how life carries on endlessly, even after death

“Mrs. Tazuna?”

…That was not his father.

He saw his mother’s expression of glee disperse. In front of her, there was a man in a police uniform. He wasn’t anyone Joe recognized, not even one of his father’s officer friends who occasionally came over for special occasions when it was the Tazuna family’s turn to prepare dinner for them. The man stood up straight, but his face had a somber look to it, like the face his mother wore when she had to tell Joe they didn’t even have enough money to buy the offbrand candy he always liked.

The only difference? This was worse.

Before he could even hear anything, Joe’s aunt came out from the bathroom, drying her hands with a towel and spotting the officer at the door. In that moment, he saw the look in her eyes change, too, and she ushered him out of the front entrance and told him to stay in his room for a little while.

On July 12th of the year Joe was turning twelve, devastating news hit the Tazuna family.

YTTD; Tazuna Jou, Tazuna Jou's father | Mister Policeman (mentioned), Tazuna Jou's Aunt, Tazuna Jou's Mother, Tazuna Jou's Stepfather; Warning for character death and grief/mourning; Pre-Death Game; Jou is written as Filipino and transmasc; Gift for key_lime_soda.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic was written with the intention of portraying Joe as transmasc! Although it's not dwelled upon much after the beginning, I've been meaning to write something that elaborates on how he comes out (or... doesn't, in one case) to his family. Additionally, he's written as Filipino (albeit raised in Japan, hence the tokonoma) in this fic, because it's the only way I know how to write him. As such, there is a tiny bit of Tagalog sprinkled in throughout!

A huge thank you to my friend Vannah, who has spoken to me at length about the Tazuna family and essentially influenced the direction this fic took! And finally, happy holidays, Sumi! You're a lovely person to talk to, and your energy is very infectious!! Back in November, I told you I was going to kill you in real life. This is me fulfilling that promise. I love you!!

Joe was about to turn twelve.

The day after he finally got a haircut, he sat on the couch in the living room, excitedly kicking his legs back and forth as the phone dialed in his ear. In the next room, he could hear Tita Emi asking his mother if she’d seen her phone. He had to be quick, his father needed to pick up the phone quickly, all so he could talk to him before they found out where the missing item had gone.

It rang twice. Joe shifted in his spot, moving his legs so he was sitting with them crossed. In his head, he went over the vague outline he had prepared for just about the seventh time—greet Dad, ask him about the case (and try to get details on it!), continue with conversation until the perfect time to remind him about his birthday—and he couldn’t help the feeling welling up in his chest.

Of course, this list of marks to hit was easy—the real challenge would be when he came home, and he commented on Joe’s haircut and he got to tell him he had a son now, not a daughter, and Mom took him to get his hair shorter and he didn’t have to hide his binder anymore. Maybe he’d be sad he was the last to find out, but that would be when Joe told him it was okay, and that Mom only found out recently too. The whole thing was planned out.

The young teenager smiled, even as the computerized voice told him that the recipient couldn’t come to the phone right now. Everything was going to go according to plan, and Joe was never someone who made plans when he didn’t have to. It was so much easier to make things up as he went along, but his aunt told him the conversation would be easier if he thought it out a little beforehand. So he planned, and for the first time, he was so absolutely sure it would go as it was meant to go.

And then, he’d get to sign up for the football team after school. He’d get to participate in the basketball unit in P.E. with the other students. Things would change, and it’d be for the better. Joe always heard things about junior high being the most difficult years for people, but he didn’t quite understand how that could be. Everything was going right.

Just before he could redial his father, the door to the living room opened up, and he saw his aunt exhale in relief as she saw her phone in his hands, the dark red cover allowing it to be easily spotted from miles away. Even though she told him off for taking it without her permission, he was happy as he thought about everything—and his aunt, after hearing about what he was doing, looked rather happy for him too.

Later that day, Joe found a blue marker he must have discarded under his bed at some point. He took it and marked up his calendar, aggressively circling the 26th of July, and then dragging his finger to the 9th, and crossed it out.

Sixteen days left.

The next day, after trying to call again, he crossed out the 10 on the calendar.

Fifteen days left.

And the next day, after school, he crossed out the 11 before he even called. His father still didn’t answer, but his mother gave him permission to send a text.

Fourteen days left.

On the 12th of July—

“Bug. Hey, bug.”

Joe was crying. His chest heaved, heart pounding like he’d ran half a block and stopped to catch his breath. The only difference was that he was in bed and sweaty because he was under his blanket, and the windows weren’t open like they were supposed to.

“Tita…!” he wailed, much louder than he should have when it was so early. He rubbed his eyes as his aunt wrapped an arm around him, pulling him to her side. Immediately, she began rubbing circles on his back, and he could tell she was tired. The sleep in her voice was clear as she attempted to soothe him, calming him down with every kind hush.

It hadn’t taken him long to stop crying, but he continued to hiccup and sniffle, trembling as he slowly pulled his sticky, tear-stained face off of the fabric of his aunt’s shirt, the same from when she had forgotten to change last night. The scent of dinner was still present in it, and he never thought he’d be so glad the smell of fried fish was intertwined with her familiar scent.

“You’re okay. You’re safe,” she said, possibly repeating it for the nth time as his breathing finally slowed to a natural pace. She cupped his face, pushing his hair to the side. There was something refreshing about the way her hands pressed against his skin, unbothered by previously long auburn strands. “Do you want to talk about the dream?”

And then, it dawned upon him; he couldn’t remember. The only words that stood out in his throat, clawing down his tongue to be said aloud—

“D-Dad… Tatay,” he mumbled, barely above a shaky whisper. He cleared his throat, tugging on the blanket for comfort so he wouldn’t fall apart again. “I… Can we call him?”

Tita Emi gave him a sympathetic look, as if she understood what he was getting at. In this horrible nightmare, tragedy had fallen upon his father, but the specifics were unclear. Just this awful sensation that something bad happened, that he was helpless to do anything against it.

She nodded. “We’ll call him after breakfast, okay? Before you go to school.”

Joe swallowed, returning the small nod. That would have to do. She patted his shoulder twice, giving him a small smile.

“Hey, it was just a dream, bug. You’re gonna be okay. Get ready for school, I’ll go wake up your mom… How do you feel about pancakes today?”

The call went to voicemail, just as it had the past several days. Still, Joe found himself relieved just to hear the prerecorded message, the awkward laugh as his father said he couldn’t come to the phone, and then the regular recitation of his full name, the phone number, and then a beep. He waited a few seconds, debating what to say in the voice message—

…And he gave the phone back to his aunt, wordless. It was fine.

It was fine, except it hadn’t been—he left for school a few minutes later, and he insisted on walking this time, even though the last time he’d gotten chased by a few other students from his school. It was what made him resort to being driven by his mother in the first place. But he needed a minute or two longer, something to get his thoughts together, and drowning it out in the radio music or talking about his birthday wouldn’t help.

And the day proceeded, dread clouding his mind with every passing moment. He tried to at least pay attention, but he knew he must have zoned out too much, because not only had he barely filled any pages with notes today, but the school day was passing by too quickly. He didn’t even get a chance to find an empty table at lunch. The only words he’d said all day were in response to people, a reassurance that he was fine or whatever they needed to hear because he wasn’t sure how much conversation he could keep up today.

But that was just school—and school sucked, he knew, so it was bound to be draining. So, after school, he walked home, trying to keep his hopes high. There was another day to cross off, and he’d call his father again as soon as he finished his homework. Even if he didn’t respond, there was just that small, small chance.

Except, before the phone call, when Joe was in the middle of many math problems he didn’t care for, he caught the sound of a knock at the door. His heart raced, and a smile etched onto his face. The 12th of July, exactly two weeks before he turned twelve, and things were going to be great.

He went over the mental script again, even if his thoughts were particularly scattered today; greet Dad, ask about the case, and—

“I’ll get it!” his mother called out, passing by him in the kitchen. She didn’t need to yell, since the walls were so thin, but Joe didn’t mind.

He followed after, keeping his distance from the entrance door. The last time he greeted his father at the door so excitedly, he almost dropped all his things on the ground.

And so, he waited patiently to the side, practically bouncing from one foot to the other as Mom opened the door—

“Mrs. Tazuna?”

…That was not his father.

He saw his mother’s expression of glee disperse. In front of her, there was a man in a police uniform. He wasn’t anyone Joe recognized, not even one of his father’s officer friends who occasionally came over for special occasions when it was the Tazuna family’s turn to prepare dinner for them. The man stood up straight, but his face had a somber look to it, like the face his mother wore when she had to tell Joe they didn’t even have enough money to buy the offbrand candy he always liked.

The only difference? This was worse.

Before he could even hear anything, Joe’s aunt came out from the bathroom, drying her hands with a towel and spotting the officer at the door. In that moment, he saw the look in her eyes change, too, and she ushered him out of the front entrance and told him to stay in his room for a little while.

So he complied—except he left his door cracked and the window open, so he could hear the conversation. The walls weren’t thick, either. And Joe wasn’t stupid.

His mother began to cry. He could hear it in her voice, the way she broke.

His father wouldn’t make it to his birthday this year. And he never would again.

The next year, Joe found himself dreading July 12th. He should have been excited. Two weeks before he turned thirteen, and he wished he could be spending the time with a friend or two, whoever decided to give him the time of day and indulge him this year when he fantasized about a different world where the Tazuna family had a little more money to hold a party, or something even just slightly more “official” to celebrate the occasion.

But here he stood, wearing something just a tiny bit nicer than what he usually wore, in a room with a poor excuse of a tokonoma for his father. Sure, not altars were grand like he'd seen in movies, but this room was barren and sad. It didn't help the difficult feeling in his chest.

It was a strange thing to him before; how does one hate a day so much? Time moved everyday, the Earth turned and spun around the sun like it always did—it felt pointless to find something like that so distressing.

But he understood now. It wasn't a visceral hate for a specific day that came every three hundred sixty five days, but just plain dread. It was something Joe only ever truly experienced in the days that followed after getting chased up and down the block, in and around school—except this wasn't something he could run from. Because time moved everyday, the Earth turned and spun like it always did and always would. Joe couldn't stop that.

Maybe that was why, beneath the suffocating feeling of the time ticking and the exhaustion from minimal rest and the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes, he was angry. Maybe that was why when he stood at his father’s altar, he wanted to scream, no matter how disrespectful it was. Maybe that was why he didn't know what to say to him, last year and at that moment too.

So, in the seconds of silence between him and his aunt and where his father should have stood—

“I can't believehim!”

Tita Emi flinched, suddenly startled from her thoughts. “Bug?”

“Why did he get shot!?” Joe yelled, fists shaking at his sides. At school, when the boys got angry, they just started punching—but he couldn't do that, not to his father, so all he could do was stand there. “Why did he– Why didn't he come home sooner? Why didn't he answer any of my calls?”

Those tears spilled, no matter what he did to stop them. He was glad his mother was off distracting herself from today with her new boyfriend—even though Joe had some choice words to say about him. He would rather this over the idea of her being in this room, watching her son be an emotional teenager and get angry at anything—anyone—he could get angry for what happened. It’d hurt her, he knew, but it was far too late now.

His aunt grasped his shoulder, quickly trying to ground him. The walls were thin. If they were home, and really, Joe couldn't remember if they were, then they'd hear.

“You're upset at him, right?” She asked, as if it weren't obvious.

Joe’s sniffling answered for him. He didn’t have to say anything.

“...Good. You can be mad at him.”

The words being said out loud were relieving, but Joe didn't understand why. “I don't want to be mad at him.”

“It’s okay if you are.” She spun him around so he was facing her, but he didn't meet her eyes. Not even when she squatted down a bit to meet his height. “Your mom was upset at him, too. I think she still is.”

“Is that why she”—a hiccup interrupted him—“won't come see him? Is that why Adari is over today?”

“I have a feeling. But just because she won't face her emotions doesn't mean that you can't.” There was a reassuring squeeze at his shoulders. It hurt a little, his muscles too tense from all the shaking he’d tried to disguise all day, but he still found it comforting, strangely. “You can be whatever you're feeling here, okay? I’ll listen, I’ll respond, whatever you want.”

“...Won't Dad be mad, though?”

“I think he'd understand.”

Despite her reassurance, he suddenly found himself unable to turn around again and yell. He wanted to be upset, but he didn't have it in him anymore to say it out loud, to ask why over and over again as if Tita Emi or his father had an answer.

His shoulders slumped forward, opting to lean his head into the crook of his aunt’s neck as a sob escaped him. He hugged her, grasping at the fabric of her shirt for comfort and listening to those soothing shushes as he held on for dear life, like letting go meant losing her too.

“I miss him,” he said, his voice cracking. “I want to go back. I don't want to turn fourteen, Tita— I-I want to see him again.”

It felt like her grip on him got tighter. Not by a lot, but it was enough for him to notice. She seemed to be at a loss for words.

“I know, bug. I know.”

The year Joe turned fifteen, he did the same he had always done.

This time, kneeling in front of the tokonoma, he couldn't find it in him to yell or cry. He couldn't even find it in him to talk. The blooming plant was beginning to creep up the corner of the wall, creating a splash of color this barren room desperately needed.

Joe sat in the room alone, chocolate brown eyes fixed on the scroll on the wall. He’d been in here for hours, just trying to figure out what to say—not to just his father, but his late aunt too. Last year, she didn't die until later in the summer, after he turned fourteen, but he figured he should try and hit two birds with one stone. It made things easier, and he doubted the two wouldn't have found their way to each other in whatever afterlife there was.

Outside the room, he could hear his stepfather ask his mother for the remote, like he hadn’t been leaving it in the same spot he always left it in ever since he moved in. Joe tried to like him. He was an okay guy, and he had a job, but he was a bit temperamental. And insensitive. He hadn’t heard him ask his mom how she was doing once today—or ever, really—and he of all people should know what July 12th entailed for the Tazuna family. Did he not care?

Joe shut his eyes, ignoring his mother as she called for him to assist in finding the TV remote. Why couldn't the guy look for it himself? Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone?

The conversation outside was so loud, surely amplified by the fact the two were yelling across the hallway instead of talking in the same room. He places his hands over his ears, unburdened by strands of brown hair he was beginning to miss. He got it cut again, but it wasn't as relieving this time. Maybe it was because nobody said anything about it this time around.

He missed his aunt. He missed his dad. He wondered what they would've said about this new haircut. Joe thought it looked awful, everything about him looked awful right now, but maybe they would've been able to tell him how to look better. His mom would know, but he hadn't been able to talk to her at all recently. He missed her too.

Joe didn’t know how much time had passed before he heard footsteps outside the room. He tensed, recognizing the pattern of his mother’s walk even before the doorknob turned. Frankly, he wasn’t sure why he was so startled—it could have been worse. It could have been his stepfather, and judging by the tone of his voice, he didn’t seem to be in a great mood.

Quickly, he wiped his eyes, even though he hadn’t really been crying. At the very least, if there were any tears there, he’d gotten rid of them.

“Jou?”

He turned to meet her eyes. The scent of cigarettes wafted into the room, but he tried not to scrunch his nose up at it. “Yeah?”

Mom held his gaze, not daring to look anywhere else in the room. She couldn’t even bring herself to walk inside, wavering by the door that was just pushed open enough for her to poke her head in. Joe noticed how tired she looked, especially for someone who always seemed like she never got enough sleep anymore.

He wasn’t sure what would happen if he let her look anywhere else.

“...Lunch is ready,” she said, voice devoid of energy. The longer he looked at her, the more he could already make out the remains of dried tears on her cheeks, like she had already been crying earlier that morning. “Come whenever you’re ready.”

“Okay.” Joe nodded, refraining from pointing out the observation. His mother stood there for a few seconds longer before closing the door again.

Joe is seventeen.

He kneels down by the gravestone of his father. There was something different about it, something that sitting by the tokonoma in his old house didn’t have. His aunt wasn’t buried anywhere near here, but he prefers this location away from home to be the resting place for his family. It’s closer to what Joe had always assumed (or at least, hoped) death was like—peaceful. Freeing.

The words lodged in Joe’s throat prevent him from saying anything right away. For a brief moment, he finds himself at a loss for what to say. It would've been easier if there was a face he could look at, someone there to keep him grounded while he got these words out of his chest, but there wasn't. There hadn't been a face since Joe was in junior high.

It’s strange. He thought that, maybe, with all that time he had to sit on these words, he would have come up with something in advance. He didn’t think talking to dead people would be so difficult.

The world slows, like it’s torturing him by making time feel as if it’s passing slower. He closes his jacket a little tighter, the winter breeze of December egging him on to at least start. He refuses to let himself allow another year to pass without saying a word to his father.

“I’m sorry I didn’t visit last year,” he says. He’s familiar with the lack of response, but the absence of his voice stings. “Or in July. I don't have a good excuse.”

Fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket, he remembers—he has a gift.

“A few months ago, um… My friend and I went to this meetup thing. On your birthday.”

The memory feels warm. Like a campfire that was just lit, radiating much appreciated heat onto him as he sat a few feet away from it.

“There were a bunch of people, but we ended up winning one of the tournaments. We got these two watches, but I gave mine to her for her dad. He’s a really cool guy.”

Painfully, he smiles.

“Maybe you two would've gotten along. Sure would have said I was a pain in the behind, huh?” He forces a laugh, hoping it’d ease this self-inflicted tension. “But, um… I realized something. I haven’t gotten you anything since I was eleven. And there’s not a whole lot I could have gotten for ya around then.”

He wraps his hand around his wrist, messing with one of the bangles. There’s three golden bracelets—two on his wrist, and a third in a small zipper bag tucked away in his pocket. They jingle against each other every time he moves his arm, and he always liked the noise. It helps to keep him steady.

“I told Sara—she’s my best friend—that the wristwatch would’ve gotten lonely if I gave it to you. The whole point of a gift is to make somebody happy.”

He swallows, the warmth now shifting to something of a dull pain, like he’s decided to place his hand dangerous close to the fire.

“I can’t make you happy. You’re dead. Tita Emi is dead, too. I know I’m supposed to believe that your souls will live on regardless, but you’re not here anymore.” With every word, he blinks back a few more tears. “I’m only talking to you to make myself feel better, and it’s selfish. Maybe the point of the belief in the first place is so people don’t feel that way.”

Then, Joe falls silent. He’s not sure what else to say.

It’s not like he wants drag this out, make this visit any longer than he has the time for, but he hasn’t seen him in just about five years. Not that this changed anything, really, but some part of him was begging him to say something more meaningful. Words weren’t really his strong suit when he was put on the spot, but how terrible of a son was he to not even think about what to say when the time came? To fail at something as simple that…

“A–Anyway… I don’t have the money to buy you anything, but I found something in the attic a while back. Mom said you used to wear a ton of jewelry back when she first met you. She said she could never take you seriously.” He grips one of the bracelets, rubbing it between his thumb and index. “I started wearing them. I don’t know why. I didn’t want to leave them just… sitting in some random box. And if I’m gonna give you a gift, even if you never get it, I want it to be something special. So… here it is.”

He pulls the zipper bag out of his pocket, smoothing out the plastic with his thumbs. For a moment, he stares at the third bracelet inside—is he about to give this up?

It’s one of the only things you have left of him.

“...I dunno if you’re watching, or if you’re even out there. If you ask me, the best I can say is that I’d want you to be watching over, even if it's unrealistic or whatever. But—”

Joe places the plastic bag on the ground in front of the grave.

“—I’d wanna say, if you were alive, I’d give this to you. Really, I would give you all three, but I want to hold onto you a little longer. Is that okay?”

The wind blows, the cold air freezing his cheeks. Even though his skin pricks from the cold, there's a strange warmth that he knows he's just imagining. Still, he smiles.

Joe stands up, clutching the bracelets tight. Despite the lack of response, this sort of relieving feeling engulfs him. Tears prick at his eyes and his hands begin to shake, and while he can’t bring himself to cry in front of his father just yet, he doesn’t feel stifled. It feels like this weight has been lifted off his chest, and that he’s finally making progress to a day where thinking about his late father didn’t mean grasping at pointless what-ifs and maybes.

He wants to hold onto this feeling. Both his father and his aunt—they’d want to see him move past their deaths some day, wouldn’t they?

“Okay, I’ll tell you this: next year, on my birthday, when I turn eighteen, I’ll give you another bracelet! And when I turn nineteen, I’ll give you the last one…!”

His chest heaves as he realizes he’s yelling. Thankfully, not many people visit their dead loved ones when it's the middle of winter. He awkwardly chuckles, clearing his throat and lowering his voice.

“...And when I turn twenty, I’ll still come visit. I don't know what I’m gonna bring ya, but I’ll figure it out. Do you like daffodils?”

The question hangs in the air, remaining unanswered. His aunt loved daffodils. She loved to travel, too—she could never sit in one place, only managed to settle in Japan because of Joe. His father didn't have any siblings, and Tita Emi wasn't interested in having kids. She loved children, though, and she loved him. She visited so often Joe remembered being surprised that she had her own house.

He can't remember if his father had a favorite flower. Would he care about what kind of flowers he got him? Or would he just be glad that Joe came at all? The second made more sense, but he shouldn't take it as an excuse to show up with a half-hearted gift.

Ah, but he has three years, doesn't he? He’ll figure it out.

“Oh, and I’ll bring Mom next time,” he tacks on at the end, having just thought of it. It’s a promise he can’t keep, he knows—just the memory of her wavering at the entrance of the empty room for the tokonoma serves as a reminder she wasn’t quite ready yet—but he wishes to try.

“My, uh… stepdad might come, too, but that's less likely.”

The thought makes him slightly uncomfortable. That’d be weird, wouldn’t it? The two never even met. Joe couldn’t tell him not to come with if he asked, but he wouldn’t be the one to offer—even if the idea of excluding him didn’t feel that great.

“But, um,” he shakes his head, ridding himself of the thought for now. “I’ll make sure to visit. Even if you aren't there, I think I’d rather come out here to spend the anniversary day than sit around at home.”

He pulls on his sleeves, pulling up his hood—but before he leaves, he says one last thing;

“I’ll be back next year. Love ya!”

Published December 31st, 2023. (Archived January 6th, 2024.)