Didn't You Know

           Drumming his fingers on the wooden bench, he forced down the lump in his throat. Then,
he rolled back his shoulders, twisting around so that his body faced the armrest. But no matter
what he did, he couldn’t suppress the churning in his stomach.
           He couldn’t stop tapping his foot.
           The spandex collar suffocated him, stretching tightly around his neck. The gold rested
heavily on his chest, pressing him into his chair. No matter that he had won—there would be no
celebration. No praise.
           No recognition.
           The white walls of this room, perhaps meant to be calming, instead seemed to close in on
him, pumping blood through his veins to the point of near-rupture. The air, without circulation,
added to his anxiety with its stale quality. While his fellow competitors would reflect on
everything they had done wrong in their runs, whether it be a specific spin or axel maneuver, he
would wait. For what, he didn’t know. Perhaps he would wait for this night to be over. Perhaps
he would wait for someone to come in and tell him, genuinely tell him:
           “I’m so proud of you.”
           In reality, whether he had gone to the ceremony wouldn’t matter. Though he had the
critics’ positive feedback and his coach’s satisfaction, there would be nothing beyond that.
Others would go out with friends, brag to family, or spend excessive money to treat themselves.
           He would simply return home.
           Despite the dullness of this fact, it was quite sobering. It made it easier to cope with what
those closest to him would never give. Even so, something—an ache, maybe—clawed at the
fleshy hollows of his lungs, seeping out and crawling up his sternum with a shuddery chill,
which spread through his shoulders and down his legs. Every time he did something worthy of

anyone’s praise, his body would react like he’d been exposed to some toxic substance. It was the
same in this case as he tugged his arms around himself, ignoring the way his sharp, bony elbows
dug into his ribs. A healthier person might have had more meat hanging off their frame, but for
someone like him, a thin figure was also acceptable.
           “Shion. Aren’t you going home?”
           He looked up to find his coach, who stood under the doorway with crossed arms.
           “In a minute.”
           His coach nodded.
           “All right.” She smiled. “Great work today. Your family should be proud.”
           With that, his coach walked past him, pushing through the exit in a hurry. As she did so,
he continued staring at the white space in front of him, wondering whether he would get the
strength to get up and go home as he’d said he would.
           Eventually, he did get the strength.
           He kicked off his ice skates and grabbed his sneakers from the adjacent chair, throwing
them on the ground. Then, after slipping on his shoes and throwing on his jacket, he went out the
back door, costumed and all, and caught the first train home.
           After a while of scrolling on his phone, it occurred to him that he hadn’t taken this route
in a long time. He wondered why—it was the fastest way home, and it was the only way he
could center himself on a walk before he saw his family. Other stations near his apartment led to
streets that felt like a barrage of stray fists ramming into his head, jostling his thoughts out of
place before they could even form. This route, however, guaranteed that he could cross the
Brooklyn Bridge, where he would make up stories about the boats sailing by.

           Half an hour later, when the sun had dipped below the horizon, he found himself walking
to stand in the middle of this bridge, where he could keep watch of the East River. Though he
would normally just have faint imaginations about those manning the boats, this particular day
had him picturing himself having jumped into the water, wearing his rhinestone-dotted costume,
where hypothermia would lull him into an eternal sleep. This thought physically lured him to the
barrier, where his fingers curled around the rusted metal and his body pressed itself against the
barrier’s grid. He held himself there, not letting himself breathe, as his forehead came to rest on
the cool railing.
           They would find the black-orange ombré first, before they found the face. The skin would
be waxy and stretched tightly over the cheekbones. The lips would be blue from suffocation. The
body wouldn’t be found for days, for who would be stupid enough to jump into the East River in
only spandex? Perhaps it would be found in a week.
           Perhaps it would never be found.
           It felt like he was ripping himself from the barrier when he finally stepped back and
continued on his way. He pulled up his jacket collar to further distance himself, as if hiding half
of his face from the other pedestrians would make it easier to not run back and throw himself
over the railing. Yes—he was acutely aware of the mess he’d make if he did. However, that
wasn’t what stopped him.
           It was the promise of praise—ever-elusive—from his mother, who hadn’t yet seen him
win gold.
           When he later turned onto his block, he gazed upwards, searching for the fourth-floor unit
second from the left of the building. To his surprise, the lights weren’t on. His family wouldn’t
be sleeping, for none of them slept before ten, and it was only seven. Were they out, then? Why?

           Inside, the receptionist greeted him with surprise.
           “Oh! It’s been a while since I last saw you.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “How are
you? Did you forget anything?”
           “What do you mean?” Shion asked. “I live here.”
The receptionist’s brows furrowed.
           “Didn’t you move out?”
           Shion frowned at this display. If she wasn’t happy to see him, she didn’t have to pretend.
Barely stopping himself from scoffing, he walked forward, almost running to the elevators once
he’d passed the receptionist’s desk. On the fourth floor, he trudged to his unit at the end of the
hall, fishing for his keys only to realize they were sitting in his duffel bag—which was at the
rink.
           He held back a groan. Going back to the elevators, he caught the next one and headed
back down to the lobby, where he stormed over to the receptionist’s desk and demanded an extra
key. In response, the receptionist took a deep breath, and her expression settled into something
fiery as she let out a long sigh.
           “I’m sorry, but we don’t have one.”
           Shion’s eyes widened.
           “What do you mean?”
           “I’m sorry,” the receptionist repeated, “but I can’t help you.”
           “What am I supposed to do, then?”
           To that, the receptionist had no answer.
           Something shriveled up inside. He stared at the receptionist head-on, feeling the fight in
him bleed onto the floor. His breaths loosened, and his muscles relaxed. However, he didn’t feel

any less heavy—in fact, he felt heavier than before. It was clear that, for some inexplicable
reason, he would not be going home tonight. Though this type of problem had never happened
before, Shion was not inclined to fight it any further. If the receptionist was adamant that she
could not help him, then Shion would not argue.
           It wouldn’t be the first time he hadn’t gone home, at any rate.

୨୧

           Shion had stayed out many times in the past. Whether by necessity or choice, his mother
had been especially good about not noticing. Sometimes, he’d squat in an abandoned building.
Other times, he’d sleep in a place that would let him. He had even slept in the subway a few
times, hiding from those who were truly homeless. Amongst them, Shion had always felt a
strange sense of shame, forgetting that his mother did nothing to make their apartment a
home—even in the loosest sense. He would be compelled to return at that moment, but the idea
that his sister and father would be worried sick, only for his mother to shut them down for
“worrying too much,” saying that “he’s grown enough” . . . it would eat away at him, unable to
spare him the familiar pain of his disappointment.
           It would root him to his cold metal bench, where he stared listlessly as commuters ran
back to the warmth of their families.

୨୧

           He found himself back at the rink. It was still open, so he could easily slip in and retrace
his steps to the room where he’d left his duffel bag.
           Shion had spent nights here, too—it would be especially fitting tonight, considering the
present occasion.

୨୧

           After a while, he rose from his chair. It was inexplicably smaller than it had been the last
time he was here. Maybe his mother would care this time when he returned home; he had won
gold, after all.
           And so he left the subway, meandered through the city with his newly-acquired duffel,
and resolutely ignored the receptionist once he got back to his apartment building. The lights
were still off in his unit, as he’d noticed outside. What was his family doing?
           Fishing out the key, he jammed it into the lock and twisted, internally cheering when it
gave and allowed him to push in. Screw that receptionist, he thought; she clearly had been being
unreasonable. Of course he still lived here. Of course he still had the key.
           After opening the door, he stumbled inside, into the darkness, and looked up.
           “Mom?” he called after a moment.
           “Surprise!”
           The lights flicked on, revealing his sister’s crooked smile.
           But I thought they were out.
           “What took you so long?” asked Miyuki, suddenly slinging an arm around his shoulders.
Only a year older than him, Miyuki had looked out for him from the moment she’d realized she
could. In turn, Shion had looked up to her, following her in everything she did—even skating,
which was more her thing than his.
           “Come on,” said Miyuki, barely holding back an excited giggle. “See what I made.”
           The dining table was filled with Shion’s favorite dishes—tuna donburi and tonkatsu—as
well as a couple of plates of pork gyoza.
           His mother’s favorite udon, however, wasn’t there.
           “Mom?” he called, peering into the corridor of his parents’ room. “Mom?”

           Udon was always at the table whenever Miyuki won a competition. It was their mother’s
way of celebrating to the fullest. She never forced anyone to eat it, but Shion still lost his appetite
upon seeing that steaming bowl of udon and vegetables, which promised an endless rave about
“that spin I told you to do” or “the triple axel we worked on.” Their mother had molded Miyuki
into the skater she was today, spending day after day at the rink discussing choreography ideas
with Miyuki’s coach. Shion, however, never got the same sort of celebration.
           Whenever he got a good result, the only reward he received was the prize money and
extra allowance from his father, which gave him the ability to pay for what he wanted. Perhaps it
had been because, despite having absolutely no guidance from his mother, he still had made a
name for himself, and he was now on track to become one of the top youth figure skaters in New
York. He figured it was because he had never won gold—only silver. Now that he’d won gold,
he’d gotten this feast from Miyuki.
           Yet, the damn bowl of udon wasn’t there.
           “She needed to rest,” said Miyuki, taking Shion’s shoulders and steering him towards the
upper left corner of the table—the seat closest to the stove—before sitting beside him, serving
him some gyoza and tonkatsu. “You did so well, you know. I didn’t get gold in my first year, and
Mom was so angry. But you did. You did. Oh, I’m so proud! What did the judges—”
           “Did Mom watch the competition?”
           At this question, Miyuki’s face fell. She seemed to hesitate before sighing, “No, she
didn’t.”
           “Why not?”
           “Because—”

           “Because you’re the only one who exists here, right?” Shion snapped. “Forget it. Mom
didn’t watch it, so this—” he held up his medal— “means nothing. You shouldn’t have wasted
your time.”
           He refused to look at Miyuki at that moment, realizing instantly that he had screwed up
by saying these things. However, when he felt a small, warm hand rest on his shoulder, he let
himself hunch forward. Let his eyes water. Squeezed them shut, letting the tears run down his
cheeks. But upon opening his eyes again . . . .
           No Miyuki. No food.
           Only him, in the dark foyer.
           What? What had that been? Had Miyuki not been here? Had he . . . imagined Miyuki’s
presence? Shaking his head, he took a deep breath.
           “Mom?” he then called.
           His bare toe, after removing his socks, grazed a discarded wrapper.
           “Mom!”
           He tripped over himself. He fell to the floor.
           Mom, where are you?
           He rolled onto his back, closing his eyes once more, as he felt freezing water, distant yet
sharp, slosh down his neck. The droplets would crystallize into ice ever so slowly, silently
drawing blood as that, too, froze. Would they feel like needles? Or would they feel like little
knives, making him cry out until he couldn’t?
           “Shion!” a new voice cried. His father. “What are you doing on the floor?”
           The lights flicked back on, and Shion squinted at the intensity.
           “Goodness. You’re going to dirty your hair.”

           His father, Kazuhiro, hauled him up easily. Shion wasn’t heavy to begin with, and
Kazuhiro was naturally strong. It was a wonder why he never pursued sports. An accountant, he
never quite belonged at his desk. However, it was the only way he could appease his wife, who
demanded nothing less than his full dedication to her. Because of this, their dynamic was tense in
the way something teetered on the edge of a cliff, which stressed Shion to the point he wished
they would just divorce.
           “I watched your competition,” Kazuhiro revealed with a half-smile. He reached out to
Shion, seemingly about to ruffle his hair, but he drew back at the last second.
           Shion nodded, allowing his father to walk him to the bathroom.
           “Where’s Mom?”
           “She needed to rest,” said his father, and Shion frowned, for these words were the exact
ones Miyuki had used. “Don’t worry about her. Just worry about winding down a little. You’ve
had a long day.”
           Confused, Shion nodded again.
           “Will Mom . . . will she be happy?”
           If what had transpired with Miyuki had been an imagination, surely it meant that his
mother had watched the competition. Besides—after getting a gold medal, he couldn’t help but
ask. If his mother was happy, truly happy . . . .
           “Well,” his father sighed, “I wouldn’t say—”
           Shion rubbed his eyes. Of course. No, his mother wasn’t happy. She would never be
happy. Why had he even bothered to ask?
           When he removed his hands, he was back in the dark.
           Back on the floor.

           Of course.
           He shook his head. Where had his sister and father come from? Where were they now? If
they weren’t here, then they were out, but what did that mean?
           And where was his mother?
           The discarded wrapper now lay next to his head. It was gunky, and if one looked closely,
one would see the tiny holes that peppered the aluminum foil. On his other side, a bug skittered
by. A roach, maybe. Had his father not cleaned the apartment? He always did. Without protest.
Even when he looked more zombie than human.
           Shion turned on his stomach, and the medal dug into it. But instead of getting up, he laid
there, letting the gold imprint upon his skin. It would make no difference, anyway. This win.
Miyuki, even if she had been a hallucination, had said it plainly. Though he didn’t actually know
if his mother had watched the competition, it was likely that she hadn’t.
           So why, then, was he calling her so insistently?
           He pushed himself up, dragging his feet towards the kitchen island. Even though he
couldn’t see, he refused to turn on the lights. Something told him that he’d burn up and melt
before he could freeze.
           “Mom,” he called again. “Mom!”
           She had to have watched the match. She would have hoped, every second, that he would
falter just a little bit. Just enough, he imagined, to where he wouldn’t get gold, but silver.
           Or she could be happy, he hoped. She could be happy, and everything would be okay.
           When his mother didn’t answer, he turned towards the fridge, which was empty except
for a half-filled bottle of wine which looked old. Why hadn’t anyone finished it?
           The lights flicked on. Shion turned around, his eyes widening.

           Mom.
           “Where were you?” he asked.
           The corner of his mother’s mouth twitched. She snatched the bottle from the fridge and
drank the rest of it. “It’s your fault,” she hissed. “It’s all your fault.”
           No, please—
           “Mom—”
           “No. You took everything. I hate—”
           No no no nonono not this not now—
           He blinked.
           He blinked, he blinked, he blinked.
           The wine bottle had fallen, shattering at his feet. The liquid seeped into the skin of his
toes, clinging to it, as if it had nowhere else to go. Part of the label was ripped, like something
had been taped there—and that was when it hit him.
           Shit.
           Rummaging through the drawers, he found the crumpled piece of paper.
           Ever since you were born, my daughter’s life has been hell. You didn’t help by selfishly
taking everything from her. So, to take a page from your book, I’ve chosen the selfish path, just to
see what it’s like. I almost did it once, when I was pregnant with you. I wanted to claw you out
with a clothes hanger, but I knew my daughter needed me, so I couldn’t die then. But now, I don’t
even have her because of your lies.
           It’s so unfair.
           “Mom,” he whispered. Something sharp clawed at his brain, and he refused to let it. He
refused. This couldn’t be—not when he’d done something, not when he’d mattered. He rushed

down the corridor to his parents’ room, his hands shaking. He ignored the stabs of the broken
glass as he ran, straining his eyes to see.
           He threw the door open, but nothing was there—not even a bed.
           “Mom!” he screamed, the cry ripping from his throat.
           I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
           You just wouldn’t look—that’s why.
           “Mom,” he gasped, falling to his knees. “Mom . . . I’m sorry. Please come back. I didn’t
mean to—I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean—”
           The memory came back to him with full force. He felt the phantom of her cold ankles as
he’d pulled her down, her skin clammy beneath his grip, her eyes unseeing. God—he had done
that to her. It had been his fault. All his neediness, his hunger, his crime of wanting to be as good
as his sister—he had done it all.
           “Come back,” he begged. “I won’t say anything about what you did.” He squeezed his
eyes shut, willing away the sight of his mother’s toes, freshly painted—willing away her sharp
words. “I won’t win gold anymore. I’ll—I’ll keep quiet. Just come back,” he begged. “Please.”
           The memory choked him—pressed down on his chest. He crumpled into himself, driving
the glass shards deeper past the skin of his feet, drawing endless streams of blood. The East
River beckoned him, and he craved to go numb from its chill. It drew blood from him now,
driving deep into his heart, as he shook in that little room, all alone, all alone—
           “Shion!” distant voices yelled.
           The lights flicked on.