Take Everything
Jun 29, 2016 7:30:52 GMT
Post by Iona E. Mason and Ocellimon on Jun 29, 2016 7:30:52 GMT
Crisp, empty air; smell of new carpet, it pricks at her her nose--unfamiliar, worrisome. Brown boxes strewn about in an otherwise empty room--she is at the center. Fluorescent lights, they wash out her already pale, olive-tinted skin. She is a ghost; a single haunting figure, standing alone in a graveyard of cardboard boxes, what remains of an old life. She is the center. This tiny, cramped apartment with no space to roam, the only thing that reminds her of home.
Home was nine-thousand, two-hundred and ninety-three kilometers away, as the crow flies. How many countries had she passed? How many countries had she never been to? France? Germany? Kazakhstan? South Korea? She'd known only the streets of Glasgow, Scotland, most notably the ungentrified part, where it wasn't safe to walk around at night. She did, though. All night. Every night. It was okay. She was okay, because she was always a part of the danger. That's what got her into trouble in the first place. She hung around the Neds, the Chavs, the thugs. LIttle Nedette that she was, only five feet tall, she kept her hands clean, but nevertheless found herself enjoying the ill-gotten bounty of illicit goods: smoking and drinking cheap beer that "fell off the lorry". Those parts were fine, but sometimes she'd wish the boys would stay out of fights, and out of trying to get in her pants, but those were the only things those guys cared about or had going for them. She knew that. Her mother knew, too.
So she had to be sent away, half a world away, to a father she'd never met--to a heritage she'd never known. She didn't want to know it now.
"Jist be good," she told herself, "Donnae be gettin' up to no trouble, and ye'll giess yer freedom back."
She let go of herself, she fell backwards, savoring the panicked spike of chilling anxiety that sprung forth from her groin in response to the sudden change in equilibrium. She landed softly on a box behind her, her moment of freedom ended, and she was anchored once again. She stared out of the window at downtown Shibuya, and sighed.
Concrete towers loomed over the tiny apartment window. She couldn't believe this place was so expensive, being smaller than her family's old flat in Maryhill. This city was so cramped, and full of people she had nothing in common with.
"Jist two mare years a this shite," she said.
As for acting out, she'd tried that. Her father was strict. Masanori Kawano did not tolerate chaos, and had informed his formerly estranged daughter that if she did not find life with her father agreeable, than the next step would be more drastic. Iona didn't know what could be more drastic than being sent across the globe to live with the father that had abandoned her mother in the first place, and she didn't want to know. So, she decided to play his game. Besides, she didn't really have a choice.
What could she do, anyhow? She didn't know anyone, and until just recently she barely spoke the language. She'd been living in Japan for year, in Osaka, before their move to Tokyo's Shibuya ward. She'd been completely isolated, with only her father and her computer for company.
She produced the laptop from her computer bag and laid it to rest on her lap, closed. She stared at it.
A Disturbing Realization: This little white plastic box was her only window to the outside.
Her friends in Glasgow had ceased to be real. They were bits of text and status updates on Facebook, little more. Contact with her friends through the internet made her feel solipsistic: as though she were the only thinking, breathing human. She'd read their poorly constructed, emoji-laden texts, and their voices existed only in her head. They weren't even their own voices. She heard her own voice instead, like a puppet master reading the lines of a script.
She decided to check her email. That was safe enough. No one she cared about ever emailed her. She opened the laptop and it chimed to life, cooling fan quietly whirring; the only sounds in the room that were of a familiar comfort. The size of the room itself was somewhat familiar. Cramped little apartments were the only places she'd ever known--but this was was too nice, too clean, too quiet. No one fighting, no one breaking bottles against the wall. No wives throwing their deadbeat husbands or boyfriends out the door. Her father had earned this apartment with his job (whatever it was that he did, Iona did not know), whereas she'd always lived in apartments courtesy of EU taxpayers.
This wasn't her world.
As soon as the OS booted, and the background photograph of her and two other girls laughing and posing for the camera appeared, Iona quickly smashed the button with the little envelope on it, bringing up her mail and blocking the image from her view.
There was nothing, as she predicted. She was getting nothing but spam ever since she'd torrented some dumb movie. Should have realized it was a scam when they wanted her email. Stupid, stupid.
Nestled in the deluge of Nigerian Princes and offers for geriatric dating services, Iona found a letter welcoming her to Shibuya School. She didn't bother to read it. She was pretty sure she knew what it said. Usual administrative shite. She had a good collection going of acceptance and expulsion notices. They were either "happy" or "regretful" to inform, but either way they were fake. No one really cared.
The only other email to get her attention did so because it was written so peculiarly, with capital and lowercase letters alternating at random.
The title of the email:
"tAkE THiS yOu'Ll NeEd It"
She stared at the screen, incredulously. She was sure that she'd better not open it. She looked at who the sender was. "Rozebl00d". Edgy. It was probably a virus. She was stupid, but not that stupid. Her father would kill her if she wrecked her new computer.
Her mouse pointer hovered over the little trashcan symbol. She was just about to click it when her father called her from the kitchen.
"Iona," he said, speaking Japanese, as was his preference when alone with her, "Could you help me with these boxes, please?"
Iona looked up, towards the source of his voice. "Coming," she said. She closed the laptop immediately. It wasn't good to keep her father waiting. He only ever asked once.
"I want to have at least the kitchen set up before dinner time," he told her.
"Of course," she said, responding in her father's native language. "I'll throw something together, dad."
She threw herself into putting away dishes, but for some reason, that email remained on her mind well into preparing the night's dinner...
Home was nine-thousand, two-hundred and ninety-three kilometers away, as the crow flies. How many countries had she passed? How many countries had she never been to? France? Germany? Kazakhstan? South Korea? She'd known only the streets of Glasgow, Scotland, most notably the ungentrified part, where it wasn't safe to walk around at night. She did, though. All night. Every night. It was okay. She was okay, because she was always a part of the danger. That's what got her into trouble in the first place. She hung around the Neds, the Chavs, the thugs. LIttle Nedette that she was, only five feet tall, she kept her hands clean, but nevertheless found herself enjoying the ill-gotten bounty of illicit goods: smoking and drinking cheap beer that "fell off the lorry". Those parts were fine, but sometimes she'd wish the boys would stay out of fights, and out of trying to get in her pants, but those were the only things those guys cared about or had going for them. She knew that. Her mother knew, too.
So she had to be sent away, half a world away, to a father she'd never met--to a heritage she'd never known. She didn't want to know it now.
"Jist be good," she told herself, "Donnae be gettin' up to no trouble, and ye'll giess yer freedom back."
She let go of herself, she fell backwards, savoring the panicked spike of chilling anxiety that sprung forth from her groin in response to the sudden change in equilibrium. She landed softly on a box behind her, her moment of freedom ended, and she was anchored once again. She stared out of the window at downtown Shibuya, and sighed.
Concrete towers loomed over the tiny apartment window. She couldn't believe this place was so expensive, being smaller than her family's old flat in Maryhill. This city was so cramped, and full of people she had nothing in common with.
"Jist two mare years a this shite," she said.
As for acting out, she'd tried that. Her father was strict. Masanori Kawano did not tolerate chaos, and had informed his formerly estranged daughter that if she did not find life with her father agreeable, than the next step would be more drastic. Iona didn't know what could be more drastic than being sent across the globe to live with the father that had abandoned her mother in the first place, and she didn't want to know. So, she decided to play his game. Besides, she didn't really have a choice.
What could she do, anyhow? She didn't know anyone, and until just recently she barely spoke the language. She'd been living in Japan for year, in Osaka, before their move to Tokyo's Shibuya ward. She'd been completely isolated, with only her father and her computer for company.
She produced the laptop from her computer bag and laid it to rest on her lap, closed. She stared at it.
A Disturbing Realization: This little white plastic box was her only window to the outside.
Her friends in Glasgow had ceased to be real. They were bits of text and status updates on Facebook, little more. Contact with her friends through the internet made her feel solipsistic: as though she were the only thinking, breathing human. She'd read their poorly constructed, emoji-laden texts, and their voices existed only in her head. They weren't even their own voices. She heard her own voice instead, like a puppet master reading the lines of a script.
She decided to check her email. That was safe enough. No one she cared about ever emailed her. She opened the laptop and it chimed to life, cooling fan quietly whirring; the only sounds in the room that were of a familiar comfort. The size of the room itself was somewhat familiar. Cramped little apartments were the only places she'd ever known--but this was was too nice, too clean, too quiet. No one fighting, no one breaking bottles against the wall. No wives throwing their deadbeat husbands or boyfriends out the door. Her father had earned this apartment with his job (whatever it was that he did, Iona did not know), whereas she'd always lived in apartments courtesy of EU taxpayers.
This wasn't her world.
As soon as the OS booted, and the background photograph of her and two other girls laughing and posing for the camera appeared, Iona quickly smashed the button with the little envelope on it, bringing up her mail and blocking the image from her view.
There was nothing, as she predicted. She was getting nothing but spam ever since she'd torrented some dumb movie. Should have realized it was a scam when they wanted her email. Stupid, stupid.
Nestled in the deluge of Nigerian Princes and offers for geriatric dating services, Iona found a letter welcoming her to Shibuya School. She didn't bother to read it. She was pretty sure she knew what it said. Usual administrative shite. She had a good collection going of acceptance and expulsion notices. They were either "happy" or "regretful" to inform, but either way they were fake. No one really cared.
The only other email to get her attention did so because it was written so peculiarly, with capital and lowercase letters alternating at random.
The title of the email:
"tAkE THiS yOu'Ll NeEd It"
She stared at the screen, incredulously. She was sure that she'd better not open it. She looked at who the sender was. "Rozebl00d". Edgy. It was probably a virus. She was stupid, but not that stupid. Her father would kill her if she wrecked her new computer.
Her mouse pointer hovered over the little trashcan symbol. She was just about to click it when her father called her from the kitchen.
"Iona," he said, speaking Japanese, as was his preference when alone with her, "Could you help me with these boxes, please?"
Iona looked up, towards the source of his voice. "Coming," she said. She closed the laptop immediately. It wasn't good to keep her father waiting. He only ever asked once.
"I want to have at least the kitchen set up before dinner time," he told her.
"Of course," she said, responding in her father's native language. "I'll throw something together, dad."
She threw herself into putting away dishes, but for some reason, that email remained on her mind well into preparing the night's dinner...