[He'd expected to be yelled at. A lecture, telling him to not give up, to keep trying to live in this shithole. It's what he'd say to someone who said the same thing he said - and what he'd said to Yosuke, when he'd admitted to wanting to give up.
So when Adachi says - yet again - that he understands, it's like a mild shock to his system. But then that question follows up, and it's like a punch to the gut.]
I-
[his kneejerk reaction is to say no, that's not true, but...was it, really? he had friends back then - but he had friends here, and it changed nothing.
Unbidden, the memory of all the times he'd been judged come to mind - the teachers and people on the street who looked at him, seeing nothing but a thuggish punk and a living flaw on their society. The way people in gangs looked at him, assuming his hair was dyed, a cheap way of imitating them. Of students in the hallways, gossiping about what he'd done and how many times he'd been arrested for beating up people and extorting money.
Of police officers watching him like a hawk whenever he appeared in their narrow field of vision, waiting and practically itching for him to take a single mis-step so they could swoop in and be the triumphant heroes, talking of a tragic story of youth gone wrong and the heroic officers that set him straight, got him to stop dying his hair and step in line like a good child.
Memories of a world long gone, and yet it only increases his bitterness. There were bright spots, yes - all his friends and family, who didn't care about what he looked like, what their culture said he should be - but in his current state, they're so hard to remember...and they're so small.
Finally, he lowers his hands, staring at what he's sure would be the ceiling if his 'sight' was able to see it.
The blackness in his vision fits better with his mood, anyway.]
...Yeah. You're right.
[So tired. Tired enough that he doesn't stop to think of how strange this is, coming from the cheerful detective he knows.
no subject
So when Adachi says - yet again - that he understands, it's like a mild shock to his system. But then that question follows up, and it's like a punch to the gut.]
I-
[his kneejerk reaction is to say no, that's not true, but...was it, really? he had friends back then - but he had friends here, and it changed nothing.
Unbidden, the memory of all the times he'd been judged come to mind - the teachers and people on the street who looked at him, seeing nothing but a thuggish punk and a living flaw on their society. The way people in gangs looked at him, assuming his hair was dyed, a cheap way of imitating them. Of students in the hallways, gossiping about what he'd done and how many times he'd been arrested for beating up people and extorting money.
Of police officers watching him like a hawk whenever he appeared in their narrow field of vision, waiting and practically itching for him to take a single mis-step so they could swoop in and be the triumphant heroes, talking of a tragic story of youth gone wrong and the heroic officers that set him straight, got him to stop dying his hair and step in line like a good child.
Memories of a world long gone, and yet it only increases his bitterness. There were bright spots, yes - all his friends and family, who didn't care about what he looked like, what their culture said he should be - but in his current state, they're so hard to remember...and they're so small.
Finally, he lowers his hands, staring at what he's sure would be the ceiling if his 'sight' was able to see it.
The blackness in his vision fits better with his mood, anyway.]
...Yeah. You're right.
[So tired. Tired enough that he doesn't stop to think of how strange this is, coming from the cheerful detective he knows.
He just knows that it feels right.]