Chapter 2:The Smell Of Bleach
1204 Words
The police arrived eleven minutes later.
Ren remembered because he counted every second between sirens.
Not consciously at first.
His brain simply needed something to hold onto while the world collapsed around him.
Rainwater dripped from his sleeves as he stood barefoot outside the apartment building, surrounded by flickering red lights and strangers speaking too loudly.
Someone had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.
He didn’t remember who.
The tailor shop downstairs stood partially open, police tape stretching across the entrance like some cruel decoration. Officers moved in and out carrying cameras, evidence bags, and expressions they tried too hard to hide.
One officer vomited in the alley behind the building.
Ren saw him.
Nobody noticed Ren seeing him.
That part stayed with him.
The adults kept talking like he wasn’t there.
“Single stab wound—”
“No signs of forced entry—”
“Possible s****l assault—”
“Where’s the forensic team?”
“He’s still in shock.”
That last one referred to him.
Ren wanted to tell them he wasn’t in shock.
Shock implied confusion.
This was worse.
He understood exactly what had happened.
Not every detail.
But enough.
His mother was dead.
The world had ended.
And somehow the rain kept falling anyway.
A female officer crouched in front of him gently.
“Ren?”
He looked at her blankly.
“My name is Officer Nishida.” Her voice softened carefully. “Can you tell me what you saw?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because the moment he tried to speak, he remembered the man smiling.
Cold eyes.
Rain on black fabric.
That smile.
His stomach twisted violently.
“I…” His voice cracked. “There was a man.”
“What did he look like?”
“Tall.”
“Anything else?”
Dark coat.
Wet hair.
Empty eyes.
But every detail suddenly felt slippery inside his head.
Like trying to hold water in shaking hands.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay,” she said quickly. “You’re doing well.”
No, he wasn’t.
If he were doing well, his mother would still be alive.
The thought hit so hard he stopped breathing for a second.
The officer noticed immediately.
“Hey— hey, look at me.”
But Ren wasn’t looking at her anymore.
Because two paramedics had just emerged from the building pushing a covered stretcher.
White fabric.
Red beneath it.
Something inside him broke silently.
He stood too fast.
The blanket slipped from his shoulders.
“That’s my mother.”
No one answered.
“That’s my mother.”
Officer Nishida reached for him carefully. “Ren—”
“I need to see her.”
“You shouldn’t right now.”
“She doesn’t like thunderstorms.”
The sentence slipped out before he understood why he said it.
The officer froze.
Ren stared at the stretcher numbly.
“She gets scared when it’s loud,” he whispered.
Thunder rolled overhead again.
For one terrible second, he genuinely expected his mother to sit up laughing and complain about the rain ruining her hair.
Instead, the stretcher disappeared into the ambulance.
And the doors closed.
That sound would haunt him more than screams ever could.
—
Three days later, the apartment smelled like bleach.
The police had cleaned everything.
Not perfectly.
But enough to erase visible traces.
Enough to make it worse.
Because now the apartment looked almost normal.
The dishes still sat in the drying rack. His school bag still leaned against the wall. A half-folded sweater remained on the couch where his mother left it.
Everything was still alive except her.
Relatives came briefly.
Distant ones.
People who used phrases like: “She’s in a better place.” “You must stay strong.” “Time heals.”
Ren hated all of them instantly.
Especially the ones who cried louder than he did.
They spoke about his mother like she’d already become a memory instead of a person.
One aunt tried touching his shoulder during the funeral.
He moved away automatically.
After that, most adults stopped trying.
Rain fell during the funeral too.
Of course it did.
Ren stood beneath a black umbrella listening to prayers he couldn’t process.
People whispered around him.
“Poor child.”
“He’s all alone now.”
“Did they catch the man?”
“No suspects yet.”
“No father either, right?”
That part always came eventually.
His father.
A ghost-shaped question following him since childhood.
His mother never spoke badly about him.
Which somehow hurt more.
“He left before you could remember,” she once said gently. “Some people just aren’t built to stay.”
Ren stopped asking after that.
Now there was no one left to ask anyway.
As the funeral ended, a man approached quietly through the crowd.
Dark umbrella. Long gray coat. Tired eyes.
Detective Hajime Kuroda.
Ren recognized him immediately from the night of the murder.
The detective crouched slightly to meet his gaze.
Not pitying.
That mattered.
“I’m sorry,” Kuroda said simply.
Ren nodded once.
Most adults spoke to children like fragile glass.
Kuroda didn’t.
“Your statement helped,” the detective continued. “We’re working several leads.”
Several leads.
Meaning no real suspect.
Ren already understood that.
People who solved crimes quickly only existed in books.
Real detectives looked exhausted.
Kuroda studied him for a moment.
“Are you staying with family?”
“For now.”
“Do you have what you need?”
Ren almost answered yes automatically.
Then stopped.
Because he suddenly realized he didn’t know what “what you need” even meant anymore.
His silence answered for him.
The detective reached into his coat and handed him a small card.
A phone number.
“If you remember anything,” Kuroda said, “anything at all, call me.”
Ren looked at the card.
Then at the detective.
“You think I forgot something.”
Kuroda’s expression shifted slightly.
Interesting.
Not surprised.
“You notice a lot,” the detective said.
“My mother said that too.”
Past tense.
The words nearly shattered him.
Kuroda noticed.
But instead of apologizing, he asked quietly:
“What else did your mother say?”
Ren stared at the rain.
“That storms have rhythms.”
The detective looked confused for half a second.
Then nodded slowly.
“She sounds like she was kind.”
Was.
Again.
Ren’s chest tightened.
Kuroda stood carefully.
“We’ll find him.”
Ren watched the rain slide from the detective’s umbrella.
No dramatic music played. No burning determination appeared.
Just one terrible thought.
What if they didn’t?
The detective left shortly afterward.
Ren remained by the grave long after everyone else disappeared.
The cemetery grew quieter.
Darker.
Rain tapped softly against umbrella fabric.
And for the first time since the murder, Ren allowed himself to cry.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just silent tears falling while the storm covered the sound.
Because his mother was gone.
And deep inside, beneath grief and numbness and exhaustion—
something else had begun growing quietly.
Not hatred.
Not yet.
Something colder.
Something patient.
A question.
What kind of person smiles after killing someone?
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