It was 8:24 in the morning.

Takaharu stared blankly at something his eyes couldn’t even focus on anymore.

He was in the parking lot of his apartment complex, once again, on a Wednesday morning, dressed in the usual shitty uniform he was forced to wear just to work in some shitty upper class ‘sushi bar’.

Which was hardly even that. It was just a foil over a generic, expensive, upper class restaurant. One that didn’t pay it’s employees hardly enough.

Work was work, though. If it brought money.

Which was probably why he was standing here, 36 minutes before work started, standing in the parking lot with an empty expression as he stared into the open trunk of his ‘57 Chevy Bel Air, the black of his uniform reflecting warpedly off the bright red paint.

He wasn’t sure what caused it today. He couldn’t remember.

He really hoped that /he/ wasn’t awake yet to stare at him judgingly from the window of his room.

Something about the mere thought made his chest tighten. He knew he was a failure. He knew everyone could tell just from looking at him. Was it the defeat in his eyes? The way he got so wasted he couldn’t get into his room without collapsing in a drunken heap or sleeping in his car? He knew. He knew. HE KNEW.

He KNEW he’d be dead before he turned 40. He knew he wouldn’t amount to anything. HE KNEW HE’D DIE ALONE. He didn’t need someone to tell him that, to judge him for his circumstances, how his entire life trainwrecked into this moment the second he came out to his parents and-

Takaharu’s vision suddenly focused on what he was staring at in the trunk.

A rope.

It had been there for years. It reeked of motor oil and gasoline, from the times he used it to repair the vehicle himself to avoid an auto bill.



It could be today. He could do it today and everything would be over.

It all could end before his shift even started.

It would be.

So.

Easy.




Takaharu’s hand twitched, bringing him out of the moment with a frown.

...No. not today.

Wednesday was the worst day to die. Friday was a funner day to off yourself.

He laughed grimly to himself at his own gallows humor, slamming the trunk of his car and trotting to the driver’s side.

Takaharu Okimoto got into his car, started the engine, and would work another perfectly average, horrible day.








And this Wednesday morning would repeat itself for months to come.