Chapter 142: Games and Movies

PoV: Sora Okiyama, 10 years old

I look at the game cartridge in the backyard. My dad stands over me as I kneel next to it. The remnants of circuits and tiny metallic connections spill out of the plastic shell that remains of the game that I cherished. That I poured so much time into.

My dad drops the brick he used to smash it. It thumps softly into the grass next to me, his breathing still heavy from the exertion of swinging the stone over and over and over. I just look at it, my tiny finger drawing lines into what remains of a thing that I loved. Of a thing that brought me joy. “Why’d you do it?” I ask my dad.

He scoffs at the question. “You know damn well why, brat. That’s what happens when you don’t listen to your parents.”

Frustration bubbles in my stomach at that. I feel angry. It feels unfair. I’d spent dozens, maybe hundreds of hours in that world. I’d done so well, raising the fictional monsters. They had nicknames. They had stories attached to them.

Now reduced to broken plastic and electronic gore.

“This feels unfair,” I say, quietly. But, apparently, just loud enough that my dad heard.

“Huh?” he says, sneering. “Unfair? I told you to stop playing so often, Sora. To put the game down. You’re not old enough for it yet. And you never listened. You left me with no choice.”

Is that really true? No choice? No choice but to ruin my joy?

The anger simmers and boils. I hate it. The fact that he can make me feel this way. I kneel, tears dripping from my eyes. My lips quiver. And I despise it. I feel so weak, so pathetic. “I hate this,” I say, holding back a sob.

“That’s the point of a punishment,” my dad says with a sigh. He brushes back his hair, and spreads his arms wide. “Now come on. Let’s head upstairs. Dinner’s ready.”

I don’t move. I just sit and stare. At the effort that has been deemed inappropriate. At all the work I wasted because someone else deemed it unsuitable. And it teaches me a lesson, a lesson I will never forget. To hide and protect that which I enjoy. So I sit, and I cry on the ruined cartridge, even as my dad clicks his tongue and grumbles and stomps off.

The sun has set by the time I get up. By the time I’ve mourned that stupid piece of plastic and those stupid batches of pixels that my dad brutally smashed with a rock. He made me watch the whole thing, too. The whole thing.

Slowly, I breathe. I squeeze down on the anger, on the sadness. I squish them into a tiny ball in my stomach and then extinguish them. Slowly, shakily, I walk upstairs. The living room is dark except for the flicker of the TV as mom watches things.

She looks at me as I come in, and then runs over, wrapping me in a hug. “Awww, baby, were you crying? I’m so sorry we had to do it, Sora.”

“I don’t want to be touched right now,” I tell her, the feelings already burning my insides again.

In response, my mom just hugs me tighter. “I’m so sorry. Do you think I’m a terrible mom? Please don’t hate us. Please.”

Her touch feels gross against my skin. It makes me want to peel it off. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want to be touched. I want her to let me go. “Please let me go,” I say, whisper quiet.

“Please,” she begs, squeezing me. It’s hard to breathe. She smells of smoke and beer. Awkwardly, I reach up and pat her back.

“It’s okay mom,” I say quietly. “You’re okay.”

At that, she buries her head in my tiny shoulder. For another long, quiet moment, she holds me, while I try my hardest not to grimace or twitch from the discomfort. Eventually, in the quiet, I ask. “Is there any food left?”

“Sora, no, dear. I’m sorry, we finished it all,” she says quietly. “You know how it is when you’re late for dinner.”

I just nod. “Alright,” I say. “I’d like to go to bed, then.”

“Are you sure? You could watch a movie with me.” She smiles at the suggestion, grabbing my shoulders, holding me in place, and staring into my eyes.

Looking to the side, I sigh. “I guess I’ve wanted to see-”

“Oh, amazing!” she cheery happily, drawing me into another suffocating hug. “I’ve wanted to show you a movie I really love. It’s about-”

And she talks. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to sit down on the couch. At least there’s chocolate. I bite down on a few bars to stymy my hunger a bit, letting them melt in my mouth. My mom puts on some stupid romcom I couldn’t care less about. I try to check my phone, and she slaps it out of my hand, telling me to focus on the movie.

Obediently, I nod, staring at the moving pictures I couldn’t care less about, as my mom keeps trying to cuddle me. I don’t want her to touch me, but she does anyway. She plays with my hair like it’s her property. She asks me questions about the movie as if she doesn’t know what’s happening. The most peaceful parts are when she goes out to the balcony for her smoke break. When she’s watching through the windows I don’t have to worry about her touching me.

I clench my tiny fists, and choke the annoyance I feel. I tell myself it’s what I have to do. My parents keep telling me I owe them gratitude. That I should be thankful that they house me and feed me. That I need to be a good kid and listen to them. That others have it so much worse, that people in other places are starving. I should be lucky to have it as easy as I do.

Eventually, the movie ends. Blissfully, I’m allowed to go to my room. I fall into bed, exhausted, just wanting to sleep, to get to school tomorrow, and the noise outside stars. Dad yells at mom. Mom yells at dad. 

I wrap my pillow around my ears, hoping to block them out, but I can still hear them. And like so many other nights I wonder if it’s my fault. If maybe they’d just be happy if they had a different kid. Like so many other nights, I cry. 

At least I’ll be at school tomorrow.