. . .
The night that my brother, King Okamura, jumped off of a sixty-four foot tall building was definitely the night I should have realized that my brother was probably the most insane person that hasnât committed a federal crime Iâd ever met in my entire life.
We lived in Shibuya, Japan, meaning that a lot, and I mean a lot when I say that, people had seen my brother jump off this building, land flat on his goddamn feet and fucking survive it.
But how? I mean, I know my brother has always had some sort of interest in occultic magics, but I didnât think he was supernatural or anything.
I mean, come on now, how do you jump off of a sixty-four foot tall building and land on your feet without having a single injury?
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It had to have been some sort of magic, I mean, thereâs no possible way it wasnât. Thatâs sixty-four fucking feet, nobody can say that theyâve jumped off a building like that, considering they probably wouldâve died upon impact.
Even if he wouldâve had to be dragged to a hospital, I mean my mother did drag him to one, but he didnât have a single injury, would they have been able to save him? I guess Iâll never get the answer.
Though, I will admit that he once was sleep-talking on the couch to someone named âXokaâ, at least thatâs what I nicknamed them because it sounded like he was saying âZow-cheelâ and I donât know how to spell that.
But seriously, if my father couldnât survive an illness he had for six goddamn months, how could my brother survive that jump? And how does the world not know his name because of it?