Car crash
A Father and his Son.
They just went from watching a race, Vivi had fun. He has to wear baggy pants and a horse-ears shaped beanie to hide his Uma traits. Can't go public without wearing these.
Well now they're driving home, Dad driving. Still talking about that race.
Too bad…. That happened…
20 seconds later they're upside down. Vivi was awake the whole time. It was all a blur.
His dad isn't responding, he's not moving…
Vivi tried to call him out, but for some reason he couldn't… it hurts…
Breathing feels like torture…
Dad still not moving….
_________
Fortunately there were a lot of people nearby. The ambulance came in time. They found the Boy, some sharps of glass stuck on his throat. They treat him quickly.
Unfortunately, the father is dead.
Hospital
POV: Nat (Natalie)
She's read the file three times.
Still doesn't feel ready.
> "Male Uma Musume. Minor. Victim of motor accident. Father deceased on scene.
Severe lacerations across chest and throat. Mute, nonverbal due to injury.
Special classification: do not draw public attention. Do not engage media."
Nat knocks softly. No response.
She lets herself in.
The room's quiet, but not peaceful. Not like the other kids recovering.
This silence buzzes. Like the world is holding its breath.
There he is.
Lying stiff in bed. Awake. Eyes open. Watching the ceiling like it's gonna tell him something.
White hair. Bandaged neck.
The beanie with fake horse ears lies folded on the bedside table.
No need for disguises here.
He turns his head slightly. See her.
No fear. No curiosity.
Just… awareness. Clinical. Like he's measuring her.
Nat's seen kids like this before. War zone patients. Displaced orphans.
Not looking for comfort—just calculating if she's going to be a problem.
She checks the machines. Monitors. Scribbles some numbers.
"I'm Natalie. You can call me Nat," she says gently.
No reaction. Just that stare.
She looks at his throat. The bandage's been changed recently. A bit of red is still bleeding through.
His breathing is stable. His silence is not.
She steps closer. Pulls a chair over beside the bed, turns it around, and sits on it backwards. Resting her arms on the backrest.
"I'm not here to ask how you feel," she says.
"You don't owe me answers. Or eye contact. Or even tolerance."
Still nothing.
She takes a notepad from her coat pocket and places it on the tray in front of him.
A pen follows.
"But if you need something—anything—this is how you tell me."
He looks at the pen. Then at her.
Then back to the ceiling.
Doesn't pick it up. Doesn't move.
...So that's how it's gonna be.
She stands up, brushing her coat off.
"I'll be back tomorrow."
______
The boy just stared. Lost.
______
Day 4.
She didn't expect anything to change overnight.
Not with trauma this deep.
Not with that kind of silence.
But she brings a different notepad this time.
The cover has a stupid little frog on it. Big smile, cartoon bubbles.
"Just in case he's the kind of kid who hates frogs," she mutters to herself.
She knocks. Still no answer. Enters.
Same position. Same bed. Same kid.
Still staring through the ceiling like he's decoding the afterlife.
But—
The pen is on the pillow now.
Right next to his head.
She doesn't say anything.
Just walks in, checks his vitals, same as yesterday.
Everything's normal. Heart rate. Breathing. Silent as a tomb, but stable.
She puts the new notebook down on the tray again. This time, flips it open.
First page is blank.
Second page? She already wrote on it.
"I don't care if you're mad. Or scared.
I don't care if you hate me.
I care if you eat. And heal. And don't die.
If you need to tell me something… write it here."
She waits. Thirty seconds.
Nothing.
She shrugs.
"You're the quiet type. That's fine. I'm the stubborn type."
She turns to leave again.
______
". . ."
______
Day 9.
She opens the door like always. No knocking anymore. He never answered anyway.
Same white walls. Same pale-faced boy in the bed.
But the frog notebook?
It's not on the tray.
She pauses.
Looks around.
There—tucked under his pillow. Hidden.
Huh.
Progress? Regression? Hard to say.
She pulls her chair up and sits.
"Morning," she says. Even if he doesn't respond. "I brought gum. You can't have any, but I'll chew it and make you jealous."
She pops a piece into her mouth.
Silence.
Chew.
Chew.
More silence.
Then, without looking at him, she opens her own notebook.
Starts writing. Dumb stuff. Grocery lists. Quotes. Doodles.
She always lets him see it if he wants.
Half an hour passes.
She stands up, stretching.
"Well," she sighs, "Guess I'll go now and let you get back to your scheduled sulking."
As she turns to leave— she glances back out of curiosity.
He stares at her.
_______
Day 10.
She pushes the door open with her usual greeting:
"Still not dead, huh? Tough crowd."
No answer. Of course.
She enters anyway.
Same white walls. Same broken boy in a bed.
The frog notebook's sitting out again—closed, untouched.
But something's different.
Her.
She pauses by the foot of his bed. Doesn't sit. Doesn't move.
"You looked at me," she says flatly.
Not a question. Not a fantasy.
Just a fact.
Vivi doesn't react.
She walks around the bed, puts down her satchel, pulls out her little red clipboard.
Still watching him.
"You stared at me," she continues. "Day nine. You thought I didn't see, huh?"
Silence.
But she swears his fingers twitch.
"You were trying to read me, I think," she mutters, flipping through papers she's not even focused on. "Trying to figure out if I'm for real, or if I'm just part of the… what do they call it… circus?"
She finally looks him in the eyes.
He doesn't look away.
Neither does she.
"I'm real, by the way. Annoyingly so."
She tosses a juice box onto his tray. Apple flavor.
"Drink it. Don't drink it. Whatever."
She grabs her coat.
Walks to the door.
Stops.
"…You can stare at me all you want," she adds without turning around. "But one of these days, you're gonna blink. And I'll be right here when you do."
Door clicks shut behind her.
". . ."
__________
Day 13.
She almost doesn't notice it.
She's halfway through her usual routine—check vitals, replace IV drip, make a snarky comment to a child who never responds—
—and then she sees it.
Notebook's open.
Pen's moved.
One word. Centered on the page. Written in hesitant, uneven strokes.
> Vivi
That's it. That's the whole thing.
No dramatic scribbles. No explanation.
Just a name.
Her gaze stays on the page longer than she means to.
She even rereads it—like it might change the second time. Or vanish.
She doesn't say anything right away. Doesn't gasp or cry.
She just sits down. Quiet.
Then:
"…That's your name?"
She asks it like it's nothing. Like they're talking about the weather.
No answer. But his fingers are clenched a little.
She taps the notebook once.
"You spelled it right. Gold star."
Still no response. But she can't stop staring at the page.
Vivi.
A word she's only seen in medical files and whispered in hallway gossip.
Now it's real. From him. In ink.
She flips to the next page and writes back.
"Nice to meet you, Vivi.
I'm Nat. But you knew that."
She closes the notebook gently and puts it back on the tray.
"…Took you long enough," she mutters under her breath. Then she stands.
As she walks out, she lets herself smile—just a little.
_____
Oh yeah…
Dad is gone…
. . .
Wait…
_______
Day 25.
She almost missed him when she entered.
The bed was empty again.
Tray untouched.
The usual signs of muted rebellion.
But then—
She caught a shape by the window.
Small.
Hunched.
Motionless.
The boy.
Knees pulled tight to his chest, one hand loosely holding something…
No—gripping it.
She approached, slow and quiet, like spooking a deer.
What's in his hand?
It was the notebook.
—or what was left of it.
Pages mangled.
Cover bent backwards.
The stupid frog mascot?
Torn. In. Half.
Like it smiled one too many times.
He didn't look up.
Just kept staring outside, as if the glass held some kind of answer. Or escape.
She crouched a few feet away. Not too close.
"…Rough night?" she said gently.
No answer.
Of course not.
She glanced at the remains in his hand.
"Poor guy never stood a chance," she added. "That frog was asking for it."
Still nothing.
But his grip loosened. Barely.
She sat on the floor. Hugged one knee.
"You know… most kids break crayons or throw their food when they get mad. You—"
She gestured toward the shredded spiral.
"—you commit war crimes against stationery."
. . .
She watches him tear into the paper with the pen—
violent strokes, but focused. Sharp. Like every letter was screaming instead of him.
Then, without looking at her,
He folds the page once.
Twice.
Holds it to the air.
A passing breeze from the cracked-open window catches it.
It flutters.
Lands at her knee.
She picks it up.
> Why can't I talk?
She stares at the words.
No doodles.
No smiley faces.
No name.
Just that one sentence.
She looks up at him. His eyes haven't moved. Still glued to the window, like the sky owes him answers.
She doesn't rush.
Just smooths out the page, lays it on her knee.
Then:
"I was wondering when you were gonna ask that."
She keeps her voice neutral. Not clinical. Not soft.
Just real.
"You had a pretty bad injury. Glass in your throat. They operated fast, but… it wasn't clean. There's still swelling. Scar tissue. Nerve damage."
Pause.
"Some of it might heal. Some of it might not."
She doesn't sugarcoat it.
And still—he doesn't move.
So she adds:
"But talking and not being able to talk? Two different things."
...
That one lands. His hand tightens.
His fingers twitch again.
Another paper. Another pen-stabbing frenzy.
He folds it. Flicks it toward her this time—less wind, more precision.
She catches it mid-air.
Unfolds.
> Where's my Dad?
She freezes.
Just for a second.
Just long enough for silence to scream.
She doesn't look at him.
Not yet.
Just folds the paper back up—once, twice, exactly like he did.
Then, finally, meets his eyes.
"He didn't make it."
Four words.
Flat. Clean. Brutal.
The kind of sentence she doesn't dress up anymore.
She's seen what hope can do when it's misplaced. It's worse than death.
...
He doesn't flinch.
Doesn't cry.
Doesn't breathe differently.
But his shoulders drop.
Like something slipped off of him.
Or maybe caved in.
His grip on the pen loosens.
It falls.
Clatters softly on the floor.
She wants to say something.
Wants to do something.
But what is there?
No hug. No "He loved you." No storytime flashbacks.
Just—
"I'm sorry."
That's all she gets out.
Then the notebook's in his hand.
And flying.
The damn thing explodes through the gap in the window—pages scattering like wounded birds, torn confessions fluttering into the sky.
She flinches—
just as his hands hit the windowsill.
He moves.
First time he's done more than stare or write in weeks.
And he's not thinking. Not calculating.
He's climbing.
"Vivi—!"
She's already across the room, nearly tripping over the IV line, slamming her hand against the emergency button as she lunges.
"Help! I need assistance! Room 214—now!"
She wraps her arms around his waist, dragging him down with everything she's got. He kicks—frantic, silent, like a wild animal trying to outrun something no one else can see.
"I got you—I got you—!" she grits out, holding on with both arms as he thrashes.
Footsteps. A nurse. A second. Security.
They swarm in. Not rough. Trained.
They pull him back gently, but firmly, while Nat holds his face.
He won't meet her eyes.
Not now.
Not anymore.
She's shaking. He's shaking.
His hands are bleeding. From the glass.
The window's shut now.
Locked. Reinforced. But it doesn't matter.
He's not trying again.
Not because he's calm.
But because he's cracked.
They try talking to him—
soft voices, practiced tones.
"Vivi—can you hear me?"
"Look at me, okay?"
"You're safe here."
But his fists are balled. Chest heaving. Eyes glassy, unfocused, full of something between fury and despair.
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't listen. Doesn't stop.
Nat crouched beside the bed again, trying to stay in his line of sight, hands trembling like she's holding back a scream of her own.
He's not looking. Not blinking.
Just—vibrating. Silent static.
A nurse pulls her aside gently.
She doesn't want to go.
But she knows what's coming.
Doctor walks in.
"Sedation protocol."
Nat closes her eyes.
"No," she whispers.
Then louder—"No, wait—just give him a second, maybe if I—"
They don't listen.
They can't.
Liability. Safety. Protocol.
Another nurse swabs his arm.
Syringe. Steady hand. Quick plunge.
And just like that—
The trembling slows.
Then stops.
His body goes slack.
Not peaceful.
Not relieved.
Just... off.
His eyes are still open.
But he's already somewhere else.
________
Day 27.
When Nat enters the room, it's colder than usual.
Not the temperature. The air. The feeling.
Like something important left recently and hasn't returned.
He's sitting up now.
First time she's seen him upright without coaxing or pillows.
But it's not progress.
Not really.
His posture is… still. Too still.
Back straight, arms limp, hands folded neatly in his lap.
Like he's posing for a mugshot in slow motion.
The window behind him—locked.
Security's orders.
No more paper. No more pen.
Not after Day 24.
She glances at the side table.
Where the notepad used to be.
Now just a small, empty tray.
He doesn't look at her.
Not out of rudeness.
Out of… fear, maybe?
Or shame.
Like a kid who broke something too expensive to replace.
And now thinks he is the thing that's broken.
Nat closes the door softly behind her. Doesn't announce herself. Doesn't clear her throat.
Just pull a chair across the room and sit.
No clipboard. No questions.
No tools of the trade.
Just her.
For a minute, nothing happens.
His eyes stay fixed on the wall, unfocused.
But she can see the tension in his fingers.
Tight enough to turn the knuckles pale.
He's waiting for her to speak. Or scold. Or ask.
She doesn't.
Instead, she says nothing.
Let the silence settle between them like dust.
Let him feel it without judgment for once.
Let him know that silence can be company, too.
Ten minutes pass.
Still, she doesn't speak.
His fingers twitch.
Not from nerves. Not quite.
Almost like—like he wants to write.
To ask something. To explain.
But the pen isn't there.
The paper isn't there.
So he just... doesn't.
Nat sighs gently.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just enough to break the air a little.
Then finally, softly, she says:
"You scared a lot of people, Vivi."
His shoulders flinch.
"You scared me."
A pause.
Then—
"I'm still here."
He doesn't react at first.
But she sees it. The smallest shift.
His hands unfurl.
Just a little.
"We're locking the window for now. Not forever."
No reaction.
"They took your notebook. That wasn't my call."
Still nothing.
"But if I sit here long enough, I'll figure out what you can still have."
She crosses her legs.
Leans back in the chair.
Like she's ready to stay awhile.
"No rush. No pressure. No pen? Fine. We'll work around it."
He still doesn't speak. Of course he doesn't.
But—
His eyes twitch, just once.
They glance at her.
Not long. Not even a full second.
But it tells her enough.
_______
Day 97.
Tomorrow, he's cleared for release.
That's the word they use. "Release."
Like he's some caged thing.
Like a wild animal finally being let out into the world again.
Except…
Where the hell is he supposed to go?
No home.
No dad.
No address to return to.
He's got a plastic bag full of donated clothes, a card with a government seal stamped on it, and a packet labeled "Post-Discharge Guidelines."
Inside:
Eat regularly.
Attend therapy.
Do not overexert.
Report any signs of discomfort or emotional distress.
Cool. Super helpful.
The social worker came by in the morning. Smiling like this is routine.
Because it is.
"We're working on placement," she said. "You'll be taken care of. Don't worry."
Don't worry.
The phrase rolls around in his head like a loose marble.
He sits on the edge of the bed, bag by his feet, everything he owns in the world fitting under one hand.
The window's locked, but he doesn't care anymore.
He just… stares.
At the door. On the floor. At nothing.
. . .
Nat hasn't visited lately…
He reaches for the pen they let him borrow—just once—a mercy because he'd stopped reacting completely last week.
But he doesn't write.
He flips it between his fingers, watching the ink glint in the light.
A question keeps circling the drain in his mind:
> Was she just being nice?
That's all it was, right?
Part of the job. Temporary. Disposable.
He knows better than to get attached.
But knowing doesn't stop the ache.
The plastic bag of clothes rests at the foot of the bed.
The file with his new identity number is taped to it.
Tomorrow he leaves.
And no one's said where to.
Or who's waiting on the other side of that release.
Or if anyone is.
. . .
_________
The next day.
He's sitting on the hospital bed.
No notebooks. No pen.
Just silence, and maybe that frog-covered file he never opened.
Then the door creaks open.
Nat enters.
She looks… exhausted. Windblown. A little out of breath.
Holding a paper bag and a stack of government forms.
"I'm not supposed to be here."
She closes the door.
"They said I shouldn't get attached. That I shouldn't blur the lines."
She looks at him.
"You're not a project. You're not a symbol. You're not a goddamn science experiment."
She sets the papers down.
"You're a boy. And boys don't belong in cages—no matter how pretty the bars are."
She crouches down in front of him. Eye-level.
"You don't have to say yes. But if you want… you can stay with me. Not forever. Just for now. Just until you figure out where you want to be."
Long pause.
He doesn't move.
Doesn't blink.
But his hand twitches—
just slightly toward the paper bag.
She sighs, smiles, and sets it in his lap.
"There's snacks. And a pen. Don't stab anyone with it."
___________