Hiroku

by Laura Lascarso

  I shook my head and sighed, tired of this conversation and his incessant questions, which had started out as amusing but had quickly veered into irritating and obsessive. I wanted to tell Seth it was probably his own guilty conscience getting to him, but I didn’t want to start a fight.

  In the parking lot to the restaurant, Seth finally just came out with it, “Are you fucking him, Hiroku?”

  I glanced over at him; he looked truly distraught. Part of me wanted to put his mind at ease, but our agreement was to keep our extracurriculars to ourselves. He’d invaded my privacy by showing up to my practice early, so in that regard, I didn’t owe him anything.

  “It’s none of your business, Seth,” I said gently but firmly. The look on his face nearly broke me. I didn’t think he was acting because I saw a glimpse of the boy I fell in love with, the one who just wanted to be loved unconditionally.

  Seth took a deep breath and steeled his gaze. His vulnerability transformed into something harder. He was furious with me but trying hard not to show it.

  We went inside where the band was already waiting. They were supposed to pick out which songs from Petty Crime’s repertoire would be recorded for their debut album. Seth said he wanted me there as an objective observer, but my role quickly turned into that of a mediator. Mitchell and Dean went with the flow, so most of their arguments were between Sabrina and Seth. Sabrina wanted to cut the slow songs, which she said were boring and sad and self-indulgent. Seth wanted to keep them because he said they demonstrated their range as musicians. It often came down to the difference between who was getting more airtime—Seth’s voice or Sabrina’s drums. I offered input where I could while trying to be as diplomatic as possible. I also engaged Mitchell and Dean in the conversation by keeping the questions simple with “this or that” type decisions. We were at the restaurant for almost three hours, but at the end, they’d more or less decided the song list for their first album.

  “We still need one more song,” Seth said. “Something with a hook that will play well on the radio. Our anthem…” Seth studied the yellow legal pad where he’d scribbled everything down. He made a note “anthem” as a placeholder in the list of songs. Then he made everyone sign it. He handed the pen to me.

  “I don’t need to sign it, Seth.” The band trusted me as an advisor, but I didn’t want to insert myself into their decision-making process or give myself the same weight as the others.

  “You’re going to write the Petty Crime anthem, Hiroku,” Seth said as if I was being daft. “And shoot the video—for money this time—so I want you to sign it.”

  It was like when I’d designed their logo, and Seth put me in charge of merchandise. I should know better than to question his intentions when it came to my role in the band. I glanced around at the other members who were all nodding in agreement.

  “Fine then.” I took the pen and scrawled my name, Hiroku Hayashi. I studied my own signature as I hadn’t in a while. It was then that I realized the tattoo on Seth’s chest wasn’t just my name in cursive; it was written in my handwriting as well, as if I’d signed my own name to his skin. I set the pen down carefully and stared at him in awe. For all of the time and effort I’d put into trying to understand him, Seth was still able to surprise me.

  “You just figured that out,” Seth said, looking a little hurt by it. Part of me wanted to ask him what the hell he was thinking when he got that tattoo, but a larger part was scared of his answer.

  The sex later that night was rough, even for me. Seth was punishing me for not being as committed to our partnership as he was, according to him at least. He didn’t need to say it in those exact words because he told me with every admonishing thrust, tearing into me like he was trying to rip open something inside of me. I was sure I’d have finger-sized bruises on my hips and blood in my stool when it was all over. But I grit my teeth and bore it because on the other side was mind-blowing pleasure, and I was willing to go into the trenches with Seth in order to get there.

  Seth didn’t say anything about it afterward. The only time he’d apologize after sex was if I didn’t climax. Instead, he stunned me again by suggesting we get married.

  “I’m sixteen,” I reminded him, worn out from the physical and emotional strain of the day. I dismissed the idea immediately. My age was actually the least of my concerns.

  “Priscilla was fourteen,” he argued.

  “That was when they met,” I corrected. “They didn’t get married until much later, and Priscilla claimed she was still a virgin.”

  Seth grumbled. “This friends with benefits situation isn’t working, Hiroku.”

  I wished I didn’t care so much about Seth’s feelings or what he wanted. If only I could act in my own best interest, but our close connection and my own mental weakness caused my mind to get muddled, so that I began to believe his desires were mine as well.

  “What more do you want from me, Seth?”

  “I want to put you in a cage, and only let you out to be with me.”

  His pretty, little bird in a gilded cage. He may not have said it so plainly before, but it was something I’d always sensed: his obsessive demand for total dominion of my mind, body, and spirit. “It sounds like what you want is a sex slave. Or a waifu.”

  Seth rolled onto his side and stared at me. He didn’t have curtains in his apartment, so the light pollution from downtown Austin filtered in and cast a yellow glow on his face. And that damned tattoo. I was trying to make light of this serious and slightly fucked-up situation, but Seth wasn’t having it.

  “You’re not allowed to be with anyone else,” he said severely.

  I stared back at him, trying to be calm and rational about it. It would be easier to just give in—it wasn’t like I was seeing anyone anyway—but I had to stand my ground or risk being trampled by him all over again.

  “You’re not my boyfriend anymore, Seth, which means you aren’t allowed to make those demands.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me, anger permeating from his pores like an overpowering perfume, but he didn’t kick me out of bed or demand that I leave—he’d never do that anyway. Instead, he pressured me to go again, even though he knew it’d be painful. One way or another, he’d get what he wanted from me, and my compromise was that physical pain was far easier for me to endure than emotional pain.

  As Seth climaxed for the second time that night, I thought again about what Jeovanni had said about not making myself less to allow my opponent to be more.

  But there was a strange kind of power in yielding too. Seth derived his life source from me, and in that way, I’d created this monster.

  That must make me at least partially responsible.

  NOW

  I share some of what I’ve written in my journal with Dr. Denovo—my idea—and he gives me some articles on emotional manipulators. The signs all line up with what Seth was doing. One of the articles says the emotional manipulator is skilled at what they do and intentional about it, but I still can’t bring myself to believe Seth’s manipulations were altogether deliberate.

  There was a pattern to Seth’s behavior. I’d put distance between us, and he’d feel threatened and then do whatever he could to bring me back under his control. Of course, it was manipulation, but I don’t think it was for any other purpose than to have me all to himself. I don’t think he necessarily wanted to hurt me or make me hate myself, only that his desires were more important to him than my own.

  Perhaps that’s just me making excuses for him again.

  Of all the ways in which Seth abused me, the emotional stuff is the hardest for me to grasp because it was so insidious, and it’s something I feel like I contributed to. I put barriers between us, and I let Seth believe I was engaging in other relationships—at least I did nothing to assure him I wasn’t. I punished him with my absence when he pushed me too far.

  Dr. Denovo tells me that’s not manipulation or playing games; it’s setting boundaries. He says Seth should have accepted my limits and that by tes
ting my defenses, he was seeking power and control, which is a classic abuser strategy.

  Perhaps I should just write Seth off as an asshole and our relationship as an utter disaster, but I’m afraid that if I don’t deconstruct it down to its individual components, I won’t be able to resist him in the future. I don’t want to fall into that same pattern of behavior because it’s not the drugs I fear most outside the walls of New Vistas.

  It’s the temptation of Seth.

  THEN

  In the past, Seth had always tried to hide his drug addiction from me, but one of my conditions in the After was that he become more honest about it so that he wasn’t always sneaking off to go get high as if I was too stupid to figure out what was going on.

  I learned what a large portion of his life the drugs had become; not just the getting high part of it, but meeting with his dealers, preparing his dosage, planning his day around his fix, making sure he had enough money to get more and didn’t run out in the meantime. It seemed exhausting to manage.

  Seth had three regular dealers, each of whom offered a slightly different product. I called them Larry, Curly and Moe, but their actual names were James, Davonte, and Kyle. The first two were older and kind of sleazy, but Kyle was our age and a senior at Hilliard, and having my distinctly separate lives overlap in that way made me uncomfortable. At school, I was straight-edge Hiroku. I didn’t have friends in my classes; I had colleagues—people to collaborate with on art projects or give me feedback on my videos. I didn’t mind if my peers thought I was a try-hard, because it fit well with the persona I wanted my parents to believe.

  But with Seth, I was rock ‘n’ roll Barbie with my black leather pants and duded-up hair, eyeliner when I was feeling myself. Hanging out with the band or going to shows or serving as Seth’s living, breathing accessory. And whenever Kyle showed up at Seth’s apartment, it always threw me. It must have puzzled Kyle as well because he was always slyly asking me what was up with Seth and me because as far as he knew, I didn’t do drugs or smoke pot or even drink alcohol, so what could we possibly have in common?

  Seth could get high alone, but he preferred to get high with others, which meant there was often a small contingent of “friends” who hung around his apartment and did drugs with him on the evenings we stayed in. At first, I avoided coming around when I knew they’d be there. Or I’d hole up in Seth’s bedroom and do my homework until they were gone, but sometimes I’d be into editing a video on my laptop, and I didn’t feel like relocating, so I’d just hang out with my headphones on and work while Seth and his friends did their thing.

  On one particular night in late September, six weeks after Seth and I had started seeing each other again, I was sitting in my recliner in the corner of the living room working on a video, Seth was on the sectional couch, and his disciples were scattered all around him on beanbag chairs and cushions. In the center was a round, glass coffee table where they’d all just snorted some lines of crushed painkillers. Kyle was over, partaking as well as delivering product, and one of the girls who I hadn’t been introduced to yet asked Seth who I was.

  “That’s Priscilla,” Seth said, gazing at me softly from across the room. Doe-eyed and tender in his tone, I didn’t like to admit it, but the drugs definitely had a mellowing effect on him.

  The girl didn’t get the Elvis reference and said that was a strange name for a boy, then asked aloud, “Isn’t he a boy?” I rolled my eyes behind my laptop screen at Seth’s comparison and acted like I hadn’t heard them.

  “That’s not Priscilla. That’s Hiroku Hayashi,” Kyle offered up as an explanation. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Seth glare at Kyle like he wasn’t even allowed to utter my name.

  “How do you know that?” Seth asked possessively.

  “He goes to Hilliard,” Kyle said like it was obvious.

  “Oh, right.” Seth visibly relaxed.

  The girl stumbled over my name in trying to repeat it. Someone else chimed in to correct her, and it turned into this weird kind of canon they were all chanting. Then Seth started talking about how we met and fell in love. “He brought me soup one day when I was sick,” Seth said, “and that’s when I knew.”

  They all listened and nodded as if I weren’t in the same room with them. Seth too seemed to forget I was there because he then told them about how he cheated on me, and I broke up with him, and now I was punishing him by giving him just a little bit. He pinched his thumb and forefinger together to make his point about how stingy I was being. It was truly a bizarre moment for me, but at the same time, I was getting a peek into Seth’s psyche. I was curious to see what he’d say next.

  He leaned in closer to whisper to them, “And now, he’s fucking Fabio.”

  Fabio was Seth’s name for Jeovanni, who I still wasn’t fucking, despite Seth’s mounting suspicion. I closed my laptop and slid my headphones around my neck.

  “Seth,” I called in a reproachful voice.

  Seth’s head swiveled in my direction, and he looked surprised to see me. “Oh, you heard that?”

  Someone giggled. I tried to have patience with them because they were all slowly slipping away from reality. I went over and sat on the couch next to Seth. He placed his hand on my thigh. “This is where I like him. Right here by me.” Seth ran his fingers through the hair on the top of my head as if fixing it for a photograph. “Isn’t he pretty?”

  The girl nodded with a dreamy smile on her face. “So pretty.”

  I made a point of learning everyone’s names. The good thing about Seth’s drug buddies was he wasn’t screwing any of them, so in that way they were all fairly harmless. Don’t shit where you eat, Seth had said once about his ability to keep his circles from overlapping. They asked me if I got high, and when I told them no, they asked me why not.

  “He’s going to be a doctor,” Kyle said with what seemed to be true admiration.

  “No, that’s his sister,” Seth corrected. “Hiroku’s an artist.”

  They all nodded like that was a profession of the highest order.

  “Hiroku’s writing me a song,” Seth continued, “for our first album. It’s going to play on the radio, and everyone will hear it and fall in love.”

  “I don’t have anything yet,” I told him, feeling the pressure of his expectations, as if their success hinged on my ability to craft the perfect song.

  He patted my leg reassuringly. “Don’t worry, baby. It will come to you.”

  “Well, if you’re not going to be a doctor,” said Melody, the girl who’d initiated this strange conversation, “then why don’t you get high with us, Hiroku Hayashi?”

  My recollection of this girl makes her sound kind of idiotic, but she was actually something of a seer, and her questions came from a place of complete innocence, childlike and earnest.

  “Hiroku doesn’t get high,” Seth answered for me. I glanced over at him, annoyed. He shrugged his shoulders. “What? You don’t, babe.”

  “I know I don’t, but you can let me answer for myself.”

  Seth huffed, crossing his arms. “So answer her then.”

  The girl’s head went back and forth between us like a tennis match. It was a little weird to have somewhat of a personal disagreement in front of spectators, but there we were, and our audience was captivated.

  “I don’t get high,” I told her patiently, “because it seems like a bad idea.”

  They all kind of loosely nodded like meerkats. “I used to think that too,” Melody said. “A few minutes ago I said ‘this seems like a bad idea,’ but now I’m here and it’s sooo beautiful.” She sighed and hugged herself and sounded so peaceful and gratified. “It’s like flying, Hiroku Hayashi. Don’t you want to fly with us?”

  “Hiroku doesn’t fly,” Seth said like the hammer coming down. “He’s OSHA. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  Melody shook her head.

  “Safety first,” Seth answered like he was Confucius. Then their high kicked in full-force, and they all kind of collaps
ed into themselves, heads nodding, eyes fluttering, mouths slightly parted as if their souls were going on a spiritual journey and leaving their bodies, anchors in the real world, behind.

  “I wish you could see what I see, Hiroku,” Seth said with a long, happy sigh as he melted into the couch. A contented smile poured lazily across his face. “There are no places where the sun doesn’t touch.”

  I watched them all slowly fade away as if being overcome by a strange paralysis. I pulled Seth’s bodily vessel closer to me and kissed his forehead, silently wishing him a safe journey.

  The more time I spent with Seth and his friends, the more desensitized I became to their drug use. Snorting painkillers is deceptively “clean.” No needles, no blood, no outwardly visible traces except maybe a chronic case of the sniffles. The high was over after a couple of hours, so you could continue on with normal life without it being too much of an inconvenience.

  As far as addictions went, it was easy enough to hide.

  With his trust fund money, Seth was able to afford the good stuff—Percocets, Percodan, Demerol, Vicodin, Tramadol, Suboxone, and when he was lucky, OxyContin. Some of them were tamper-proof, which required some combination of cooking and cooling to bring them to a crushable, snortable state. Seth and Kyle were practically kitchen chemists when it came to pill-to-powder conversions.

  If Kyle was out or Seth was desperate, he’d get heroin or some synthetic mixture from James or Davonte, but Seth didn’t trust the black market stuff, so he was always mixing the powders to reduce his chances of getting a bad batch. Sometimes Seth added cocaine to the mix for a different high—in those times he was hyped up and horny or else really aggressive and snippy. It became so that I could determine from his behavior what he’d recently taken.

  I observed Seth’s drug use with a detached kind of curiosity. I could come down on him and scold him for his reckless behavior or give him ultimatums which he would undoubtedly fail, but I knew that would only make him hide it from me, and at least with the way it was now, I could keep an eye on what he was doing. He also seemed to take a lot of precautions, which reassured me because it meant he wasn’t using opiods in a purposefully destructive way, but that he really seemed to be trying to self-medicate.