"Mom..." The voice that comes out doesn't sound like mine. It's high pitched and creaky. I swallow a hard lump and try again. "Mom."
Nothing. Her closed eyelids don't flicker. Her chest does not rise or fall. My eyes become wet, but no tears fall.
Ambulance. I begin to crawl away, remembering I somewhere heard about people being revived shortly after death.
My hand touches something different from the tiled floor. Paper. It's tri-folded and bears my name, written in my mother's handwriting—a suicide note.
My frantic breathing slows. I pick up the note and stand, then go to the phone in the hallway.
"119 Emergency Services. Fire or ambulance?"
"Ambulance."
She asks me my location, and I give her the address. "Okay. What happened?"
I'm silent for a moment, mind blank where it needs to be and full of everything else that's just happened.
"Hello?"
"M-my mother..." Continuing is hard. So many words are there, offering themselves, but I don't want to take any of them.
"Your mother? Is she hurt?"
She's not hurt... She's dead. I crouch down and hang my head, the phone still at my ear. "Please," I sigh, "just send an ambulance."
The dispatcher asks me question after question to understand the situation since I'm unable to tell her directly. She makes me perform CPR. But with every chest compression, it gets harder and harder to continue as it becomes more and more definite that she's dead beyond return.
When the paramedics come, they send me out of the bathroom. I sit in the hallway, outside the door, knees to my chest while trying to block everything out. But they keep bringing me back, asking me questions, and I can't help but overhear their conversation confirming there's no hope.
After that, groups of people start to show up. Police officers. Investigators.
The coroner.
They introduce themselves to me, but I don't recall any of their names or faces. They ask me more questions, requiring me to replay finding her, replay me leaving for school that morning, replay all her episodes from the past years. They handle the bathroom like a crime scene. Why? I hate the fact that her body is still lying there on the cold tile floor, growing even colder.
"Katana-san," a male voice calls. I look up from the kitchen table, where an officer moved me earlier, to see a man in a suit. Did he already introduce himself? "It was just you and your mother?"
'Was.' Past tense. "Yes."
"Is there no one you can contact? Perhaps your father?"
He must think they're divorced or something. But I don't know where he is or if he's even still alive. "I don't know anything about him."
"Did your mother communicate with him?"
"I don't think so." Someone mysterious sends us money every month, but I know it's not my father. If it was, as my mother withdrew it from the bank, she would have the same victimized gaze that she gives the wedding ring she keeps in a drawer. 
"Is there no one else? Another relative? A family friend? A neighbor you're close with?"
"...There's no one." My words sink into us both.
"Ah, I see." There's regret in his voice. Then he says carefully, "It seems... she did it this morning, soon after you went to school."
Right after she forced me to go to school. And I was stupid enough to listen to her―to believe her when she said, "I'll be good if Natsu is good." I can't help but let out a sad, bitter chuckle.
A younger man steps into the kitchen. "Here's the suicide note, Chief Inspector Kurosawa. It was by the telephone."
The inspector takes it and unfolds it, asking me, "Have you read it?"
"I haven't."
As he reads the note, his face morphs into a deep frown. He glances up at me, looks back down at the letter, and purses his lips. Sighing deeply, he leans back in the chair. "Minase," he calls the subordinate back to his side.
"Yes, sir?"
"Look around the house to verify this is her handwriting."
"Yes, sir." The man leaves the room, and a few moments later, I hear footsteps go up the stairs.
"Don't worry," the inspector says, "it's just protocol." He swallows, then asks, "Did you and your mother get along?"
Why is he asking? "We were fine."
"Ah, I see. Before you left for school, did she show any warning signs? Talking about death or giving up, quitting her job, acting depressed...?"
My mind flashes back to yesterday when I sat beside the toilet and watched her say, 'Mom won't force you to eat anymore,' with the most resigned expression she's ever shown. "She gave up... on me." I glance up at the inspector, doubting he'll even understand what I mean.
He looks at me curiously but calmly. "Did you do something to upset her?"
Another chuckle escapes. What didn't I do? Not eating, growing, talking to people, merely looking like my father... Throughout the years, I've always been her trigger. I cover my face with my hands and lean my arms on the table. Yesterday, I didn't just reject the food with my words—my body rejected the food.
"I don't know," I mumble. I don't know why these things involving me would trigger her. I uncover my face and meet the inspector's gaze—now, with the curiosity, there's suspicion. "She was mentally ill. She's been ill for years. I've never understood."
The inspector doesn't say anything in response. We silently wait for his subordinate to return. When he does, he has papers in his hand. He and the inspector compare them with the letter. The subordinate's face morphs into the same deep frown the inspector wore.
Meanwhile, the inspector looks impassive. "Good," he observes. "I need a smoke. Come outside with me, Minase." Along with Minase, he leaves, the note still in his hand.
At the same time, I watch them wheel out my mother's body, concealed under a large cloth. Standing up, I follow it out but stop at the genkan. What am I doing? It's not like I can go with her to the morgue. Only now do I notice how much time has passed since I came home; the sun is almost completely gone.
"Sir, that note... Isn't it horrible?" a voice asks, sounding appalled. Minase?
"Yeah. Strange too. She was certainly mentally unstable." There's a pause then a cloud of smoke floats past the doorway. "It's probably best if he doesn't read it. At least not right now."
I sink to the floor and let out a bitter chuckle. It's so bad that they're keeping it from me. What did she say? Probably blamed me. I don't want to confirm.
"... you're young, so I want you to do it, Minase."
"Huh? Ah―I mean, uh, yes, sir."
The inspector enters the doorway and freezes upon seeing me. I hate the pity his eyes contain. He glances at the note between his fingers, then at me, then back at the note again. He holds it up in front of Minase's chest. "Take care of this, Minase." He stands at the genkan and calls inside to his staff, "Pack up!" then steps back and looks down at me. "Well, you probably heard, but Minase here is going to stay with you for a while since you don't have anyone else. Tomorrow, we'll send over a social worker and other people to help with the next steps, so sit tight until then." He pats his subordinate on the shoulder, says, "Good luck," then leaves.
Minase starts to wince but straightens his face.
I stand up and move out of the way to let everyone, sans Minase, leave. Once they've gone, he closes the door.
"Ah, um... I'm sorry for your loss." He bows.
I feel so numb that I can barely process the words. I block out the memories of earlier. I block out the memories of the past years. I block out the guilt. I block out the sadness. I block out the confusion. I block out the resentment. I block out everything until I'm a shell that can politely bow back and say, "Please make yourself comfortable."