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jin character piece #2
Dec. 23rd, 2018 11:38 ami have all these little bits of masks writing lying around that i might as well post - not super going in chronological order sry
Jin has very few memories of Japan. Almost none of the actual town they visited on the outskirts of Saga, tucked away in the mountains and flush with greenery, according to the photo albums their mother painstakingly constructed after both trips. In the photos, the sky was almost always cloudy white, the mountainsides green, the buildings small and low and dark in contrast. The first time, they were too young to recall anything but hiding their face in their mother’s neck as she carried them through the airport, which was loud and bright and overwhelming and smelled funny. All that Jin really remembers from the second trip are the small sensory things: the texture of the paper screen separating the bedroom they shared with their parents from the rest of the house, and the way the light of a candle filtered through it late at night. They remember lying awake beside their mother on the sleeping mat, watching the glow of the candle through the paper. They don’t remember their grandfather, so tiny, stooped shoulders and white wispy beard, deep creases etched into his face, smiling close-lipped in the photos, but they know he sat on a zabuton on the living room floor, staring into that candle flame, for many nights after his wife died - Jin’s grandmother, who they never met. What they do remember is his hand, all knuckle and tendon and wrinkled skin like a bird’s claw, coming to rest heavily on Jin’s bony little shoulder, the weight surprising when the hand itself looked so dry and papery. They remember nothing from the funeral but the smell of the wet leaves and flowers that surrounded the casket, and that the bench they sat on between their parents, red lacquer, chipping a bit at the edges, was wet with recent rain. The droplets on the lacquer had soaked into the seat of their dress, and they’d wanted to squirm in discomfort, but everyone was so somber and still that four-year-old Jin had held still too, rigidly concentrating on a drop of water making its way down the back of the bench in front of them. They remember the monument marking their family's ancestral grave, black stone, flecked with lighter specks, impeccably smooth and clean, the rivulets of rainwater traveling down it unimpeded. They remember the inari sushi they ate at their grandfather’s low kitchen table afterwards, the softest rice they’d ever eaten, the vinegar and salt bursting on their tongue, somehow much more flavorful than the inari sushi their mother would pack in their school lunches the following year. And their clearest memory is of the bath they took that night, shivering as their mother splashed a basin of cool water on them beforehand, then sinking into the scalding water up to their chin, their little forehead breaking out in sweat immediately. They had to stand in the bath, they remember, as it was so deep that not even their father, tall as he was, could sit with his head above water. They liked how hot it was - no bath they’d ever had at home had made them feel quite so scoured clean.
Their grandfather’s little house on the mountainside is still there. Had they a mind, and the money, Jin could book a flight to the Kyushu Saga International Airport anytime they wanted. And even if they never go back, they have that little bundle of sensory memories, small, bright, like jewels.
Ben doesn’t even have that.
This is what continues to bother them as they lie in bed after returning from the beach, after saying good night to Soul. They’re too exhausted to shower. Their hair is stiff with salt, the smell of brine clings to their skin, and there will be sand in their sheets in the morning. They flush red every time they think about the sweet way she kissed them.
But Ben’s voice was sharp, when he denied being upset about Paris, and they can’t put the sound of it out of their mind.
I can’t imagine, Jin might have said, had things gone differently, had Ben acted like less of a colossal shit. Had he not deflected by saying every heartless thing he could think of about Astin and Jess and Sue Ann. Had Jin not fallen for all of it. I’m sorry.
Jin has very few memories of Japan. Almost none of the actual town they visited on the outskirts of Saga, tucked away in the mountains and flush with greenery, according to the photo albums their mother painstakingly constructed after both trips. In the photos, the sky was almost always cloudy white, the mountainsides green, the buildings small and low and dark in contrast. The first time, they were too young to recall anything but hiding their face in their mother’s neck as she carried them through the airport, which was loud and bright and overwhelming and smelled funny. All that Jin really remembers from the second trip are the small sensory things: the texture of the paper screen separating the bedroom they shared with their parents from the rest of the house, and the way the light of a candle filtered through it late at night. They remember lying awake beside their mother on the sleeping mat, watching the glow of the candle through the paper. They don’t remember their grandfather, so tiny, stooped shoulders and white wispy beard, deep creases etched into his face, smiling close-lipped in the photos, but they know he sat on a zabuton on the living room floor, staring into that candle flame, for many nights after his wife died - Jin’s grandmother, who they never met. What they do remember is his hand, all knuckle and tendon and wrinkled skin like a bird’s claw, coming to rest heavily on Jin’s bony little shoulder, the weight surprising when the hand itself looked so dry and papery. They remember nothing from the funeral but the smell of the wet leaves and flowers that surrounded the casket, and that the bench they sat on between their parents, red lacquer, chipping a bit at the edges, was wet with recent rain. The droplets on the lacquer had soaked into the seat of their dress, and they’d wanted to squirm in discomfort, but everyone was so somber and still that four-year-old Jin had held still too, rigidly concentrating on a drop of water making its way down the back of the bench in front of them. They remember the monument marking their family's ancestral grave, black stone, flecked with lighter specks, impeccably smooth and clean, the rivulets of rainwater traveling down it unimpeded. They remember the inari sushi they ate at their grandfather’s low kitchen table afterwards, the softest rice they’d ever eaten, the vinegar and salt bursting on their tongue, somehow much more flavorful than the inari sushi their mother would pack in their school lunches the following year. And their clearest memory is of the bath they took that night, shivering as their mother splashed a basin of cool water on them beforehand, then sinking into the scalding water up to their chin, their little forehead breaking out in sweat immediately. They had to stand in the bath, they remember, as it was so deep that not even their father, tall as he was, could sit with his head above water. They liked how hot it was - no bath they’d ever had at home had made them feel quite so scoured clean.
Their grandfather’s little house on the mountainside is still there. Had they a mind, and the money, Jin could book a flight to the Kyushu Saga International Airport anytime they wanted. And even if they never go back, they have that little bundle of sensory memories, small, bright, like jewels.
Ben doesn’t even have that.
This is what continues to bother them as they lie in bed after returning from the beach, after saying good night to Soul. They’re too exhausted to shower. Their hair is stiff with salt, the smell of brine clings to their skin, and there will be sand in their sheets in the morning. They flush red every time they think about the sweet way she kissed them.
But Ben’s voice was sharp, when he denied being upset about Paris, and they can’t put the sound of it out of their mind.
I can’t imagine, Jin might have said, had things gone differently, had Ben acted like less of a colossal shit. Had he not deflected by saying every heartless thing he could think of about Astin and Jess and Sue Ann. Had Jin not fallen for all of it. I’m sorry.
