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CHAPTER SEVENTY,
vending machine

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༇ THE reason Yoshiro Shirabi joined the boxing club wasn't for the money only.

He needed to be able to fight. To defeat the filths.

The apartment they lived in was no more than a cramped box stacked onto a row of other boxes in a neighborhood of Tokyo.

The walls were thin. The floorboards creaked under every step. The windows were cracked. There was no heating in winter, and no air conditioning in summer.

His father was gone. He didn't remember the funeral, only that his mother would only come out of bed to sit on the floor and whisper things Shirabi didn't understand. His parents never sat on the floor to whisper things before his father died.

"Lord, cleanse him. Make him right. Make him pure."

They had barely enough to eat. Shirabi often went to bed hungry. The cupboards were mostly empty, save for a jar of fish that smelled so strong it made him gag.

Whenever Shirabi got bored, or felt a bit too miserable in his tiny bedroom, he'd sneak all the way to the other side of the city. To the suburbs.

Where the rich people lived. Where the rich kids played. Where no kids would get beaten up after school. Where the kids could ask for any type of dinner.

He'd sit near the playground and would pretend to fit in by sticking a flower in his hair, because all the girls often wore clips or hair bands, and all the boys wore cool hats or also hair bands. Shirabi would get laughed at if he showed up with a hair band.

His legs would dangle off the bench. He watched the other kids play for hours. Watched their parents pick them up or help them go down the slide.

"Hey, there." And one day, a male voice spoke in his ear. "Are you on your own, buddy?"

Shirabi had turned his head. His eyes met a pair of brown ones. "Yes, mister," he said, because that's what you call rich people.

"Does your Mama or Papa know you're here?" The man asked. He sat down next to Shirabi.

Shirabi hesitated. Then lied, "Yes, mister. Mama knows."

"Good." His gaze softened. "Make sure you go home before it gets dark."

"Are the people here mean in the dark, mister?" Shirabi asked.

"They can be," the mister said. "A lot of things happen in the dark. But don't worry, this neighborhood is quite safe."

"I know," Shirabi lied. "Because I live here."

"You do?"

"Yes." He stared forward, determined. "I'm so rich, I can buy a drink from the vending machines, mister."

"Wow." The mister's eyebrows shot up. He gasped. "You must be very rich, then."

Shirabi nodded. "I am."

Mister reached inside his pocket and pulled out a stack of small papers. He handed them to Shirabi.

"What is this?" Shirabi asked. He brought one of the papers to his mouth. Sometimes, he and his friends would buy edible paper.

"Money. I wouldn't eat it if I were you."

Shirabi pulled back immediately. He pulled a face at the paper. "Money? Like coins?"

"Yes, but the paper is worth more than the coins," the mister explained. "This is 10,000 yen. For you, because... you're so polite."

Shirabi gasped. He sat up straighter. "10,000?! Thank you! Thank you, mister! Bless you!"

"Go buy some drinks and food." Mister patted Shirabi's shoulder, then stood up and brought his hands to his mouth. "Kaede! Time to go home!"

A little boy came running towards the mister. He looked much younger than eleven-year-old Shirabi. The smaller boy waved. Shirabi waved back. Then he followed his father home.

Shirabi pushed the money in his pocket and sprinted home as fast as he could. He couldn't wait to buy drinks from the vending machine near school. He'd see it everyday and take months to collect just the right amount of coins to buy something. Now he could buy millions of drinks with something as simple as paper.

A different boy stands in front of the vending machine when Shirabi arrives. He moves funnily. Shirabi's eyebrows scrunch when he sees faint green marks on the boy's nails. His backpack includes pink elements.

"Filth!" Shirabi screams. He grabs the boy's shoulder, spins him back, and shoves him against the brick wall. "Say it!" He throws a punch. "Say you're a sinner!"

Not long after 'filth' leaves his mouth, a bunch of different kids come running, and Shirabi is no longer the only one using his fists on the boy.

Afterwards, the group disperses. Shirabi immediately wastes all his money on the vending machine, drinks four cans in a few minutes, and goes home while holding the rest. 

By the time he climbs into bed that night, Shirabi is exhausted. He stares at the one bill he has left, smiling. He didn't know paper could be worth so much. Tomorrow, he'll create his own money and buy more drinks. He does admire the mister's drawing skills— Shirabi's bills will never look so good. He wonders if the bills will work if the drawing is bad.

He also wonders if he's the sinner, or if he's the one who enforces the sin.

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🂱 A/N: Just to clear it up, I'm not trying to create stereotypical religious groups. I respect those who are religious just as much as I respect atheists and agnostics. Every religion/group is different. Shirabi just grew up in a bit of a toxic environment (not only because of religion, but because of many factors), that's it. I hope it was realistic enough <3