Chapter Text
“So God created mankind in his own image, in this image of God he created them; male and female he created them.”
Friday 16th January 20XX
For 43 of the 44 charges of Our Lady Anne’s Wayward Home for Children, life begins at 6 am sharp with a uniform tap upon each wooden door of the sprawling dormitory and the ageing, melodic voice of one Sister Prudence, head matron, calling them to wake, pray, and be ready for the day ahead.
For one Akiyama Mizuki, life begins an hour earlier, in the wintry darkness of well before sunrise, with the quiet beep of an ancient alarm clock and the clack of bony, shaking knees hitting wooden floorboards. The routine is etched into her bones, still blearily blinking sleep from pink eyes as her hands clasp together, whispered prayer already rolling off a dry tongue.
The sequence of words, of sharp self-criticism, had been drilled into her at age 12, read off a crumpled scrap of paper into the eerie stillness of a room not quite awake, squinting through murky darkness to stammer the prayer. Now, at 17, the paper is long gone, the prayer leaving her lips without thought.
“For I am made in your image.” She whispers, digging her nails into the backs of her hands. She can feel the flaky remnants of nail polish on her nailbeds from where she’d scratched it off, terror gripping her at it being noticed.
“For you created male and female.” She whispers, feeling the tickle of her hair at the base of her neck. It’s been years since she’s cut it, but it’s becoming noticeable now. There are moments where she looks into her mirror and smiles guiltily at the waves cascading just past her shoulders.
“For it is sin to destroy your creation.” She whispers, tongue flicking nervously over her lips. They taste of cherry, left over lipgloss that she’d stolen from a younger girl a month ago. She still hadn’t confessed. Let her sin for a little longer. Let her taste that cherry, before it is ripped away.
Her prayer continues, fervent, desperate, pushing away desires, and sin. She sees herself in the prettiest of dresses, soft, pink, dolled up, glowing under a summer sun. She sees herself, surrounded by friends, sisters who call her by her name, who don’t look at her like an abomination. She tastes cherry lipgloss, feels long hair, scratches at old nail polish.
The door opens, a creak in the hinges betraying the entry, and her prayer stutters. She squeezes her eyes shut and forces the waver from her voice, persevering.
“That’s enough, Akiyama.” Melodic. Ageing. Prudence.
In her youth, once, Mizuki had leapt at these words, standing immediately, only to be shoved back to her knees and reminded, through sharp words and, later, a sharper cane to the palm, that prayers needed to be ended.
“In Jesus’ name, Amen.” She breathes after a moment, finally lowering her shaking hands to her sides. She stands, eyes on the floor, and turns to face the nun in her bedroom. Her sleep shorts and soft, cotton shirt are hardly enough to keep out the chill of early January, but even the slight shake of her shoulders seems to stiffen under Prudence’s gaze.
“Eyes.” The words are quiet, as is natural when every other child on this floor is still sleeping soundly, but they’re sharp enough to make Mizuki flinch.
She forces her eyes up, climbing over the folds of her black habit, the wooden beads and tiny silver Christ of her rosary, and up to the black and white cowl covering her greying hair, before falling back down to meet glinting eyes.
Now, someone with very little experience may be tempted to describe Sister Prudence as motherly, or perhaps grandmotherly. Her small, heart-shaped face is weathered with age, wrinkled especially around the mouth in what could be misconstrued as smile lines, her blue eyes lit up with something like tough love. Like an old woman who scolds you for pressing grubby fingers to her ornaments and then offers you a toffee to soothe the tears in your eyes. Her lips are pulled up in a soft smile, warm and safe, inviting you to tell her anything and everything.
The charges of Lady Anne’s learn within a week not to trust appearances.
“Good morning, Sister.” Mizuki greets, her voice steady, the rasp of sleep whisked away by the minutes of prayer. She had once stuttered through the greeting so badly that tears had spilled from her eyes, not long after Yuuki had left, but the bite of the Sister’s cane against her palm had been so harsh afterwards that she made sure now to put extra care in remaining calm.
“And you, Akiyama.” Prudence intones, a mere courtesy. Like clockwork, she is straight onto business. “Do you have anything to tell me?”
For 43 of the 44 charges of Lady Anne’s, confession is once a week, on Saturdays at 8pm, right after curfew. For Akiyama Mizuki, confession is every morning and every afternoon, and sometimes the evening too.
She clasps her hands behind her back to stop from fidgeting, shaking her head resolutely. “No, Sister.” She replies, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue. Cherry lipgloss, shoulder length hair, nail polish.
There’s a weighted pause where Mizuki feels the clutching, desperate hands of her sin crawling over her, crushing her chest, grappling her heart. Lying. Stealing. Crossdressing. She stifles a shaky breath, disguising it as a cough.
Prudence sighs and shakes her head. “I wish you would let me help you.”
It’s the same as every morning. The same routine. Pray until Prudence arrives, refuse to confess, feel crushed beneath her disappointment.
Mizuki says nothing, because there is no answer she can give that she hasn’t already learned will lead to wood hitting her palm, or written lines on a blackboard until her hands are stained and cracked with chalk, or a number of Hail Marys that the other nuns gasp at.
Her gaze falls from the nun’s face after a few seconds, fixing onto the wooden floorboards. The one below Prudence’s left foot is loose. It creaks when she leans her weight onto her other side.
After a grueling 4 minutes that Mizuki counts with every tick of the alarm clock, Prudence sighs again. Mizuki’s eyes immediately snap back up, her shoulders tightening under that deceptively safe gaze.
“5 Hail Marys.” Her penance. Her punishment. It’s surprisingly light. “Hurry up, Akiyama. I expect you at breakfast with the others.”
The floorboard creaks again when Prudence pivots on her heel and steps quickly from the room. There’s a responding creak from the hinges of the door, open, close, before Mizuki is truly alone in her room.
For the first time that morning, she allows herself to relax. She leans against the metal frame of her bed, feeling the thin mattress give way below her, each spring as uncomfortable as always. The alarm clock reads 5:32.
Her hands find the lamp beside her bed, flicking it on through muscle memory alone, her pink eyes squinting shut as the dim orange light floods the room. The dorm is remarkably unchanged from when she’d first stepped foot in it, 4 and separated from her sister for the first time in her life, if only by a wall. 4 white walls, creaking wooden floorboards, a cheap bedframe that rattled and groaned under the weight of her if she dared to shift in the night. Opposite stands a wardrobe, filled over the years by shirts and trousers that she wishes she could trade for skirts and dresses, and an old writing desk, dominated by a leatherbound bible, a framed picture of Yuuki, and her rosary. A mirror stands next to her bedside table, covered by a thin cloth, seldom removed apart from when Prudence is feeling cruel enough to force her to stare into it.
5:34. Her Hail Marys must be complete before 6 so she can rise with the others and head down to breakfast and morning prayer, so as not to arouse suspicion that she has been awake for a full hour already.
Still, she allows herself another few minutes, rising from her bed to step silently towards the window set high in the wall opposite the door. She reaches up, curling her fingers around the window ledge and pulling herself up, balancing precariously on the edge of her bedside table. Her reward is a view massively unchanged from the first time she’d scaled her bedroom wall.
Beyond the tiny window is a city street, barren and empty. She sees the bus stop that the kids of Lady Anne’s flock to every Saturday, eager to see the world beyond the orphanage walls. Across the empty street is a cinema, abandoned for 3 years now, and a little convenience store, its neon signs dim with the early morning.
Yuuki had taken her to that cinema, once, while it was still in business. They’d watched a kids movie, one with magic and talking animals and wondrous dragons, and Yuuki had grinned throughout the whole thing, even though she was nearing 18 by then. It had been the best day of 10-year-old Mizuki’s life, and for their trouble the two of them had been made to write extensive essays on the evil influence of magic.
Under the drizzle of January rain, an old woman in a yellow raincoat darts from around the corner and starts to unlock the door of the convenience store. Mizuki knows her well enough, the store is a common haunt for Lady Anne’s kids during their free days. She knows that tomorrow when she steps beyond the confining walls of the church and into the sterile but warm light of the store she will be greeted with a strained ‘good afternoon, young man’ and slipped a free strawberry milk as apology.
The tail of the kindly woman’s raincoat disappears past the glass door and the movement is enough to stir Mizuki back into action. Her bare feet hit the floor with a barely audible thud, just loud enough to make her wince. She freezes in place, listening for the telltale sounds of a furious nun marching towards her bedroom. When no such noises arise, she shuffles to her desk, sinking into the hard wooden chair.
Her hands find the rosary with practiced ease, her right hand securing itself around the tiny silver idol of Christ, while the fingers on her left roll over each bead. While Prudence’s rosary is well kept, polished to perfection and rethreaded every year, Mizuki’s is starting to wear down. Her nail catches on a loose thread, tugging it out of place, biting her tongue when the pad of her finger runs over a splinter in the old wood.
She ghosts over the Our Father bead, contemplative, as she has been taught, before settling on the set of three smaller beads that come after. Her voice is quiet, barely a whisper, as she starts on the first Hail Mary, thumbing the bead as she concentrates.
“Hail Mary, full of grace.” She can feel the weight of the stolen lipgloss in her palm, like a heavy stone, even though it is safely stashed away. As her lips part around the next utterance of prayer, her tongue flicks against her bottom lip guiltily.
She shudders and moves to the next bead. “Blessed art thou amongst women.” She murmurs, clutching the bead a little tighter, letting the rough, unpolished edge of it imprint upon her fingertip. What nerve she has to cast herself against the holy mother. To look upon the sinless and pretend that she, so full of sin, could be cut of the same cloth.
“Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.” She finishes the third prayer with a shuddered ‘amen’, and runs her finger back to the first bead, starting on her fourth. The tick of the clock behind her counts down another minute, then another, then another as she prays her fifth and final, clutching the bead so tightly that her nailbeds ache.
The rosary drops to the desk with a thud, Jesus’ eyes following her as she leans back, tears like dew drops on her lashes. Do you think that was enough, it seems to mock. Do you think you are clean now, it seems to say.
She’s struck with the urge to tear it apart.
Her nails, still pink at the edges from that sinful nail polish, dig into her palms. She wants to tear at the rosary until His eyes cannot stare anymore. She wants to scatter each bead across the wooden floorboards until they disappear into the little cracks. She wants to cut at the rope until it can never be retied.
She reaches forward, towards Jesus’ mocking face, daring her from his position nailed to the crucifix.
There’s a tap on the wooden door of her room, a sharp rap, followed by a voice calling all to rise.
Mizuki stands with a jolt, tearing her eyes away from the rosary, hands shaking with the guilt of what she’d been about to do. The alarm clock reads 6:00 on the dot, the orphanage finally coming to life with the sound of feet hitting the floor and excited good morning whispers to roommates. The rosary burns in her peripheral vision, the mocking face of the Lord just beyond her view. She turns on shaky feet to prepare for the day.
-†-†-†-
The day of the average Lady Anne charge continues after waking up with morning prayer, rows of children lined into the pews of the cold chapel, hands clasped together as Sister Charity recites blessing after blessing. Mizuki sits in the back, customary for the oldest, mumbling the prayer under her breath. No one sits in the same pew as her.
From there, it’s on to breakfast. The children split down the middle, half seating themselves in the barren lunch hall, on plastic tables that squeak in protest if you stand too quickly, half disappearing into the kitchen to help serve whatever the cooks have prepared. Mizuki has a table to herself, scratching her nails over the harsh plastic as her eyes scan over colourful posters she’s read a thousand times.
‘Jesus saves’ glares at her in harsh yellow bubble font as she awaits her meal and ignores the eyes on her. A boy of around 11 slides a tray in front of her and she mumbles a thank you, wincing when he scurries away like he’s been burned. She tries not to think about how much easier it had been before.
It’s been almost 7 months since Rui had aged out of the system. They hadn’t let her say goodbye to him but she’d watched from that tiny window in her room as he’d stepped out from the gate and breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh air. He had swiveled on his feet, pointing a gloved finger up to her bedroom window and bowing deeply, that little smile on his face that he reserved only for her. She’d sobbed until her throat was scratchy, raising her own hand in a wave he’d never see.
Rui used to sit with her. Rui used to lean over and whisper to her during morning prayer, making fun of Sister Charity until Mizuki inevitably cracked and giggled and they’d both be escorted out, forced to write lines until lunchtime. Rui used to jump at the option of serving duty so he could elaborately whisk her tray to her, bowing deeply and announcing ‘your meal, madam!’. Rui used to spin in his chair and kindly invite whichever child was whispering behind them to speak up so he could hear.
She stabs her fork through an orange slice, nibbling the edge of it as she tries to swallow the lump in her throat. It doesn’t matter. Rui is gone. He is far away, no longer forced to recite Leviticus 18:22 until his eyes droop with exhaustion, no longer subjected to hour-long lectures about the dangers of homosexuality. He is far, far away, and Mizuki hopes, deep in her heart, that he is happy.
Breakfast is cleared away, Mizuki standing apart from the children assigned to cleanup duty, only moving when something needs to be put on a higher shelf.
From there, the charges disperse into classrooms, roughly divided by age. Mizuki, oldest of the group by 4 years, escapes to the creaking, dusty library and seats herself before a computer that takes a full half hour to turn on. Yuuki had been allowed to leave to attend school, leaving everyday to stand at that bus stop and head to the local high school, returning in the evening to regale Mizuki with tales of what the other kids had said and what the teachers had done. But when herself and Rui had reached an age where there were no longer enough kids to make up a full class, Prudence had forbidden them from leaving everyday and proposed online classes instead.
She sits in that library, surrounded by shelves and shelves of books three times as old as her, all the way through to lunch, scribbling down occasional notes on the hours of pre-recorded lecture slides. This part of the day had belonged to her and Rui as well. She feels the gaping hole he’d left in her life every time she glances at the chair next to hers.
They’d sat side by side for several hours each day, only briefly separating for lunch, quietly giggling and teasing without care for the worksheets on the screen. He’d made this part of the routine, these moments amongst the dusty stacks, enjoyable where now it is dull. He’d sat next to her 3 of the 5 school days a week, distracting her until she could almost forget where they were. What awaited them beyond the shelves.
Her eyes fix on the iron bars covering the windows. Those had been Rui’s fault.
Sure, they’d spent 3 days a week together. But their routine differed on Tuesdays and Thursdays, a deviation known only to them.
Tuesdays and Thursdays were the days he snuck out to see his troupe, using a tiny hairpin to jostle the window lock and slipping out into the tidy, green gardens. She used to watch, heart in her throat, as he theatrically rolled and dove through the bushes until he could scale the fence. Then she’d fix the window enough so that it would stand up to anything but close scrutiny and return to her desk with a nervous, sickly thrum beneath her skin.
The lies used to eat at her, back stiff and tense while she awaited the nightmarish moment of Prudence storming in and catching her alone. It never happened, the nun too busy with the other kids during the daylight. But sometimes Rui would be late home, really pushing the limit of how long she could stall, and she’d fumble her way through a mistruth about a stomach ache that her missing companion was suffering with, adding grosser details until Sister Charity or Sister Honesty or whichever Sister had come to check on them showed mercy and disappeared.
But she never told him to stop. She would never forgive herself if she had.
She remembers, even now, the joy on Rui’s face when he came home from that fateful Saturday. He was 15, pimple-faced and already a foot taller than her, and he’d caught her hand right after confession and dragged her up to her room. He’d folded himself onto her bed, ignoring the creaks and groans it had given, and told her that during his wanderings that day he’d found a trio, their age, performing in the street. Mizuki had hesitated before settling on the bed next to him (they’d been caught doing that before and given a lecture on ‘appropriate male friendships’), urging him to continue.
He’d stayed and watched their performance, enraptured, and then stood and waited for the next one. After he’d stood through 3, they had approached him, and (Rui’s grin had grown impossibly wider at this part) they’d invited him to join for their 4th show. He’d almost forgotten about curfew with how much fun they were having. Mizuki had felt blinded by the stars in his eyes, the hope and joy in his voice, when he proclaimed that he simply had to make it to their rehearsals on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
He’d discovered the broken window that same week.
So, despite the way the lying had clawed like thorns around Mizuki’s neck, like a noose she was slowly tying herself, she had never asked Rui to stop. And she had continued to cover for him, in exchange for hearing every little detail about the three he’d met outside. She sat enraptured through tales of their antics, of Emu’s boundless positivity, Tsukasa’s drive and determination, Nene’s quiet, shy persona that hid immense talent. It made her heart ache, overjoyed to see Rui so happy but terrified of him leaving her.
It had come crashing down a month before his 18th birthday.
He’d warned her before he left that he might be late back, so when 4pm hit and she closed her worksheets from the day, she wasn’t massively shocked that she was still alone. Instead, she waited. This part of the day, between class ending and dinner, was technically free time, but a nun usually came in to check on the pair of them if they didn’t slink out of the library within a half hour or so.
She’d fought off Sister Purity, a younger nun who always shuddered when Mizuki stepped too close, with a horror story about the colour Rui had turned before he’d sprinted off to the bathroom, feeling guilty for the sick delight she felt when the nun paled and hurried from the room. But it was nearing 5 and there was still no sign of her companion.
Then it had all gone to, God forgive her, shit.
Mizuki’s leg had been bouncing, her heart beating an uneven rhythm right against her ribcage, as though it was trying to escape, when 5pm had struck. She spared a glance at the broken window, her 5th in as many minutes, praying that she’d see a flash of purple or a lanky body pulling itself over the wall. Still nothing.
The library door had swung open and she’d flinched bodily, spinning in her chair to meet Prudence’s cold, calculating eyes. A small, strangled whine had left her throat, and if she hadn’t been having some sort of weird panic attack she would’ve slapped herself for immediately giving away the game.
“Akiyama.” Prudence had almost sang, the way she did when you were really in trouble. “Where is Kamishiro?”
Mizuki’s mouth had cracked open, the lie dying before it could leave her lips. What could she even say? She’d known that the sickness excuse was no use against Prudence. She’d check every bathroom in the orphanage until she could confirm that Rui wasn’t sick.
Her mind had raced a mile a minute, each new idea more ridiculous than the last. It was as she was toying with the idea of telling the nun that Rui had never existed that the broken window popped open and a head of purple hair had thrust its way into the room.
“Mizuki!” Rui had whisper-shouted, his eyes wild and bright, not quite picking up on the sheer panic in hers. “Sorry I’m late, has the old bat noticed yet?”
Mizuki hadn’t spoken to him for a week. Prudence hadn’t even deigned to lecture them, a cruel glint in her eyes when she instructed them to stand in the chapel, arms raised, crucifix clutched tightly in their left hands, until she told them to stop. They stood there the entire night, arms aching, Mizuki staunchly ignoring any of Rui’s attempts to start conversation, until Prudence freed them during morning prayer the next day. Their left palms had been bloody with how hard they’d gripped their crucifixes, the sharp pain of the silver cutting their skin enough to distract from the numbness in their arms. Mizuki still had the scar, a faint cross shape across her palm.
Rui hadn’t snuck out again. The library windows were barred by the end of the week and, though he certainly knew other escape routes (he’d detailed them to Mizuki multiple times), he refused to leave her side after the incident. It had been that fact that had led to her forgiving him. It must have been tearing him apart to not see his troupe, but he stayed put, unwilling to put her through any more pain.
3 weeks later he’d been gone, free of Lady Anne’s, spending as much of his time as possible with his troupe. Mizuki had spent the last several months split between elation on his behalf and a selfish wish that she could’ve kept him with her, just for a bit longer.
Between lingering thoughts of Rui and a math worksheet clearly sent as some sort of divine punishment, 4pm seems to take years to roll around. The hour of free time used to mean an hour of secretive giggling in the library, both of them on high alert for anyone coming in. Before that it had meant sneaking into Yuuki’s room and demanding to be dolled up in pink frilly dresses and makeup that could be easily wiped off before dinner. She’s sure at some point before even that, it had meant playing with the other kids, before she became the pariah.
Now, it means trudging out of the library and past rapidly emptying classrooms, dodging children eager to ditch their textbooks and watch after-school cartoons over traded sweets. The youngest kids don’t even glance at her, too wrapped up in their own excitement, but the eldest steer well clear, arcing around her in the narrow hallway. The door at the end is old oak, embedded with frosted glass, and on it, in blocky print, is the word ‘Headmistress’.
Mizuki knocks, her heart beating a sickly pace against her ribs, standing stock still in the hallway until Prudence’s voice echoes for her to come in. She pushes the door open and steps inside, suppressing a shiver.
The office is shockingly barren, only a desk and three chairs, and a bookshelf pushed against the far wall. Perhaps the lack of furniture is what makes the cross so apparent. It’s 2 feet tall, nailed into the wall behind Prudence. There’s a wooden carving of Jesus pinned to it, twisting in his agony, his eyes fixed on Mizuki from the second she enters the room. She keeps her eyes steadily on the floor.
“Akiyama.” There’s a warning in the words, one Mizuki has heard a million times before, so she snaps her eyes up, doing her best to avoid meeting Christ’s accusatory gaze.
“Good afternoon, Sister.” She breathes, folding her shaking hands neatly behind her back.
Prudence stands, appearing to tower over her charge, despite being several inches shorter. Her gnarled hands rise, ghosting over the shelves of the bookcase and disturbing decades of dust before landing on a familiar, leatherbound spine. The bible slides across the desk with a soft thud.
“Do you have anything to tell me?” The question echoes, the second invitation to confess of the day. Mizuki swallows thickly. Had she not spent an afternoon and then some reminiscing over the boy Prudence had demanded she forget? Rui is damned, to miss him is to damn herself.
She shakes her head. “No, Sister.” She manages to force out, though the lie digs another thorn into her throat.
Prudence hums, disbelieving, and taps a single finger on the worn cover of the bible.
Mizuki’s hand reaches for it, and there, right on her middle finger, on her left hand, is the spot of nail polish, stark pink, peeling slightly. She freezes, arm suspended in the air, three sets of eyes fixed upon that spot.
“Um. I-” She stammers uselessly, her fingers flexing as though that’ll rid her nails of the filthy evidence of her sin. “I don’t know. What that is.”
The lie hangs in the air between them, Prudence’s eyebrows creeping steadily higher the more time that passes. Way to go, Mizuki. Dig your own grave.
For 43 of 44 charges at Lady Anne’s, lying carries the hefty punishment of bed without dinner and, for repeat offenders, a one page essay on the Lord’s stance on deceit. For Akiyama Mizuki, lying can carry any number of punishments.
At the age of 7, she’d broken her first rosary and blamed it on another child, and received the standard no dinner retribution. At 10, she’d told Yuuki she wasn’t a boy and, when overheard, was given a week of no dinners. At 14, she’d been caught in her room wearing a skirt and caned on the backs of her thighs until she couldn’t sit without sobbing. At 16, she’d blown up at Prudence and demanded to be recognised as the girl she is and had spent a harsh November night locked in the garden for her efforts.
Her hand trembles now, because even a little lie such as this, the insistence that she did not paint her nails when the evidence sits between them, could beget even harsher penance.
The silence persists for all of 15 seconds before Prudence heaves a sigh and taps her finger upon the bible again. “Study Genesis.” She circles the desk, coming to stand beside Mizuki. Her hand comes to rest on her charge’s shoulder, no doubt feeling the subtle flinch that follows it. “I trust you know the verse. I will speak to Masuda about your punishment.”
With that, she’s gone, leaving Mizuki alone with that all-seeing Christ upon the cross. She collapses into a leather chair, clutching the bible against her chest as she scratches rabidly at her nails until the last fleck of polish has peeled away. The light pink colour had only been applied for an hour, in the dead of night almost a week ago, before she’d scrubbed her hands raw in the sink. She’d been so sure it was all gone.
She cracks the well-worn spine of the bible, ignoring the holy eyes she can feel burning into her forehead, tracing her finger down to the verse she’s recited so much she could do it in her sleep. Genesis 1:27, creation of male and female.
She spends half an hour reciting it, jotting it down over and over on a piece of scrap paper, jolting whenever her eyes meet Jesus’. When the clock ticks over the 5pm she folds the paper and sets both it and the bible on the desk, before turning her back on the cross and leaving the office.
Dinner goes much the same as breakfast, a table to herself and the echo of a lanky boy pushing his vegetables onto her plate. Her eyes stay fixed on the white plastic of the lunchtable, slowly chewing her way through one portion of broccoli, rather than two.
For 43 of 44 charges of Lady Anne’s the next hour of the daily routine is the unanimously voted least favourite. For Akiyama Mizuki, 6pm-7pm, the chore hour, is the only reprieve left in her life. While the other kids groan about dusting the library stacks or sweeping the common room, Mizuki stands from her table and winds around the crowds until she reaches the little side door, tucked away just past the kitchens. She slips out and makes her way down the narrow, stone path, sheltered by trees, until she reaches the groundskeeper’s hut.
The door to the hut is open, spilling out the warm light of an electric lantern. The space inside is tiny, only enough room for two people amid the gardening tools and the hefty, ancient lawnmower. An old box TV rests against one wall, balanced on a wooden stool, and the man in front of it covers his face as the hockey team on the screen whiffs another shot.
Mizuki buries her hands in the pockets of her sweater, shivering against the chill of mid-January. “Masuda-san!” She calls, grinning as the man swivels on his seat, his sports-betting woes forgotten. “You’re not slacking off, are you?”
The other kids at Lady Anne’s love to tell tales about Masuda. The groundskeeper is getting on in age, his dark hair shot through with silver and wrinkles starting to crease around his eyes and mouth. They love to say that he never speaks because his tongue was cut out. That he only took the job to hide from the law. That the scar on the back of his hand is from his time behind bars.
Mizuki knows better. Masuda only speaks if he feels something needs to be said. He took this job because he loves being outside and he needed the money to support his wife and their daughter. And the scar on his hand is from an unfortunate incident with a pair of garden shears.
Masuda has never been anything but kind to her. She remembers how he used to exaggeratedly look the opposite direction during Rui’s escape plans, only turning back to offer Mizuki a little wink from across the garden.
The groundskeeper grins, waving a hand at her as he shuts the TV off. Truthly, there’s not much groundskeeping to do this far into winter, but Mizuki had been assigned this chore years ago to ‘teach her the value of a man’s hard work’. Usually, this hard work includes planting springtime flowers, clearing leaves into big piles, and scattering bird feed.
“What’s the plan today, then?” She prompts, bending down to pick up the pink gardening gloves from one of the shelves in the hut. Her gloves had been green, thick and ugly and slightly too big, until she’d come out one day to the sight of brand new women’s style gloves and a Masuda that was all too proud of himself.
His grin falters as she slips the gloves on and all at once she remembers Prudence’s words.
“I will speak to Masuda about your punishment.”
Mizuki’s smile dims slightly, her shoulders tightening. There would be no preening evergreen bushes or squinting to spot the fresh blooms of spring well before their time. If Prudence instructed Masuda to handle her penance, that meant actual hard work.
She sighs, nodding in reluctant acceptance. “It’s okay. What are we doing?”
Masuda steps aside to reveal a stack of heavy stones, cut to equal sizes, one of his strong arms rising to point at a cordoned off area near the chapel. The stones for the new path, then.
Mizuki winces. As the 12-time loser of the Akiyama Vs Kamishiro biannual arm-wrestling championships, she’s not above admitting that her upper body strength is somewhat lacking.
For the next hour, she and Masuda carry the stones from the hut to the path, the groundskeeper very kindly not acknowledging that it takes her three times as long as him to carry a single stone. By the time the bell above the chapel rings, marking 7, she feels boneless with exhaustion, an uncomfortable ache settling in her arms.
Masuda pats her back sympathetically, accepting the gloves she deposits in his hand. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a wrapped candy bar and pressing it into her hands. “For later.” His voice is deep, slightly hoarse from underuse, and overwhelmingly warm. Mizuki flashes him an exhausted thumbs up, waving goodbye as she trudges back to the orphanage.
She falls into step with the other kids, too tired to care about the couple steps of distance they give her, as they file into the chapel. It’s no warmer than it was at morning prayer, each charge shivering slightly as they link their hands together in prayer and thank God for the day. Mizuki sits alone, predictably, her forehead resting on her joined hands as she prays for forgiveness.
She thinks of every moment of the day where she’d disrespected His creation. She had daydreamed extensively during her classes, her mind spinning wondrously over images of skirts and dresses in the softest of pastels, of fancy makeup and sweet perfumes and long, flowing hair. She had thought of her sister, the way she had sat Mizuki down all those years ago and made her swear to never stop being herself. She had thought of Rui, his determination to always address her properly even if it led to a beating. She had imagined a future where she could meet a few girls her own age, maybe even find a girl to love. She begs forgiveness for all of it.
The other kids file out at 7:30 sharp, free to enjoy the rest of the day before 9pm lights out, draping over each other and giggling amongst themselves as they disperse back into the common room and the dorms. Mizuki stays in the pew, hunched over, whispering under her breath, begging and praying and repenting, until Prudence softly instructs her to go to bed, in preparation to do it all again tomorrow.
-†-†-†-
Saturday 17th January 20XX
5 am brings prayer, confession, and repentance. 6 am brings the tap on the door and the call to wake. 7 am brings breakfast and a plastic table to herself.
8 am brings Mizuki knelt on her bedroom floor, her entire focus going into listening for the sound of footsteps beyond her door, as her cold fingers scrabble at the single creaking floorboard. It takes a few tense moments for her nails to catch on the underside of the board, prizing it up and freezing at the creak it emits. She pauses, lip caught between her teeth, waiting for the door to slam open, for her secrets to be exposed.
When no such action comes, she casts her eyes back down, shifting aside the floorboard to look into the tiny hole it hides. Yuuki had been the one to discover this, way back when she was still only a wall away, not an entire continent. She’d spent an hour bent over on the floor, working the board loose while Mizuki fretted over being caught.
At first, the space had been used for the two of them to store anything they didn’t want the other kids touching. Yuuki had hidden expensive lipglosses and eyeshadows in here, the ones she’d slip into her pockets when mall security guards weren’t looking. Mizuki used to hide her favourite pony figurines in here, sitting under the covers late at night to play with the toys Prudence would never usually let her near.
Now, the cubby holds a wealth of Mizuki’s most treasured secrets. A handful of polaroids of Rui, his hand raised in a cheerful wave, and of herself, shoulders hunched over as she shyly matched him. A growing stack of Yuuki’s letters, especially the ones from before Prudence had started tearing open the envelopes herself, ripping up any that contained any reference to Mizuki as a sister. The stolen cherry lipgloss, the stolen nail polish, a couple other broken commandments in the form of misplaced makeup. And there, right on top, a pink ribbon, soft silk laid reverently upon the hoard.
She pauses again, listening closely as a herd of preteens race past her door, giggling amongst themselves. Her hands tremble as she takes the lipgloss, ghosting the brush over her lips. She’ll have to wipe it off before dinner, lest she leave a sticky stain on the rim of a glass again. She slides the tube back into place amongst the stash.
The ribbon is lifted free, next, slipping secretively into the pocket of her jeans. She holds her breath until the floorboard is back in place, her sins concealed again, all apart from a layer of shiny gloss on her lips and a silky pink in her pocket.
She’s wearing the most feminine outfit she could get away with, light jeans and boots with a tiny heel, and a pastel yellow sweater. It’s not enough. She longs to feel the flowing whisper of chiffon against her legs, the sort of dress she’s stared at in shop windows since the first Saturday her and Yuuki had been allowed out. Her hand pats against her pocket, feeling the smallest outline of the ribbon. It’ll have to do.
By 9, she’s lined up near the heavy wooden door of the main entrance, waiting for Sister Charity to finish marking off the charges that are leaving on her list. For the other kids, free days are a hard won reward for a long week of worship and classes, a full 11 hours of time spent outside with friends and a pocket of measly bus fare allowance. For Mizuki, free days are a chance to be herself. A chance to sin.
Let it never be said that Prudence is an idiot, though. For the other kids, free days come without stress, simply prayer in the morning and confession in the evening. For Mizuki, free days come with an extra task. An opportunity to prove to herself and the Lord that she is willing to repent.
Prudence had assigned the task when she was 14, her hair getting shaggy around her ears, her clothes hanging off her frame enough to obscure details, when an older kid had heard the bus driver call her ‘miss’ and reported her responding beam back to the matron.
Anytime a stranger ‘mistakes’ her for a girl, she must correct them.
While the other charges loudly discuss which toy shops they’ll visit, which cafes they’ll spend their weeks of saved allowance in, which parks they’ll loiter within the gates of, Mizuki thinks of her inevitable future, 11 hours from now, where she’ll sit across from Prudence and report any and all corrections to her. It hangs over her like a cloud, an unshakeable dread that ruins any semblance of a good day.
Charity releases them after a grueling triple check of her list, a flood of orphans descending the stone steps of the old church into the yard. The wrought iron gate is wide open, a single figure stood next to it. Prudence watches them all leave, her stern eyes the last thing they’ll see before they’re released into the world for the day, a lasting threat to remind them to behave.
Mizuki avoids meeting her eye, dodging behind a gaggle of 11 year olds as she slips through the gate. Most of the horde flow towards the bus stop, clutching their allowances in their fists. The older and wiser skip the bus stop, having learned long ago that it’s better to save your bus fare for a few weeks and get something decent. Mizuki avoids the bus because if the driver calls her ‘miss’ again, she won’t have the strength to correct him.
Her routine on Saturdays is as set in stone as the rest of her week. She walks, eyes fixed on the pavement, one foot in front of the other, until she’s several blocks away from Lady Anne’s, closer to the centre of the city. Then, she ducks into an alleyway, casting furtive glances behind her back until she can safely hide herself behind a dumpster.
She breathes, guilt clawing at her throat, choking her up, as she reaches into the pocket of her jeans and tugs out the ribbon. Experienced hands reach up, as if she’s not even in control, gathering her hair off of her shoulders and twisting it to the side. She ties the ribbon deftly around the ponytail, her chest feeling lighter even as a sickly feeling twists in her stomach.
The first few times she’d done she’d made Rui stand across from her and fix her ponytail afterwards. But then it became too much, feeling his eyes on her, the pity on his face when she’d shakily inform the cashier that she wasn’t a girl, and she’d asked for them to spend free days apart. She’s sure he was hurt, at first, but their separation had led to him meeting his troupe only a few months later. She learned how to tie her ponytail by herself after that.
Leaving the alley is always the worst part, feeling like every set of eyes on the street is directed at her, as though they can see through the pink ribbon to the truth she’s hiding. She keeps her eyes down, speed-walking away from the scene of the crime.
Now, most kids at Lady Anne’s are unlucky enough to only receive a few hundred yen a week in allowance money, entirely to cover bus fare and maybe lunch if they’re frugal. This may be the only aspect of life where Mizuki is luckier than the average Lady Anne’s charge.
Because no other kid at Lady Anne’s has an older sister living in France, working at her own boutique and sending a not insignificant sum of money to her favourite little sister every week.
Mizuki has been excited for this free day since her last one, an alien feeling of anticipation almost breaking the hold the dread has on her poor heart. As she weaves amongst the early morning shoppers lining the high street, blending into the crowd as much as she can, ever wary of a fellow Lady Anne’s kid spotting her, that excitement crests.
She turns a corner, finally stopping before the storefront that had been in development up until today.
It’s a little small for a shop in the heart of Tokyo, the sign above the door spelling out ‘Dear Ribbon’ in elegant font, lit up by a series of white bulbs. A small line had clearly formed before 9, waiting for its grand opening, but the shoppers are being steadily let in now. Mizuki joins the back of the queue, her stomach in knots but her heart feeling lighter than it ever has.
And she thinks the guilt may be worth it.
Everything in the store is perfect, the exact sort of fashion she closes her eyes and sees herself in, all ruffles and bows and pastel colours, classic lolita. She gazes longingly at the dresses and skirts and blouses, trails her hands over soft purses, fawning over one in the shape of a teddy bear. She promises herself that one day, 8 months from now when she’s free of Lady Anne’s and Prudence and guilt, that she’ll come back and buy one of these dresses. And then she nearly doubles over from the force of the nausea that overcomes her, pressing a shaky hand over her mouth until she feels she can move without bursting into tears.
Is she that desperate to abandon her repentance? That willing to cast her life away in favour of sin? She imagines Prudence, that stern disappointment on her weathered face, the command of 5 Hail Marys or 10 strikes to the palm or 100 lines on an ancient chalkboard.
She swallows the shame and the guilt and the dread, tearing her eyes away from the dresses and to the accessories. These feel safer, still pretty and pink and sinful, but small enough to hide. If they’re beneath her floorboard then she can pretend she never sinned at all.
Her fingers ghost over a selection of brooches, pausing on a pretty blue butterfly, its wings spread in flight, tiny faux-diamonds outlining its body. She can already see it nestled on the lapel of a flowing winter coat or pinned to the collar of a blouse. It can settle, instead, for the hoard below her floor, its wings clipped alongside hers.
She lifts it from the rack, cradling it gently in her hands, more reverent than she has ever been with a cross, even the one sitting against her throat, its chain looped around her neck like a hangman’s noose. She can almost hear Yuuki, her voice an echo in her ears, crafting an outfit around this little centrepiece. She can hear Rui too, spinning a story about a little blue butterfly.
Their ghosts follow her to the counter, only dispersing when she reaches into her pocket for her purse. It had been Yuuki’s, soft white satin embroidered with the petals of a sunflower, and so far safe from Prudence’s destructive rampage of anything even remotely effeminate in Mizuki’s closet.
“I like your ribbon.” Someone says, and Mizuki freezes, a deer in headlights, looking up from the notes she’s counting out of the purse. The cashier is a girl her age, a kind smile on her face, her expression only faltering a little when Mizuki completely fails to respond.
She starts, handing over the money for the butterfly. “Thank you.” She stammers, her voice a little too quiet. She remembers to be normal a heartbeat later, gesturing to the gold studs in the cashier’s ear lobes. “I like your earrings.”
The girl beams, placing the notes in the register with a practiced hand. “Thank you!” She counts a few coins, handing them back. “Enjoy the rest of your day, miss.”
The coins clink into Mizuki’s palm with a sound that echoes deep into the base of her skull.
She’s frozen, staring at the cashier, watching her smile drop after a few moments.
Correct her.
She can’t move, can’t speak, can only watch as the seconds drag on. Her fingers twitch, clamping over the coins.
Speak up.
She bows her head, breaking eye contact, moving on legs like jelly until the next customer can pay.
Repent.
Mizuki turns on her heel and runs.
-†-†-†-
Rui may have been the undisputed winner of their arm-wrestling championships, but Mizuki had never lost a footrace to him in the 6 years they were both residents at Lady Anne’s. She runs from the store, weaving around shocked commuters, not stopping until she skids into an alleyway and collapses against a wall, head in her hands, squatting until she can block out any light.
She’s hyperventilating, guilt clawing at her throat. She’d lied. She is a liar. That’s all she seems to do. She lies to herself, she lies to the world, and she tries to lie to God. And she’s going to burn because of it.
It’s the one thing her and Rui had never been able to agree on. He was unafraid to act out, constantly asking her if Prudence’s punishments were really that bad. She’d never been able to explain to him that those punishments were a dream compared to what she had coming in the next life.
It’s what will force her hand at confession tonight. She’ll get back, slide into that darkened closet of a confession booth, and tell Prudence everything. She’ll conceal some things, like the ribbon and the butterfly, tiny lies she can lock away and tell herself mean nothing. But when Prudence asks if she corrected the cashier, she won’t be able to lie.
She’s already so damned.
“I don’t think this is the right way.”
Mizuki freezes, her head rising slightly. She fights to control her breathing, the voice doing a remarkable job of shocking her out of her spiral. Are there people here? In this alleyway? Why?
“Thank you, Mafuyu, that was really helpful.” A second voice responds, significantly angrier, its pitch rising in frustration. Are people arguing?
The first voice chimes again. “You’re welcome.”
There’s a pause and then the distinct sound of a foot stomping on the ground. “Obviously I was being sarcastic!”
Mizuki would have laughed at that if she wasn’t actively freaking out. Whoever is in the alley is getting closer to her little hiding spot.
“Oh. I didn’t know.” The voice (Mafuyu?) is flat, almost emotionless, its speaker not even reacting to their companion’s growing anger.
Before the second speaker can blow up again, a third voice speaks, quieter, a little fond. “Ena, calm down.”
There’s a huff, but when Ena speaks again, she’s noticeably calmer. “I’m sure it’s this way. It has to be.”
Mizuki presses herself back against the brick wall behind her as the voices get even closer. Maybe if she stays small enough they’ll walk right past her without even seeing her and then she’ll be free to spend the rest of her Saturday wandering aimlessly and trying not to think about how she’s going to burn in Hell.
“There’s someone here.”
Ah.
Well.
There’s 3 girls standing across from her in the alley, each of them looking varying levels of surprised to see a stranger curled in a ball next to an old flea-bitten couch, eyes shining with unshed tears. The first speaker (Mafuyu?) is nearly as tall as her, with violet hair tied in a high ponytail, one hand looped around a leather handbag as she observes Mizuki with undisguised curiosity. The second (Ena?) has her mouth slightly agape, pretty brown eyes wide beneath a fringe of brown hair. The third (unknown variable) looks the most concerned, her fingers twisting together in front of her, hair almost down to her waist.
Silence. Maybe Mizuki can book it away from these 3 as well, so long as her knees don’t lock when she tries to stand.
“Are you okay?” It takes a second but Mafuyu’s face morphs, shifting from that curious but slightly disinterested look to a smile so bright it’s almost blinding. The shift in attitude only confuses Mizuki more.
“Um.” She’s struck with worry. Is her voice too deep? Does she look too manly? Is she going to burn just for worrying about that?
“Idiot.” Ena spits, crossing her arms, her shock forgotten. “She already heard you being all weird and emotionless. What’s the point in the act?”
Mafuyu’s smile drops, her face going back to neutral, a small ‘oh’ leaving her lips, but Mizuki doesn’t see a second of it, her eyes fixed on Ena.
She.
She should speak up, correct her, repent, run. But she doesn’t even get the chance.
The third girl approaches, hands up like she’s talking to a wounded deer. “Hey, are you alright?” Her voice is soft. Warm. Mizuki could melt from it.
“Um.” She repeats, her tongue heavy in her mouth. “Yeah.”
Nice, very eloquent.
Breathe, Mizuki, compartmentalize, forget about the eternal damnation awaiting you and power through this social interaction.
So she stands, spooking the long-haired girl into taking a step back, an easy smile settling on her face. “Yes! I’m okay. Sorry.”
The trio keeps staring at her, not quite convinced. She swings the Dear Ribbon bag against her thigh awkwardly.
Ena’s eyes flick down to track the movement before they widen comically. “Wait! That bag!” She surges forward, right into Mizuki’s personal space. “You know where the new Dear Ribbon store is?”
Feeling suspiciously like she’s being interrogated, Mizuki nods. “Yeah, it’s…” She looks vaguely in the direction she ran from. “Over there?”
Mafuyu glances in the direction she points. “So, I was right. We were going the wrong way.”
“Don’t be so smug!”
“I wasn’t being smug.”
“Yes, you were!”
The third girl meets Mizuki’s eye, looking tortured. “Guys, don’t fight, please.”
Ena stiffens, as though she’s only just remembered there’s a fourth person in the alley. “Oh, right, sorry.” She turns, smiling pleasantly at Mizuki, as if she hadn’t been not-so-subtly raising a fist during her spat with Mafuyu. “I don’t mean to bother you, but would you show us where the store is? We’re a little lost.”
Mizuki stares. What does she even do in this situation? It would be rude to say no, but if she says yes then she continues her lie.
Mafuyu speaks up in her hesitation. “Ena slept in and missed the train.”
“How is that relevant?!”
Mizuki can’t help it. She giggles, hiding the noise in her hand. The third girl in their trio shoots her a little smile.
“Alright, alright.” Mizuki holds up her hands, placating. “Stop fighting, I’ll show you.”
Ena lights up, her anger forgotten yet again. “Thank you!” The three of them fall into step with Mizuki, following her out of the alley and back through the streets she’d hared through only a few minutes ago. “Oh, wait, what’s your name?” Ena speaks up again.
Mizuki hesitates. Her name.
At the orphanage, she’s Akiyama. The freak. The boy who wants to wear skirts and dresses and grow his hair out. The sinner.
To Prudence, when she feels especially cruel, when she wants to cut even deeper, she’s a different name. A name that sits like a brand on her birth certificate. A name that she can’t stomach even thinking about.
To Rui, to Yuuki, to herself, she is Mizuki. She’d chosen the name herself, scrawled it in flowing handwriting over several pages of her notebook until it felt natural, like a different name had never existed. To Rui, to Yuuki, to herself, she is lying.
What’s one (or three) more?
“Akiyama Mizuki.” She says softly. She clears her throat, forcing a laugh. “Mizuki. You can call me Mizuki.”
The words warm her heart and make her stomach drop, her insides splitting themselves in half to make her feel as bad as possible.
The trio following her don’t seem to notice.
“Nice to meet you, Mizuki.” Ena smiles at her. It’s hard to believe this is the girl who had been about to physically fight Mafuyu back in the alley. “I’m Shinonome Ena.”
Mafuyu raises a hand in greeting. “Asahina Mafuyu.”
The third girl offers a kind smile, the sleeves of her hoodie pulled slightly over her palms. “Yoisaki Kanade.”
The walk back to Dear Ribbon is soundtracked by back and forth questions that Mizuki tries her best to be as truthful as possible when answering. It’s a monumentally bad idea to immediately expose to potential new friends that you’re living in a stifling, old-fashioned, devout Catholic orphanage housed in a creepy church.
So she tells them that she’s 17, that she attends Kamiyama High via online classes, and that she lives ‘in that direction’. Luckily, they don’t seem to want to ask about her home life all that much.
In return, she learns just as much about them. They’re all 18 and they’ve known each other for a few years, starting out as online friends. Ena is attending an arts college and she flushes when Kanade describes her latest work as ‘incredible’. Mafuyu is a nursing student, on her first week back after winter break. Kanade isn’t attending university, instead working freelance by composing music for various video games and commercials. Mizuki is suitably impressed by all of them.
She sighs with relief when the four of them round a corner and Dear Ribbon’s pretty neon sign comes into view, ignoring the tug at her heart when she thinks about leaving the group.
“Well, here it is!” She does a weird little flourish with her hands, suppressing a wince. She hangs back, surprised when the other three don’t move towards the store. “It was nice meeting you.”
The trio exchange glances. Mizuki’s stomach twists.
After a second, Ena looks back to her and smiles again. “Hey, no reason we have to split up just yet, right?” She gestures backwards to the store. “Why don’t you come in with us? I know you already looked around but…” She leans forward to whisper conspirationally, just loud enough for the other two to hear. “Between you and me, those two don’t know the first thing about fashion and I could use someone with a little bit of sense.”
It’s spoken teasingly, but neither Kanade or Mafuyu react much aside from a tiny sheepish look from the former.
Mizuki should say no. More than that, Mizuki should run. She should politely decline and head back early to the church. Maybe pray the entire rosary, just really get on the Lord’s good side. She should go back and bury the butterfly brooch in the garden and burn her ribbon and commit to repenting and-
“Okay.”
-†-†-†-
They spend an hour in the store.
Ena is the perfect model, nodding sagely whenever Mizuki holds up a dress that would suit her and delightedly handing over any cute accessory that she thinks would go well with Mizuki’s hair. Kanade and Mafuyu trail behind them, only speaking to vehemently deny any interest in joining them. At one point, Ena wrangles Kanade for long enough to force her to try on a pretty silver hairpin, and the shorter spends the rest of the shopping trip looking like a kicked puppy at their fourth companion who had made zero effort to save her.
Mizuki manages to keep her eyes firmly away from the dresses of her dreams, bravely showing little to no interest in the little teddy bear bag, though she is talked into buying a second ribbon, this one decorated with tiny white polka dots.
When they finally step outside, Ena’s arms weighed down by two bags absolutely full of clothes that Mizuki would kill for, the sun is high in the sky, just past noon. She’s trying to think up an excuse, a reason to slip away, even if the thought of leaving sickens her, when Kanade’s stomach growls almost comedically loud.
From there, it’s onto a cute cafe, the four of them squeezing around a table only really built for two. When someone comes over to take their orders, Mizuki orders a drink with enough caramel in it to kill a small child and a slice of strawberry shortcake. The guy who brings over the food leaves them with a ‘you ladies enjoy’ that she doesn’t even think to panic over.
-†-†-†-
The rest of the day goes much the same. They leave a location and while Mizuki desperately scrambles for an excuse to slip away, the other three decide on a new thing to do. They drag her through a record store, where Kanade spends twenty minutes laying reverent hands over secondhand vinyls, and through a bookstore where Mafuyu purchases a small book about deep sea flora with a tiny smile on her face.
The conversation flows like she’s known them her whole life. She falls into an easy rhythm, testing the waters of teasing Ena and delighting in the flush it brings to the girl’s cheeks when she does. She asks about how they met, giggles at stories from their awkward years, skillfully avoids mentioning her own life aside from vague anecdotes.
They end up in a small, walled park, the sun already setting on the midwinter afternoon. Ena’s bags have somehow migrated to Mafuyu, who doesn’t seem at all shocked or bothered by the development. Mizuki has long abandoned any hope of slipping away from them. She ignores the small voice in the back of her mind that berates her for lying, that paints pictures of her eternal damnation, focusing instead on the warmth of Kanade’s smile, the steady sound of Mafuyu’s voice, the little flush on Ena’s cheeks at the slightest of teases.
Was this how Rui felt when he met his troupe?
She doesn’t want today to end.
The four of them fold themselves onto a single bench, so close their thighs touch, talking quietly as people pass them by.
“Mizuki.” Kanade murmurs, after a small lull in the conversation.
“Yeah?” She tilts her head, prompting her companion to continue.
“Are you on Nightcord?”
Mizuki stiffens slightly, her heart leaping into her throat. Oh, yeah. Social media. The average way people her age communicate. Except she doesn’t have a phone or access to the internet or any way to communicate that isn’t through letters and the single monthly phone call she gets to Yuuki.
“Uh. No.” She settles on, fiddling with her thumbs. There’s silence, no doubt the others waiting for an explanation of why she can’t just go install it.
Way to blow it, Mizuki. Just come clean. Tell them the truth. Tell them everything.
She hesitates for long enough that Kanade just shoots her a little smile.
“Okay, well…” She clears her throat, sounding a little unsure. “How about the four of us meet again next Saturday? Outside that shop?”
Does Kanade know? Does she have some sort of divine sense that allows her to see which teenagers are living in incredibly sheltered environments with only one day of free time a week?
“Today was a lot of fun.” Ena adds, her cheeks dusting pink. If Mizuki’s heart wasn’t trying to beat its way out of her ribcage to dance along the street, she may have teased her about it.
“Ena will miss you.” Mafuyu really does receive a fist to the shoulder for that one, though if it hurts she shows no indication, simply raising her free hand to catch Ena’s wrist and prevent any more attacks.
Mizuki stifles a laugh, hoping they can’t hear how choked up she is. If they do notice, they don’t say anything. “Alright.” She agrees. “Outside Dear Ribbon at 10? If Ena can get up in time.”
She descends into actual laughter this time, thankful for Mafuyu’s grip on Ena’s wrist as the artist tries valiantly to beat the shit out of both of them at the same time.
They stay on that bench for another hour, until the sun dips fully behind the buildings and Kanade begins to shiver beneath her thick winter jacket.
“Do you want us to walk you home, Mizuki?” Mafuyu asks, pulling a long woolen scarf from her bag and draping it around Kanade’s neck.
Mizuki shakes her head. “No, no, I’m fine!” She says, a little too quickly, gesturing near frantically. “Um, it’s a little… out of the way.” That’s an understatement. “It’s too far for you to walk there then all the way back to the station.”
Mafuyu looks unconvinced but doesn’t press the issue, slipping heavy mittens onto Kanade’s hands. Mizuki rocks back and forth on her heels, a little nervous.
“Um. I had fun today.” She offers quietly, smiling at the trio. “See you next week?”
Her new companions nod in agreement. Ena smiles warmly at her. “Get home safe, Mizuki.”
Kanade speaks as well, voice muffled under the scarf, her eyes bright beneath the knit hat Mafuyu shoves onto her head. “Goodnight.”
The three raise their hands to wave her goodbye, a gesture she gladly returns, before she turns on her heel and leaves the park, hands shoved in her pockets.
There’s a warmth in her chest she hasn’t felt in years, not since the last time she’d seen Rui. Her cheeks ache from smiling, her steps light and airy, her brain already sorting through a dozen scenarios of what next Saturday will bring. Had this been the feeling that had possessed Rui to sneak out each week? This feeling of companionship? Friendship? Hope?
She’s only two blocks from the orphanage when she remembers the ribbon in her hair.
She whips her head around, terrified that she’ll see a gaggle of Lady Anne’s kids across the street, already pointing and laughing at the freak. She ducks between two buildings before that particular nightmare can come true, standing in an alleyway for the third time that day. She rips the ribbon from her hair, letting the locks fall back over her shoulders. She divests the butterfly and the polka dot ribbon of their bag, stuffing it in the top of a nearby bin while she hides her trinkets in the pockets of her jeans. She wipes her lips on the back of her hand, scrubbing off cherry lipgloss until her lips feel cracked and dry.
She shrugs off the lies, the guilt, the sin. She hadn’t corrected a single person that day. She’d let an entire trio of girls believe her lies without making any effort to stop them. She’d damned herself for good this time. Because despite the shame that eats at her, the knowledge that her actions today were against the Lord, she can’t bring herself to regret it.
So, for the first time, Akiyama Mizuki goes home, steps into confession, and lies.
There’s a small crowd of Lady Anne’s kids outside the convenience store across the street from the church, enjoying the precious minutes before curfew over sugary drinks and shared bags of sweets. Loud conversations hush as she walks by, ignoring the store in favour of climbing the stone steps of the orphanage a whole 37 minutes early.
Sister Charity raises a stern eyebrow at her, from where she stands in the entrance, the pencil in her hand moving to cross out Mizuki’s name on her little list.
“Akiyama. You’re back early.” She drawls, casting her eyes over the little gold watch on her wrist. She crosses her arms over the front of her habit, sharp fingers tracing over her rosary. “Good day?”
A naive charge spills every detail of their day to Charity, the youngest, most trustworthy, believing that the nun who paints her nails black and occasionally interrupts morning prayer to curse at a mistake is safe. Reliable.
Mizuki knows better. Charity is a snitch. And she takes particular delight in snitching on Mizuki.
Mizuki had been worse at discarding bags and hiding cute trinkets when she was younger. 11 year old Mizuki had proudly shown off a little pink cat plushie, its whiskers crooked and its eyes big and blue, declaring its name as ‘Yuuki’ in honour of a sister who’d been free of the orphanage for a year by then, though the gaping hole in Mizuki’s heart never quite went away. Charity had cooed, ruffled slightly overgrown pink hair, and then marched straight to Prudence.
She’d had one night with kitty-Yuuki, the little toy clutched in her arms beneath a thin bedsheet, before Prudence had torn it from her arms and scolded her for playing with ‘girl things’. Kitty-Yuuki had gone to the nursery room, into the grubby mitts of a toddler who’d been adopted the next month, the plushie going with her. She had mourned kitty-Yuuki in silence, crying into her pillow for a week, well-learned by then on the consequences of such unmanly emotions.
She knows, then, that even the slightest twitch in her demeanour will be reported, that Charity will wield any perceived mistruth like a hammer, forged specifically to crush her and her already fragile spirit.
“Yes, Sister.” She inclines her head in a nod, linking her hands together, practised politeness. “Although it is cold.”
This is the best strategy with Charity. Outright lies are dangerous in general, but this nun has a talent for sniffing them out. And truths are out of the question. So, any charge worth their salt in Lady Anne’s knows to avoid. To answer in half-truths. To stay vague and then move on.
Charity hums, her brow settling into a scowl. “Talk to anyone?”
Mizuki nods. “Yes, Sister. Some people asked me for directions.” She’s sure she must be sweating at this point, balancing the line of withholding information and giving too much away. Charity opens her mouth again, surely to ask about those ‘people’, but the Lord must not completely hate Mizuki, as the door slams open behind her and a gaggle of kids swarm into the entryway.
She slips away, as Charity is overwhelmed at the sudden wave of preteens excitedly chattering amongst themselves.
From the entryway, it’s a short, stealthy walk through the corridor splitting the kitchens, dining room, and common room from the chapel itself to the creaking old staircase that leads to the second floor and the dorms. She keeps her head down, dodging kids enjoying the last dregs of their free time, and the occasional nun, ignoring their suspicious glares. The second floor holds the bedrooms, rows of wooden doors, each room housing 2-4 kids. Except for one.
She books it to the very last door on the right, slipping into the confines of her single room with a muffled sigh of relief. She wastes no time, prying up the loose floorboard and stashing her treasures beneath it. The little butterfly brooch stares up at her, trapped beneath the floor.
She stares at it, guilty. Who is she to clip its wings? To secure it in such a place? To decide that her own imprisonment should result in its own?
She runs a reverent finger along its jewelled body, an apology.
Had she not wanted to do this with Rui? With Yuuki? Did she not want to now, with Ena, Kanade, Mafuyu? To keep them here with her forever?
There’s a creak outside her door, the soft swish of worn sandals sweeping across the floor. Mizuki starts, jamming the board back into place and scrambling up from it, her hands trembling with the guilt of it all. There’s a sharp tap on her door before it opens, Prudence’s familiar form blocking the light from the hall.
“Akiyama. Confession.” She steps aside, making room.
Mizuki nods, not trusting her voice, stepping past the nun and winding the same route down to the chapel as she does every Saturday.
She knows, really, that her confession comes first because of ‘Akiyama’s high position in the alphabetic order. She suspects, deep down, that it’s some form of divine punishment.
The chapel itself is a different place this late on a Saturday. Evening prayer sees the candles lit, almost 50 children filing into the room. But today, with everyone else picking their way through dinner, patiently waiting their turn to be called into confession, the large, echoing room is eerie, pitch black at the edges, and cold in a way that Mizuki feels in her bones.
The confession booth is in the back corner, behind rows and rows of pews, a dark wooden structure with twin entrances, both covered by a deep red curtain. Mizuki reaches up a shaking hand to pull back the left curtain, sliding into the booth. The walls seem to cave in on her as she kneels, hands linked on the little wooden shelf before her. She can hear Prudence shuffling into place as well.
Tomorrow, Sunday, this booth will house two completely different participants. On her side, there’ll be an innocuous parishioner, confessing to jealousy, or a wandering eye, or sticky fingers, or an oppressing sense of misery. On the other, the priest will sit and hear it all before doling out his sentencing.
In lieu of the priest, though, Sister Prudence, head matron, is the highest representative of divine authority that the orphanage holds.
“Begin.” Her voice echoes, barely above a whisper but it feels so loud that Mizuki flinches.
“Right. Uh.” She clears her throat, stammers a couple times, digs her nails into the palms of her hands. “F-Forgive me, I have sinned.” She stares through the dim light of the confession booth at her nails, scratched clean of polish. “I painted my nails. I, um, crossdressed.” She winces, as she always does, at this part of the confession.
Rui had lied weekly in confession. He’d begged Mizuki to do the same, to say exactly what they wanted to hear, to make it easy. Don’t admit to anything, make them think you’re conforming.
But lying is a sin.
Mizuki’s tongue feels heavy, her words trapped in her throat. She imagines a thousand eyes on her, Father, Son, Holy Spirit, each watching her as she curls into herself in that booth. They would know.
She should swallow her lies, tell Prudence that she hadn’t corrected a single soul today, and admit to misleading a trio of innocent girls into believing she’s something she’s not. She should beg for forgiveness, promise to pray the rosary countless times, anything to atone for her growing, pulsing, breathing, living mess of sin.
The eyes burn her, catching every shake in her shoulders, the nervous bob of her throat.
Forgive me. Please, God, forgive me.
“But.” She chokes out, screwing her eyes shut. Her heart races, face pallid, a cold sweat starting on her neck. “Three girls talked to me. Today.” She grinds the words out, fighting a losing battle to prevent her damnation.
I am a worthless sinner.
“They called me she.” Mizuki can feel her breath coming too quickly, near silent pants against her joined hands. She scrubs desperately at her forehead. “I c-corrected them. I told them I’m-” She chokes, briefly, disguising the gag as a cough. Bile climbs up her throat.
I am going to burn in Hell.
“I told them I’m a boy.” She lies. God, it’s all lies. Who is she lying to, exactly? Herself? Prudence? The Lord?
Filthy.
She powers through another lie, then another, twisting the day’s events into the perfect scenario, one in which she followed her instructions, corrected everyone who ‘mistook’ her, followed the Lord without hesitation.
A day in which she is His perfect child, and not a worthless, damned, filthy, lying sinner.
There’s tears in her eyes when she finishes, her mouth tasting like ash, as though each lie had burned on her tongue, a prelude of what awaits her.
Prudence is silent for several seconds. “One Hail Mary.” She utters at last, her voice lacking its usual stern edge. Mizuki’s stomach churns. “For the nail polish.”
“Thank you, Sister.” Mizuki murmurs, slipping from the confessional on weak legs. Her knees shake, like the act of holding her weight has become impossible over the last 10 minutes.
“Akiyama.”
She swivels, eyes wide as Prudence steps from the booth as well. The nun looks her over, her eyes holding something unfamiliar.
Mizuki’s spine straightens, blinking back her tears, though for once Prudence doesn’t seem keen on scolding her. “Yes, Sister?”
She bites back a gasp as Prudence steps forward, sweeping her into a hug. She stiffens, frozen, enveloped in the smell of old wax candles and incense lingering on the nun’s black habit, feeling the cold silver of the Christ figure on her rosary pressing against her sternum. With a noise like a choked whimper, she leans into the embrace, the fleeting warmth.
When was the last time she’d been hugged?
The nuns at Lady Anne’s were stern, sure, but they weren’t heartless. But none of them had hugged Mizuki since she’d first declared, all those years ago, that she was absolutely not a boy. Yuuki had hugged her the day before she’d left, almost 8 years ago now, bundling her up in familiar arms and promising to be back. Rui had surely hugged her at some point, but the two of them had been caught ‘too close’ to each other too many times, the constant scrutiny preventing much in the way of physical affection.
It’s a few seconds at most before Prudence leans back, the glimmer in her eyes becoming recognisable as pride. Mizuki feels sick.
“I had almost lost hope for you, Akiyama.” She speaks, voice warm in a way Mizuki has never heard before. She smiles, sheepish, fearing that if she opens her mouth to reply all that will come out is a choked sob and maybe whatever she had for lunch. Prudence pats her shoulder, urging her away from the booth. “Go, enjoy the rest of your night. Early start tomorrow.”
5 am. Whispered prayer. Atonement before anyone else wakes. Will the nauseous feeling in her gut be gone by then?
She slips from the chapel, the warmth of the nun’s hug still clinging to her skin.
She’d doomed herself, she knows that. She’d lied in confession, for the express purpose of continuing her life of sin. But, in doing so, she’d guaranteed herself a chance to see Ena, Kanade, and Mafuyu again. She’s damned, in this life and the next, but this Saturday she will be allowed to leave and she will wait by Dear Ribbon for 10 am to arrive and then she will spend the entire day with the girls that had made her heart feel so free. She’ll get to trade cute hairclips with Ena, thumb her way through old records with Kanade, quiz Mafuyu on that ocean plants book. She’ll get to walk alongside them, enjoying the easy banter, the arguments that are swiftly diffused and forgotten about. She’ll get to live rather than just survive.
Mizuki goes to bed with her stomach in knots and her heart feeling lighter than ever.