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Saint Akatsuka’s Orphanage has a population of two-thousand eight-hundred and forty-three orphans, an all time high average for orphanages across Japan. Uehara knows this because she has christened a third of the children in it, the rest done by Dekapan. Now with his recent passing, Uehara steps up to the role as the head of the place.
Despite being an orphan, coming to age within the orphanage walls, making her way into society to become a decent citizen of Akatsuka, and growing up to have a decent life—Uehara’s transition into leadership is anything but a smooth one.
The city cuts their funding by half, putting more pressure into their weakening savings and scarce food storages.
“This is ridiculous,” growls Uehara, slapping the documents against her desk, a scowl gracing her features. She runs her fingers through her hair, down her neck and keeps them there, her thumbs slowly massaging the sides. There’s the sound of the door opening and Uehara lets out a heavy sigh through her nose and grunts as she sits up and rolls her shoulders.
“You need to sleep,” comes Oyama’s quiet and matter-of-factly voice. He has a cup of steaming tea which he places with a soft thunk before his older sister. “Drink it and then go to bed.”
“I can’t,” whines Uehara, groaning the more she thinks about everything that i s failing to come through. She feels like crying and she feels like storming into the Families and Children’s Department, scream at their incompetent management and take what needs to be provided for the orphanage to keep it running. But she can’t. She can’t and it is the most frustrating thing she has ever encountered in her life.
And she knows what frustrating is because she’s a retail and server veteran. She wishes she could say that it gets better as people move up the economic ladder, but after working as a stock broker for five years, she has found that people just get worse and more entitled—especially the old people. Despite all that, one thing she is absolutely sure of is that,
“People are assholes,” she hisses.
Oyama is in the middle of picking up stray documents and ordering them by color, courtesy of the dots he had marked them with, and then very meticulously places each paper into their respective folders and crates—also color coded. He doesn’t turn from what he’s doing but hums his response to Uehara.
“I need to do something…” whispers Uehara more to herself than Oyama.
“If you need help,” he starts and Uehara stands up, dragging her chair loudly against the floor.
“No, don’t worry about it Oyama, and” she says, kneeling by him to help, “ you need to stop staying here, the commute is longer and I don’t want you getting late to work.”
“As I was saying,” he continues, completely ignoring her comment, “if you need help, just tell me, I’m sure I can work something out.”
Uehara reaches toward Oyama and catches his cheek between her thumb and index finger and pulls on it hard . Oyama yelps and quickly slaps her hand away.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling at him sweetly, watching him huff and work into organizing the papers. Her brother can be so cute sometimes. He’s kind, he’s obsessed with organizing everything by color and he’s a worry rat when it comes to her, so much that sometimes Uehara can’t say everything to him—which in turn earns her a friendly visit from a very pissed little brother when he manages to find out about withheld information.
After giving her office a semblance of order, they both part to their respective rooms and sleep. Well, Uehara attempts to sleep but knowing about the upcoming deadlines and the growing problems in the orphanage, doesn’t let her remain on bed.
Giving up, she huffs in annoyance, rubbing her tired eyes and standing up to pace around her room, and when pacing doesn’t help she decides to take a walk around the orphanage’s yard.
Uehara watches the orange sunrise.
******
She’s at her actual job, worrying her lip away, as she checks her email for any response from the Families and Children’s Department.
Surely, Uehara can do something to help St. Akatsuka. She rackes her fingers through her hair and sighs.
“Are you okay, Uehara?” Comes Iwase’s concerned voice, “that’s like the tenth time you’ve sighed in an hour,” she explains when Uehara fails to respond.
“Ah, really?” She asks not finding the energy to fake a response.
Iwase comes around her cubicle to see Uehara properly, “You look like hell!” She says in surprise.
“I feel like it.”
“You know. . .you can tell me anything,” she offers quietly, playing with her thumbs, “you don’t have to hide anything from me,” she continues over Uehara’s attempt to respond, “I know you find it hard to ask for help but I don’t mind at all, so please-”
Uehara stands up from her seat, startling the wavy-haired woman and stands really close. She’s a whole two inches taller than Iwase, so she has to look down at her, their breaths mingling at the close proximity. Close, so close that Uehara can smell Iwase’s flowery perfume.
“I do need a little help,” she confesses, glazed eyes meeting Iwase’s vivid ones.
******
Iwase in her five years of work as a stock broker, has meets all kinds of people, from the unimaginably rich to even the most humble bakery owners who wish to gain more money to expand their premises. But the most bizarre of all her clients is this woman that goes by Ichiko.
Mantroly, elegant, and deadly, that’s the best way Iwase can describe her solemn client. Every time she walks into the room, everyone grows quiet, she turns heads and she asserts her presence. She can’t be ignored and she is not ignored.
But that’s not what makes her bizarre, what makes her an interesting character is that she is open about what she does.
“I’m the wife to the Yakuza leader,” she says one day in that flat voice of hers. She crosses her legs and plays with her hair as Iwase is busy running numbers for her. For a second Iwase looks up, sees her rather lax nature and flickers her eyes back to the screen before her.
“I plan to kill him soon,” she continues, eyes watching Iwase’s every move. It’s small and barely noticeable to anyone but Ichiko, she sees Iwase’s shoulders tense and relax between seconds. “I’m not kidding,” she affirms, and this time she sits up, leaning into the desk, fingers laced.
At the action Iwase finally pays attention, “ma’am?”
“I am entrusting you with this information because you are a decent member of society,” she stops, resting her sharp face against her palm, eyes lidded as she regards the orange-haired woman, “and because I like you. You’re like,” and there’s a beat of silence that Iwase fills for her.
“A friend?”
Ichiko withdraws, sitting back against the cushioned chair, cocking her head to the side, “Is that what you think of me?” She asks instead.
Iwase nods, and smiles, “I mean you are my client and all, but you are also the only person that actually talks to me about anything and without restrictions.”
Ichiko hums for a good minute before she returns the gesture, lidded eyes becoming centimeters wider, “I agree, you are like a friend. So,” she continues, pulling her purse over her thighs and drawing out a business card. She puts it on the table and slides it over to Iwase’s side with long pale fingers, “if you ever need help, don’t hesitate to ask.”
That’s what she told Iwase. That happened months ago. Iwase flips the card over and over, debating if it would be a good idea to get someone so dangerous involved in something that’s got too much government strings attached to it.
“But this is for Uehara,” she whispers to herself, looking down at the card and number that she has memorized by now. A determined look crosses her eyes, she picks up her cell phone and dials. The other line rings three times before it gets answered,
“Hello? Ichiko speaking, who is this?”
“Hello, Ichiko-san. . . This is Iwase. . .I have a favor to ask.”
******
“Dress to impress,” says Iwase over lunch and notices that the dark circles under Uehara’s eyes have gotten darker, not even her make up helps to cover them up.
“Iwase,” starts Uehara, because they have been over this already. Distractions won’t help her and it will stress her out at the end of the day.
“No, no,” she says hurriedly, “it’s to meet a donor for St. Akatsuka’s”
At that Uehara’s eyes snap up and she regards Iwase with a surprised look, “what?” She wheezes out, almost hysterical.
“A private donor. I, ah- she gave me her number a long time ago and told me to reach out if I ever needed something. I told her about the philanthropy project you got going on,” she says, eyes meeting Uehara’s hopeful ones and feels her chest clench. Gosh she hates seeing Uehara so beaten down and stressed, “she says she’s willing to be a lifetime donor,” Uehara chokes on her water, “but she wants to meet you first,” she finishes, fidgeting on her seat.
Iwase , Uehara thinks, is a gift of God. She’s an angel. She’s God sent. And she feels moisture gather at the corner of her eyes, without any hesitation she reaches across the table, grabs at the other’s collar and pulls Iwase in for a kiss. Iwase squeaks in surprise but doesn’t pull back, instead returning the kiss just as fiercely. She knows for a fact that Uehara will be wearing the same amount of lipstick she is wearing.
When both part they are breathless and their cheeks burn furiously. Iwase chokes on a laugh when she feels Uehara’s hand cup her cheek.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to act on it. I’m sorry,” starts Uehara and a small sob escapes her, “for involving you in this. I shouldn’t have.”
“It’s okay,” says Iwase, voice wavering as she reaches with both hands to cup Uehara’s face, pulling back just enough that their hair strands mingle with each other, “I would have insisted until you told me how to help anyways,” she finishes with an airy laugh.
“Thank you,” she says in relief, resting their foreheads together despite the uncomfortable position.
“Geez, sit closer together if you want to get touchy,” comments Norimoto, nonchalantly as she takes a seat on the available seat at the duo’s table. Iwase laughs, eyes sparkling with mirth and affection when she looks at Norimoto and then back at Uehara.
“She’s right, you know,” and pulls back to drag her chair next to Uehara. They hold hands under the table.
******
The party is formal and elegant enough that Uehara feels out of place. She’s wearing a white collar shirt that dips into a v-shape and a long flowy black skirt that sits just above her waist, and just above the floor. Iwase is wearing a solid navy blue vintage dress with a lace detail that runs from her chest down three-fourths of her arms. If Uehara didn’t feel so nervous she would have taken a closer look at Iwase, but as it is, she feels her legs will give out any minute.
It’s not that this is the first time she attends such an event. Uehara is used to dinner meetings at lavish establishments with her clients, attending charity events to manage their money on the spot, and broker deals. But this one feels different.
Uehara walks with Iwase, arms linked and they smile whenever a friendly face nods their heads in acknowledgement. The room is stuffy, the smell of incense heavy,
and it’s quiet, quiet. It’s not like the usual rambunctious party, where people have far-too-wide smiles, where old “partners” congratulate each other through gritted teeth, where the politicians aren’t going around trying to get attendants to jump on their campaign. None of that is actually happening, the attendants make it clear whether they like you or don’t like you and they talk in hushed voices.
“So,” starts Uehara, leaning into Iwase so that their shoulders brush against each other, “who is the person?” She whispers. Iwase is scanning the area for Ichiko, looking for the familiar black dress and purple matsu pine symbols.
Before Iwase can respond, a person falls into step with them along with her companion.
“Iwase-san,” greets Ichiko’s bored voice, and stops when the two women falter in their walking.
“Ah, Ichiko-san,” says Iwase and bows, “this is Uehara,” she presents, “Uehara this is my client, Ichiko.”
Uehara bows and smiles placidly at the woman, Ichiko’s eyes flicker over the two and stay put where their arms are linked. Uehara stiffens and tightens her grip on Iwase. Ichiko smiles at that, lazy amusement coloring her eyes when she meets Uehara’s own.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Uehara-san,” says Ichiko bowing shallowly, her pearl earrings brushing against her cheeks before straightening up, she pats her companion’s arm, “this here is Todomatsu, a hostage” she says rather amicably. Uehara chuckles nervously at the comment and Iwase returns the smile easily.
“Well,” starts Iwase, “I sure hope you and him get to an understanding.”
“I hope so too,” says Ichiko, giving Todomatsu a side glance. Todomatsu’s lips thin. “But,” snaps Ichiko, untangling their arms “we have matters to attend to right?”
“Yes.”
Uehara feels her stomach drop and foreboding crawls up her spine, making her skin tingle.
******
“It’s going to feel weird at first,” starts Ichiko, voice cool and collected, “but that’s okay, you won’t ever have to do anything like this again.”
“Yeah? Geez, almost had me fooled there,” retorts Uehara, and doesn’t know which part of her body is shaking the most, her legs, her hands, her mouth, everything feel jittery and sweat rolls down at the back of her neck.
Thankfully, Iwase is not there, Ichiko gave her the choice to have her there or to keep her out of the loop for this part of the deal.
Ichiko lets out an airy chuckle, walks behind Uehara and wraps her arms around her middle, resting her chin on Uehara’s shoulder, and exhales deeply. Uehara can feel the soft mounds against her back and while she’s not unfamiliar to the feeling-
“Can you not?” She blurts out and shrugs her shoulder to get Ichiko to move off. Ichiko does let out a snicker at the action and gives her the space she asks for.
“My apologies Uehara-san, I didn’t mean to trespass or get ahead of myself, I am well aware that you and Iwase-san are or will be in a relationship,” and has to bite the inside of her cheek when she hears Uehara’s strangled noise and sputtering.
“Make yourself responsible for all the sins of men…” starts Ichiko, walking around the kneeling blind-folded man, Todomatsu. She circles him, circles Uehara and trails her pale fingers across Uehara’s shoulders “by shifting your own laziness and powerlessness onto others,” her dress flutters after her steps, her lazy gaze fixated on Uehara who’s still shaking from what she was ordered to do, she’s only half listening, “you will end by sharing in Satan’s pride and murmuring against God,” she finishes, placing both hands firmly against Todomatsu’s shoulder.
“What?”
“Dostoevsky, from The Brothers Karamazov, never heard of it?”
“I- no, no.”
“It’s Russian literature. . .it’s pretty, ah. . .unique.”
“What does that mean? What you just said?”
“It means,” she starts, and leans over the figure before rolling back onto her heel, “that you insist on being personally responsible for everyone else’s sin.”
“Sin?”
“Yes, you, by being here will do the unthinkable such as killing this good man, for the sake of providing for the children at St. Akatsuka’s. You,” and she points at Uehara, lazy eyes becoming more alert the more she speaks, “out of your own volition and through satanic pride, are shouldering everyone else’s ineptitude to fix the problem…” she pauses and exhales sharply, sending Uehara a calm smile, “you truly love those children. You’ll be like a God to them. You will be exactly just that...I just need you to finish the job and we will seal the deal, yes?”
Uehara feels hot bile raise up her throat, and her hands start to shake with renewed determination. She doesn’t know Todomatsu, but she knows that there may be someone out there who is waiting for him to return. She also doesn’t know how to deal with what Ichiko wants. She can’t figure out a way out of it either. She wants a better life for the children. She wants them to know that they aren’t alone, that they are loveable. That even if they don’t find a family, they can create their own, they get to choose their own. She wants them to learn it from her rather than out in the cruel world, learn how to deal with people, learn to understand that people’s anger is not a reflection of them but a reflection of people’s own insecurities and fears. Oyama and herself learned many of these lessons the hard way, they had to take many risks and finally come to terms that-
That they can’t please anyone. That not everyone will like them. That there will be problems from time to time. That mistakes happen, everyone makes them. That not everything is within their control. That they can't blame themselves for doing the best they can. For trying. For trying and that should be enough.
So for their sake-
Uehara takes a deep measured breath and lets it out slowly, her hands are still shaking and she gives Ichiko a flat, determined look, her eyes bore into Ichiko’s trying to find for a hint of hesitation. There is none.
“Okay,” says Uehara, and takes a few steps forward, her grip around the gun so tight that her knuckles turn white.
For the children. For the children, she reminds herself. Her breath quickens and she feels the prick of tears at the corner of her eyes. For the children. For the children. Her chest tightens and feels her whole body shiver, her finger trembles against the trigger. For the children for the children . She screws her eyes shut and a whimper escapes her.
Uehara pulls the trigger.
******
They cut the ribbon and flashes come at lighting speed, blinding Uehara as she shakes Ichiko’s hand. St. Akatsuka Orphanage is to become a private institution, free of government strings and free for Uehara to do as she pleases. Once the pictures are taken, everyone scatters off—to the side Ichiko and Iwase are talking animatedly.
A man, clad in a black suit and a red undershirt, falls into step with her and greets her with a beaming smile, “well, well if it isn’t my favorite sister-in-law,” he says and moves away when Uehara tries to swat at him.
“Don’t remind me please,” she murmurs and rolls her eyes and adds dully, “I’m your only sister-in-law.”
“True, that is true,” he replies with a chuckle and loops an arm around her shoulders, “how you feeling about the place now?” Uehara shrugs, a frown in place.
“Why would she go so far?”
******
The bullet never comes out. There is only the resounding click of the empty gun and Ichiko’s approving hum. She takes the empty gun from Uehara’s hand and falls with her to the floor. She grabs Uehara’s face in her hands and forces her to meet her eyes.
“Now I know I can trust you,” she says firmly, “that you are willing to go through great lengths to protect those children and I need that . I ” and there is a long pause, “I need that. It’s hard to come by that sort of loyalty for a cause, that’s why I took a chance on you and you will deliver, understood?”
Uehara nods, tears long dried.
******
Osomatsu hums, and places both hands against his hips, both watching as Ichiko nods and takes a sip of her wine to whatever Iwase is saying.
“Either sheer good will or a very, very twisted sense of compassion,” responds Osomatsu, leaving a pause long enough for Uehara to respond with a snort, “or, “ he continues, “a succession of debts.”
“I didn’t even know who she was before Iwase introduced us,” explains Uehara with a shake of her head.
“Not you. The orphanage. She was also an orphan, just like you, just like Oyama.”
“Oh,” is all she says and with realization lets out a mixture of an exhale and a chuckle.
Uehara goes out that same night to the local bookstore, just minutes before it closes, and buys a copy of The Brothers Karamazov . She spends all her night and part of her morning looking for Ichiko’s words.
Book four, chapter one, paragraph two. No one is better than anyone else. No one is equal to one another. Recognizing that we are all the same, yet the worst than all those in the world. That’s love . Or at least, that’s what Ichiko explained about the quote.
“Twisted indeed,” agrees Uehara’s, smiling against her knuckles.