“My characters are like little broken dolls, and writing is my way of playing with them.”
Biker knocked on the door of the attic room of the warehouse. Hearing nothing, he slowly opened the door, getting a tiny creak from the rusty hinges, and entered. Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it, taking in a big breath. The smell of old age, dust, and musty air entered his lungs. He let it out with a sigh and smiled.
Crossing to a window, Biker cracked it open, the air ruffling the light green curtains. It was a large rectangular room with a sloped ceiling. It was quite drafty, always cold in the winter, and hot in the summer. Old hardwood floors were covered in dusty out-of-date rugs and old hard-backed chairs. The walls were dotted with wall-lamps and ancient portraits of unsmiling people with white hair. An old cast-iron wood stove stood proudly against the far wall. But there was one thing in the attic that would always catch Biker’s attention.
In one corner stood an ancient trunk. Biker loved going through it. It had belonged to a married couple a long, long time ago, and their initials were on the cover. Yolanda Umberton and Kevin Ivy were engraved on the inside of the lid. Biker would never have opened the thing in the first place if it wasn’t for that. Y.U.K.I. His first name.
Moving from the window, Biker knelt in front of the trunk and ran his calloused hands over the initials. He grasped the lid and lifted, opening it with a puff of dust and a waft of cedar.
Sitting on top of loose, yellowing papers, a fake wreath, and some books were two small dolls. One had short blond hair and blue glass eyes, and wore an old red dress. She was made of porcelain, and was a bit dirty. The other doll had long black hair, tangled from use, and brown glass eyes. This one wore an old green dress. She too was made of porcelain and was a bit dirty.
Biker had never actually paid any attention to the dolls before, always placing them aside and looking through the books and papers. Now, however, he made himself comfortable, with his back against the trunk. He held the dolls and ran his fingers over their fraying clothes. Touched their delicate eyelashes. Ran his hands along their soft hair. They reminded him of his sister. Her dolls were made entirely of cloth, not porcelain, but she was still a young girl who liked to pull her oldest brother into her doll games.
“Nii-chan! Yuki-nii-chan! Where are you?” A little six-year-old girl ran along the wooden floors of her house, looking for her oldest brother. She had long black hair, pulled back in a tight braid, and two cloth dolls clutched in her tiny hands. Rounding a corner, she just missed colliding with the thirteen-year-old brother she’d been looking for. “Nii-chan!”
Yuki put a finger to his lips. “Hush, Ashi-chan! Someone’s meeting with Oto-san.” He turned back around and knelt at the crack in the paper door, peeking through it.
Ashi knelt next to him. “Daiki-kun won’t play with me.” She whispered, pouting. “He says he doesn’t play girl games. He’s not as nice as you are, Nii-chan.”
Yuki flapped his hand at his little sister, effectively shushing her.
“Kamiyama-san, you know what will happen if he takes over your business. You must send him away, before he gets to be a handful.” A deep voice spoke. The man who owned it was a large, barrel-chested man, with a dark beard and a business suit.
“Uniwa-sama…where would I send him? He is my oldest son. He must take over after I retire.” Yuki’s father was a much smaller man than his guest, and was dressed in proper clothes. He knelt on a small cushion across a low table from his guest. They were drinking tea, and Yuki’s mother knelt in a nearby corner, dutiful and waiting to do whatever was needed of her.
“Send him to a monastery. Send him to another country. Korea. America. Canada. You have another son. We were not able to take your first-born, but your second-born will do. We will teach him, and he will take over after you are gone.” Uniwa serenely took another sip of tea.
Yuki could see his father’s fists clenching, and his mother’s expressions, however hard she tried to hid them.
“Uniwa-sama. He is my son. You cannot send him from me.” Kamiyama looked hard at the man across the table, un-intimidated.
Behind the screen, Yuki took his sister’s wrist, as her hand was clutching her doll. She stared up at her brother with wide brown eyes, barely grasping what was going on.
“No, Kamiyama-san. We cannot send him from you. But you can send him from yourself.” The man gently set down his empty tea cup and held out his arm, pulling up his sleeve. The green head of a dragon sat on Uniwa’s arm, tattooed in bright colors. Kamiyama and his wife both flinched at the sight, and Yuki’s free hand went to his mouth to stifle his gasp. This man was a Yakuza. The man simply grabbed the tea pot, poured more of the steaming brown liquid into his cup, and then set it down, replacing his sleeve. He acted as if nothing happened, but the deed was done, and his point driven home.
Kamiyama ducked his head. “Very well, Uniwa-sama. I shall send Yuki to America. He will stay there, out of your way.”
Uniwa nodded, and took another sip of his drink. “You made the right choice, Kamiyama-san.”
Yuki silently stood and picked up his sister, motioning for her to be quiet. He hurried as fast as his sock-clad feet would go, and carried her to the back of the house. Setting her down, he knelt in front of her. “Ashi-chan. You have to swear not to mention any of what you just heard.”
The little girl looked up at her brother wonderingly. “Nii-chan, will Oto-san really send you away?” She hugged her dolls tightly.
“I don’t know. But you can’t mention this! Not to Oto-san, not to Oka-san, not to Daiki-kun. No one. Do you hear me?”
Ashi nodded.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.” Ashi said, tears starting to form in her eyes.
Yuki pulled her to him in a tight hug. “Let’s play with your dolls now, Ashi-chan.”
Biker’s shoulders shook, and he realized he’d been crying. That Uniwa had the Kamiyama’s in his hands just like little Ashi-chan had her dolls. Gently setting the dolls down, he wiped his eyes and sighed. Ashi would be ten now. Daiki would be twelve. Biker could only wonder at the terrible things that Daiki was going through. Probably a mind-washing to lead him to run his future business like the Yakuza wanted. Poor Ashi… having both of her brothers being taken from her. Probably broken. Just like the Yakuza wanted.
Biker gently stroked the doll’s clothes again, and then carefully placed them back in the trunk, shutting it tight. He ran his fingers over the carved initials again, before standing up.
He ran his hands over his face again; to make sure he didn’t look like he’d been crying. Then he crossed to the window again and closed it, the light green curtains stopped swaying.
Going to the door, he opened it, and glanced back at the trunk. Then he left the room, and closed the door, going down the stairs and back to his current life. No longer Yuki. Now he was Biker. And Biker he was going to stay. Just to protect his family. To protect his doll. His sister. Ashi.
