The clock ticks. Seconds pass by me, sliding past my face like the hazy, humid air of this midsummer’s night. Time moves, air moves. That’s all. The moment consumes me, like I am submerged in the depths of a still lake. The coolness of concrete, the soft cushion of cardboard, the heaviness of my limbs, this is all I notice. Everything else is lost in the languid flow of time.
Tick tock.
Or not. Thank you, clock.
Smacking my dry lips, I reach over for the bottle of green tea, left unfinished from dinner. There’s enough, I drink. I don’t like moving around too much when I’m like this. The house is a small space, some two-story office left abandoned after a business went under. It’s the kind of place that isn’t valuable enough to recover, nor obtrusive enough to be worth demolishing. Some graffiti and cigarette butts bring the place together: a cozy home for a gang of delinquents. Well, even they seem to have moved on. There are more stray cats living here than there are people.
I yawn, stretching out my arms. Beside me are the remnants of a convenience store bento, and the flimsy plastic crackles, rustles. Is there a word for that sound? A sort of wobbly crinkling? Damn, I don’t even care. I’ve been too lazy lately if thoughts like this are in my mind. Sleep all day, sleep all night, wake to eat. Don’t worry about work or hobbies. For now, this is all I want. Where’s the fun in that? Well, where isn’t the fun? Everything is good, everything is great. In this dream-like world where anything can happen, nothing is the only thing worth doing.
Or, was it the other way around?
Some crows are roosting in here, and they aren’t hesitant to announce it. It’s probably a whole flock of them, moving about, flapping with the force of thunder. The sounds of summer, the distant cicadas and the fledgling sparrows, are pierced in brief spurts by the cawing of these great black birds.
It’s no good. I can’t spend this night sitting still. Like it read my thoughts, one of the birds flutters down to the windowsill near me. It stares right through me, attentive of movements, but mostly interested in the little heap of trash that made my dinner. I don’t dislike crows, but, if this one comes too close right now, I’d happily wring its neck. There hasn’t been enough to do since that night ended. She’s probably feeling the same way.
The bird is gone. Dark feathers float lazily to the floor. I only noticed the flash of white, and that told me enough.
“Still hungry?”
She trots off to a corner, crow in her mouth. What a good hunter she can be. Even I might stand to learn something.
No, not really.
This master of mine simply can’t oblige when it’s her turn to play servant. She’s off somewhere in the house; I can hear the quiet munching. Nothing personal, I know, but I wish she’d have shared.
I stand and dust myself off. This uniform is nothing special, but it gives me a hint of pride to wear it well. Shoes on, and I depart, into a quiet city, a quiet night.
The moonless sky expands above.
This is my ritual. After so long, I can’t quite drop it. Steps silent, I advance through Misaki. A city like this is always active, somewhere. Some corner shop or bar, some salaryman on his way home, some lovely lady out past dark, someone is always alive on these streets. The concrete is warm, full of heat from the day. It’s a pleasant night. Even old men will want to come out and stretch their legs sometime. The lonely, the criminal, the overworked and the drunk, this is the time for all those people to bring their life out into the open.
I walk past the city, past the park, past the small houses and the large one. The only place I avoid is the mansion, lingering portentously on the hill. That place isn’t mine. That’s all I care to know about it. I find myself at the very limits of the city, staring at the highway that stretches endlessly into the empty country. It melts into the starry sky. At the very end, there is nothing but mist, expanding like a wall over the horizon.
Of course, this metropolis has its inhabitants. Currently, I think the population is about…
One and a half?
I’ve become very familiar with everyone else. This is Mr. A, a fine gentleman and pillar of the community, Ms. B, a charming young girl, et al. They’re not much for conversation, not a single one of them. I don’t think a single one of them is still alive.
Oh yes, they move. Though they’re nothing more than bags of skin, I still find them wriggling around on the streets. Completely desiccated. Not even a drop of blood. They carpet the roads and pavements like a sheet. It’s a mass of humanity, a literal necropolis. At best, you could call them organic matter. In all this silence, the noisiest ones are the crows.
A corpse pecked apart, skin split, and eyeballs eaten. Brain matter reduced to powder. The constant caws, the beating of dark wings. The city has become a perfect rookery.
Still, there is something infinitely more wrong about that mansion. The feeling is more than ominous. It’s not anxiety either. It only feels like a place for somebody else. That’s fine by me. This city, and this quiet, endless summer, are all I need.
When I return, she’s waiting for me, sitting on the single plastic chair that furnishes our living room. Her hot little hands are clasped tightly around each other, sweat soaks into her dress. Her eyes are bright points of red, slashed in the middle by long pupils. It’s the most beautiful sight in the room. By her feet, a neat pile of feathers.
“Nanaya.” she gasps out, face flushed. Is this one of those nights?
She trembles from her fingertips, while her eyes flicker over me. Spastic, febrile actions. Breathing harshly as if through a straw. She sweats more than I’ve ever seen her. Like a snow fairy, melting in the heat. But that’s strange. It’s strange that she, so at home in this environment, would suddenly become so weak.
I blink. My heart stops. Blood leaves the brain. My vision swims in darkness, and I stumble to the floor. It beats, a fresh pulse of blood rushing to my mind. A flicker of thought. The contract? There it is: conviction. Get to her. I crawl forward. It beats. I fall. All I can do is scrabble forward in each brief interval between systole and diastole. I see it in the haze. A white hand reaching down to me.
So transparent, this fragile thing. I grasp it.
It shatters like the summer snow.
“Len!”
I sleep, dream—
Around the planet, a vanishing halo of infinite brilliance. Effulgent, like wisps of the cosmic filament. This world in all dimensions.
—and wake.
<__________>
I promise nothing but the next chapter.