When Margo returned ho, her stepfather was sitting in the living room, tapping a tal clothes hanger against the coffee tree table—clack, clack, clack. The sound of tal hitting wood was crisp and bright; every strike made Margo's heart skip a beat.
"Where were you?" her stepfather asked.
"The library," Margo said, her voice tiny.
The stepfather laughed—that laugh that made her want to vomit. He stood up, walked over to her, leaned down, and brought his face close to hers. His eyes scanned her face before stopping on her eyes.
"The library," he repeated. "You went to the library in the pouring rain?"
Margo said nothing. Her stepfather straightened his back.
"I went to your school today," he said. "The teacher said you haven't been to the library at all these past few days. You left as soon as school was over."
Margo's breath stopped.
"Where did you go?" her stepfather asked again.
Margo didn't speak. She kept her head down, staring at the tips of her shoes. The laces were tied beautifully, even on both sides, with loops of the bow perfectly matched. He had taught her.
"You went to find that boy, didn't you?"
When the belt lashed down, Margo did not dodge. She knelt on the floor, keeping her back pin-straight. The hanger lashed her back, her arms, and her legs. She gritted her teeth; she did not cry, and she did not count.
She only thought of the words he had said: "I co every day. Even if it rains, even if it's windy. Whether you co or not, I'm here."
Her stepfather grew tired from the beating and threw the now-deford tal hanger onto the floor. "Don't go to school tomorrow. Stay ho. You can go back once you've reflected and figured things out."
Margo knelt on the floor, watching the hanger glint under the ceiling light.
The next day, Margo did not go to school.
Her stepfather called in her absence, saying she was sick.
Her mother said nothing; she simply made breakfast and went to work.
Margo sat on her bed, pulling the curtains back just enough to see a sliver of the street. She watched the sun rise and set until the streetlights flickered on, casting an orange glow on the ground.
No one ca.
The third day was the sa. The fourth, the fifth...
After an unknown amount of ti, she heard three distinct knocks on the windowpane. She turned her head; soone was standing outside. ssy hair, and those unmistakable dead-fish eyes.
He was standing on a crate by the wall, one hand braced against the windowsill, the other raised, ready to deliver a fourth knock.
Margo froze. She ran over and pushed the window open. A cool breeze rushed in. He stood outside, looking at her with his usual lack of expression.
"How did you get here?" she asked, her voice hushed for fear of being heard in the next room.
"You didn't show up these past few days."
"I couldn't. He won't let out."
He glanced at her but said nothing. He fished sothing out of his pocket and placed it on the windowsill. It was a piece of candy; the wrapper was crumpled, but the orange color was bright and vivid.
"Eat a sweet and it won't hurt anymore."
Margo looked at the candy, and tears suddenly spilled over. She wiped them with the back of her hand, then wiped again, but they wouldn't stop.
He stood outside the window, neither speaking nor leaving.
After a long ti, she picked up the candy, unwrapped it, and popped it into her mouth. It was sweet—orange flavored.
"Hikigaya," she said.
"Hm?"
"I want to go," she said softly but calmly. "I want to leave this place."
He looked at her for a long ti.
"Okay."
She smiled. She reached her hand out the window and took his. His hand was cold, but to her, it felt warm.
-
--
-
Early the next morning, while her stepfather and mother were out at work, Margo climbed out of the window.
Hachiman was already waiting for her at the mouth of the alley. He didn't ask a single question; he simply nodded. Together, they walked toward the Community Child Welfare Center. Neither spoke a word the entire way, but her hand gripped his sleeve tightly, never letting go.
When Yamada Akemi saw Margo, she froze for a long ti. She looked at the marks on Margo's arms, looked at her face, and looked at Hachiman standing behind her.
She opened her mouth as if to say sothing, but nothing ca out. She brought them inside and poured them water. Margo sat in a chair and pulled up her sleeves, revealing the patchwork of new and old scars.
Yamada Akemi looked at her, her eyes turning red. "Margo..."
"And," Margo said, "The way he looks at ... it's very strange. I'm very scared."
Yamada Akemi stood up and walked over, intending to hug her. Margo took a step back, dodging her, and gripped Hachiman's hand instead.
His hand was cold, but she didn't let go.
Yamada Akemi stood there awkwardly, her arms embracing empty air, but she could only manage a bitter smile.
Later, many people arrived. So in uniforms, so not. They asked her questions, took photos of her, and wanted to take her to the hospital.
She said a lot and did as she was told, but she never let go of Hachiman's hand. He stood beside her, hands in his pockets, saying nothing and asking nothing.
But he was there. He was always there.
In the afternoon, soone took her to a room with a long table. Her stepfather and mother sat on one side, and several people in uniforms sat on the other. Margo stood at the door, looking at her stepfather's face.
There was no anger on his face, no violence—only a gentle, kind smile she had never seen before. It only made her feel nauseous. He looked at her and opened his arms.
"Margo, co to Daddy. Daddy knows he was wrong. I won't hit you anymore. Co ho with Daddy, okay?"
Margo stood there and didn't move.
She rembered the sound of the belt buckle hitting the coffee table, the feeling of her knees on the floor, and her mother's fingers pinching her shoulder.
She squeezed Hachiman's hand.
"He isn't my father. He hits . He hits every day. The way he looks at is strange. I'm very scared."
The smile froze on her stepfather's face. The people in uniform questioned him, and his answers were the sa as always.
He called it discipline; he said it was for her own good; he said she fell by herself. Margo listened to those words—she had heard every one of them before, and she rembered every one of them.
On the other side, her mother beca hysterical.
"By what right!" She bolted upright, her chair clattering backward with a piercing screech. Her voice was sharp and distorted, making her unrecognizable from the gently smiling woman she usually was.
"You're taking my child away! She is mine! I gave birth to her!"
The people in uniform moved to restrain her. She struggled, her fingernails scraping across the table, leaving white gashes. Her eyes were bloodshot as she stared at Margo.
"Margo, speak!" her voice was trembling. "Has Mommy not been good to you? Mommy cooks for you every day, washes your clothes, braids your hair! When you were sick, Mommy stayed up all night with you! Have you forgotten all that?"
Margo felt Hachiman's hand holding hers. His hand was cold, but she didn't let go.
"You were hit a few tis by your father, but that's because you were disobedient!" Her mother's voice grew higher and higher. "What child isn't hit by their parents? What parents don't love their children? Go out and ask! Whose house doesn't hit their kids? You'll find out once you're out there—people on the outside won't care about you, won't love you, won't—"
"Enough," a person in uniform interrupted.
But her mother didn't stop. She broke free from the person's grasp and lunged forward, grabbing Margo's shoulders.
Her fingers dug in—hard—just as hard as they had that day in the social worker's office. Margo didn't dodge; she just looked at her.
"Mommy, it hurts," her voice was very calm.
Margo's mother's hands froze.
"You're pinching . Last ti at the social worker's office, you pinched then, too. You made say I fell by myself. You told not to speak out of turn. You said Daddy loves . You said hitting is love, scolding is love, and making bleed and cry is love, too.
When you pinch , it hurts. It hurts even more than when my stepfather hits .
Because when he hits , I know he is a bad person. He doesn't love . But when you pinch , Mommy... you say you love ."
She looked into her mother's eyes. They were exactly like her own—purple and beautiful.
There were tears in them, panic, fear, and madness—but Margo felt that she herself wasn't in there.
"But Hikigaya says love isn't pain. He says love is supposed to make people happy, not bring them suffering."
Her mother's hands slid from her shoulders. She took a step back, bumping into the corner of the table, and stumbled forward again. She opened her mouth to say sothing, but nothing ca out.
She simply stood there, staring at Margo, and at the boy standing beside her.
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