When I first played Katawa Shoujo, the character of Hanako spoke to me in a very real way, particularly because I was a 16 year old who was tackling his own PTSD on his own. I had no therapist at the time, because I was deeply afraid of even admitting I needed help and making a burden out of myself.
This story entered my mind in 2012, and I've never really had the time to sit and write it. Well, now life is easier, I have free time, and I promised myself a couple weeks ago I'd sit and write out this story, even if it took the whole year. So long as I finish it by December 31st I've fulfilled a promise to myself.
It's an epilogue to Hanakos good end, in the far future.
I would also say as a content warning, do be prepared for some cynicism with regard to PTSD. I do believe that once you have it, it is treatable, but all that treatment can do is give you tools to make it quieter, but you can never completely turn it off. That is my experience, and that experience with PTSD is going to be reflected in Hanako.
As for the quality of my writing I do apologise, in the past few months I've only written poetry. Bad poetry.
Prologue: One Of Those Mornings
I wake in the night, aware only that I want to scream.
Nauseated, dizzy, the tightness in my chest, the sensation of heat all throughout my body. A panic attack. I don't even check to see if Hisao is awake, I launch out of bed and run to the bathroom, frantically fumbling with the door handle. Pushing memories of my nightmare aside, I strip out of my nightgown and step into the shower and give the knob a few hard twists.
The sensation of being blasted with cold water overtakes all, the shock of it snaps me out of my stupor. I stand in the cold water, enjoying the relief it brings, the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
God, I missed this.
Is that strange? Shocking myself out of a panic attack, then standing under the shower head until my discomfort becomes too much to bear? Face up, I stand in the spray, allowing myself to shiver. Feeling the hot tears on my face wash away. It isn't self harm, not really. Yes, I do it to distract and release myself from a panic attack. Yes, I do it because it hurts. However, as far as I can see, in order for it to be self harm, there should be some kind of permanent damage. This? Well, I suppose there's some danger of frostbite. But beyond that? This is tame. Mundane, even.
Time passes, until I'm shivering, my teeth are chattering, and my breathing becomes shallow and ragged. That's enough. I kill the water and step out of the shower, looking to the towel rack and finding it empty.
Hisao...
When I'd first met him, he was depressed, apathetic and flat. Slowly, that melted away, into a better man. Not perfect, but better. In a lot of ways, I see the kindness and gentleness of her father in him, but also the bravery and protectiveness of her mother. Our daughter couldn't ask for a better father.
However, it seems great fathers often forget to put a fresh towel on the rack.
I step out into the hallway, dripping on the floor, wet hair clinging to my back, and walk to the linen closet. I wrap one towel around me and begin patting down my hair with another.
Out the window, I see the sun just starting to crest the horizon. Hisaos alarm blares from the bedroom. I sigh, and walk into our bedroom, needing the days clothes.
Hisao, bleary eyed, stumbles past me in the hall.
"MorningHanloveyougottashower."
I smile and let him pass. Frustrating as the man was, it was cute how much difficulty he had waking up. Sometimes he talks in his sleep, he always has pure nonsense to say, but I always listen. I should probably mention maybe he should talk to a doctor about his sleeping problems, it may be related to his condition.
I find my clothes, bra, panties, socks, white button down, blue jeans and my woven belt. I dress myself while pushing thoughts of last nights dream out of my mind, the sound of my mother's screams ringing as if fresh. I walk into the kitchen and start making breakfast. Nothing special, I crack a few eggs into a pan. The secret to perfect sunny side up eggs, at least as far as I'm concerned, is to leave the lid on the pan as they cook so they steam themselves. I drop some bread in the toaster, and as everything cooks I lose myself in enjoying the smells.
I'm reminded of the nightmare. My breath catches. I can't-
Then, suddenly, in walks Yumi, our 12 year old, rubbing her eyes. She'd clearly had a rough time sleeping, too.
Don'tthinkaboutit. She's here. Be present. Be a parent.
"G'morning mum."
She opens the fridge and pulls put a carton of orange juice, pours herself a glass then sits at the kitchen table. Scratching at her arm, she mutters something under her breath about being itchy lately.
"G-good m-m-morning."
What the fuck? My stutter is back?
Whatthefuck?
Yumi cocks an eyebrow.
"Are you um... are you okay mum?"
She can see me. Of course she knows. Offhandedly, I'm aware, that I'm covering my scars with my hand again, and I drop it. I refuse to do that in front of my daughter.
"Y-yes I'm f-fine. I just n-need a minute."
Oh, no...
In the past 10 years, my stutter has faded. It took speech therapy, it took regular therapy, it took forcing myself into a retail position so I had to talk to everyone. It took a lot of hard work. One bad dream and the progress feels far away.
Yumi stands from the table walks over, and reaching her arms around me, pulls me into a hug.
Yumi always understood, didn't she? Even when she was a baby, she knew when her mama needed her. I hug her back, and a single tear rolls down my cheek.
"Did you and dad fight?"
"What? No, no... nothing like that. It was j-just a rough m-morning."
She breaks the hug, and I'm left yearning for more. In the past 12 years, I've come to understand my own mother. How she could summon the courage to shield me from-
And that's all it took, remembering what my mother did for me and how easily I would do it for Yumi. Almost violently, I pull Yumi back into the hug and sob openly.
"I would d-do anything for you, Y-Yumi. You kn-know that, right?"
"Jeez! Okay mum, I understand!" She laughs.
"I don't think you do, Yumi." I force myself to let her go. I force myself to breathe. I force myself to not reach out to her and pull her back. She didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve a mother whose emotions couldn't be predicted.
Hisao and I never told her. Not that we didn't want to. It was just that there was never a time that felt appropriate, never a time that felt safe. How do you tell your daughter a story about watching a brave woman burn to death?
She'd find out soon.
I'd healed a lot, but just like Hisao had grown into a better man, though not a perfect one, I too haven't left behind all my trauma. It will always be with me, I know that. And growing up with a mother who couldn't be emotionally relied on, it can't be easy for Yumi. Oh, I could snap out of a catatonic state to bandage a scraped knee, or when she got her first period, but there were times I knew Yumi wanted to talk about something and I was just sitting in a dark room, quiet and unresponsive. Not wanting to be seen. Hating myself for not being a mother.
She deserves to know why her mother shuts down.
I break the hug and wipe my eyes. Still crying, I check over breakfast. In time, I'm silently plating up Yumis breakfast.
"When you g-get home... I w-want to t-talk with y-you and your father. It's im-important."
She nods, and starts eating. I plate breakfast for myself and Hisao, and hear the bathroom door open.
We eat in near silence. Hisao enters the kitchen and notices my red eyes and places his hand on my shoulder, firm but gentle. I tell him I'd rather talk later, he nods to himself and simply eats.
Yumi finishes eating, leaving more than half her plate.
"Im sorry, Im not all that hungry today."
She rushes to her bedroom to go put on her uniform.
"One of those mornings?"
"Y-yes."
"It's been a while..."
"I know....I had a n-nightmare."
He looks into my eyes.
"Would you like to go somewhere tonight? It's Friday, I know you open up late on Saturdays."
Oh, bless him. He knows he isn't my therapist. He knows this wasn't a problem for him to solve. He knows I just want him to be my husband. It's tempting to take him up on his offer, too tempting. However, Yumi comes first.
"Y-yes... b-but I'd rather..."
Breathe. Relax the jaw. Roll the tongue. Focus.
"I'd love to, but I want to stay in tonight. I told Yumi I want to talk with her. I want to tell her..."
Hisao frowns, confused. "Tell her?"
"About the fire."
A moment of silence, "I see. ... Do you think the right time is after a morning like this?"
I lean back in my chair and stare up at the ceiling.
"You know, I don't think there's ever gonna be a good time, so maybe it's better if we just rip the bandaid off. I don't want to be having panic attacks in front of her for the rest of her life, breaking down in front of her, going catatonic when she needs me, without her at the very least learning why. She isnt four anymore, it used to be fine to say 'Mama has good days, mama has bad days' but everyone is like that and she knows it. She needs to know why my bad days are so bad."
Just admitting these things out loud has caused me to start crying. It's funny, you can know something about yourself in your head, but verbalising it makes it all the more heavy.
Hisao nods, "I think you're right."
He stands, and goes to the door.
"I'll be home early. Hey, take it easy today. You have staff for a reason."
I roll my eyes and stand, making sure to kiss my idiot before I let him leave.
I gather my things. Keys, purse, phone, watch. Alright, good to go. I stop at the door to grab my favorite boots and leather coat. Yumi comes out behind me and I lock up the house, before she can leave I have to let her know.
"Yumi, come here a second?"
"Yes, mum?"
I hold her face with both hands, tilting her chin up slightly.
"I love you." And before she can react, I kiss her in the dead centre of her forehead. Doesn't matter if she's getting to be tall, she's still my baby.
Embarrassed, she shakes me off and trudges away toward the bus stop. I smile to myself, and get in the car.
It was one of those mornings, the evening would be tough, too. But the work day? Well, that could still be all alright.
Edit: Typos and perspective consistency
