7:23 am, Friday
April 14th, 2017 – Setagaya, Tokyo
I couldn’t tell you how long I sat there motionless and terrified, but I must have eventually succumbed to sleep. When I awake to the sound of sirens the next morning, the lights are still on, and the center of the room reeks of beer.
The second I’m awake, I feel like I’m going to vomit when everything comes back to me in one swift blow.
My eyes cut to the floor.
He’s gone.
I should feel relieved. But I don’t.
Shaking my head in disbelief at what was just too vivid a dream, I throw myself out of bed and peer around the corner into the bathroom. I don’t spot anything out of the ordinary, so I drop to the floor and feel around under the bed. I then search through the wardrobe, the cupboards, and even inside the fridge.
That fucker’s still in here somewhere— I know it!
I’m still not convinced the talking bird isn’t hiding out somewhere in my room when an abrupt rap on the door interrupts my frantic search.
“Rach, are you coming?” Georgia’s voice bellows. “We’re about to leave without you!”
Shit.
I rush back to the bedside, yank open the curtains, and gaze down at the street below. Children in bright yellow caps and clunky backpacks are already traipsing the footpaths on their way to school, and the intermittent screech of sirens, followed by a looping warning about road blockades is echoing from a few miles down the street.
The sounds of emergency services are familiar around here, but not typically due to crime. This dorm is essentially the neighborhood’s single source of youth amongst a growing population of retirees, so while police cars may be rare, ambulances are a common sight. More often than not, the vehicles seem to be tending to the elderly, but whatever is going on outside today sounds serious — more consequential than a broken hip.
Georgia calls through the door again. “They’re saying the trains are all backed up, so we’re leaving early. You coming or what?”
“Two minutes!”
I’m already scooping up my backpack and shoving my books inside.
I quickly feel around the pillows and blankets on the floor in search of my phone. When I find it, I ignore the unread messages flashing on its screen; I stuff it into my back pocket and keep moving.
Without changing my clothes or even daring to check my reflection, I smooth down my hair, snatch up my shoes, and quickly join Georgia in the hallway.
She eyes me up and down as I stagger, trying to pull on a heeled boot.
“You look like shit.”
I don’t say anything. I just grunt.
We walk silently down the hallway and pile into the elevator with a few other residents heading to the ground floor. Slowly, the doors shut. Then the cage begins to lower with a creak.
“Deal with your pest problem?” Georgia mocks, and something in my stomach turns over. In the rush of trying to get out the door, I’d briefly forgotten about my bizarre evening talking to a stupid drunk bird with powers.
What a freaky nightmare.
I begin to fiddle unconsciously with my necklace as I mentally piece together the events of last night. I’m trying to remember whether I drank yesterday and somehow got so carried away I started seeing things.
No, I wouldn’t have drunk. I was hungover from the night before. It must have been something I ate. But then, what was that beer doing all over the floor?
I finally notice Georgia squinting at me, awaiting a response.
“I-it was nothing.”
She laughs coldly. “Oh really? So, no animal, huh?”
I can’t retort. I’m running a major sleep deficit. Right now, I’m about as sharp as a pair of those Crayola safety scissors that cut in a stupid zigzag.
When the elevator grinds to a halt, the mob of residents pile into the foyer and out through the front doors. Automatically, Georgia and I move to follow them, and as we do, I find myself gazing over at the common room. The room looks empty at first, but then I notice two heads of long blonde hair, draping over the back of a tartan green couch inside.
One step ahead of me, as always, Georgia calls over. “Lucas! El! We’re going!”
The two straighten and hoist themselves up, Lucas much more cumbersomely than his girlfriend.
A little surprised to see them, I send what must look like a confused smile their way. “Hey, guys. What’re you doing here?”
I haven’t seen Lucas and Elena since their Valborg party on Wednesday night. More specifically, when they shoved me over to their sour cream sandwich cake and insisted I give it a taste. I think they were expecting me to hate it, but I thought it was delicious, hence why I had a second slice. At this, Lucas slapped me on the back, told me I was a “badass,” then proceeded to help himself to Elena’s wallet to collect his winnings.
Lucas gives himself a firm shake and rubs a hand over his forehead. His blonde shoulder-length hair is pulled back into a shiny ponytail, and he looks like he could use a shave.
All he manages to choke out at first is the word ‘games.’
Then he coughs into his fist. “D-drinking games.”
“Lucas was playing King’s Cup with Sander and some others last night,” Elena clarifies, throwing a disappointed gaze to her boyfriend. “I think he may have overestimated himself again.”
My head is now craning around like a meerkat’s.
“Where’s Sander now?” I chime, only to instantly regret it when I hear Georgia suppress a knowing snort beside me.
Elena directs a thoughtful look at the ceiling, her deep green eyes and petite, angular features casting shadows on her face as she shifts. She’s at least half a foot taller than me, and she’s so slim and gorgeous, I can’t help but wonder why on Earth she puts up with Lucas’ scruffy five o’clock shadow and tattered clothes. I’m not saying the guy is bad looking — far from it. But a couple of minutes in front of the mirror in the morning and, you know, a comb, would probably do him some good.
But, then again, who the hell am I to judge? I haven’t even showered today.
“I was half-asleep,” Elena recalls, “but I think I saw Sander leave about twenty minutes ago. He was on the phone. It sounded kind of urgent.”
“Oh, okay.” I feel a tinge of disappointment. “Well, shall we head off then?”
Elena and Georgia nod as Lucas picks himself up and trudges toward us, wincing at the sunlight streaming in through the glass doors.
“Let’s get this over with,” he moans. “At least it’s Friday.”
The doors part when we approach, and in the brief moment we’re all blinded by the brilliant sunny sky, Elena takes the opportunity to creep up playfully behind Lucas and flick him in the ear.
He swats her away. “Ack! Cut it out, babe!”
She giggles then falls back into step with Georgia and I behind him.
A cool breeze brushes past us as we start down the footpath. It’s the perfect day to be outside — not too hot, and not too cold — and certainly not a bad day to have a hangover. Yesterday’s sweltering heat made me want to vomit just that little bit more, so if you ask me, Lucas should be grateful.
When we pass the diner, the sounds of sirens hollering in the distance becomes suddenly clearer, cutting sharply through the sunny ambiance. Two more high-pitched vehicles have just joined the piercing chorus.
We almost slow to a stop when the speakers atop an approaching fire engine begin to bellow. “We are about to run a red light,” they screech. “Please be careful.” And as the wall of red rushes past in the opposite direction, it takes a full minute before its intermittent sirens and warnings become inaudible in the distance.
“Apparently there was a big tremor this morning,” Georgia says. “Did you guys feel it?”
I shake my head. This is news to me.
Although I’m not accustomed to bustling city life, I’m a heavy-as-hell sleeper, so I’ve quickly grown used to the sounds of traffic and sirens in the early hours of the morning.
Earthquakes, however, are a different story.
My rudimentary understanding of third-grade science tells me that because Australia is situated on one great big tectonic plate, there’s not much for the landmass to bump up against to cause an earthquake. And so, tremors in this country have a habit of shocking me awake. I’m just not used to them.
“I was watching the news this morning,” Georgia continues, “and they said it was pretty strong, but I swear, I’ve felt much bigger ones at home.”
“We never have ‘quakes in Australia,” I comment. “But what we lack in tremors, we make up for in hellish blazes of destruction.”
At this, Elena leans across Georgia to cock an eyebrow at me.
“Bushfires,” I clarify. “They burn up fucking everything. Summer in Australia is actually pretty tragic.”
As I shatter Elena and Georgia’s idealistic images of my sun-bleached home with a story about the time I found a charred kangaroo on the side of the road, Lucas plugs his ears with his fingers and groans.
“I swear to God, I can still hear that fire truck. Can you girls still hear that truck?”
We look at one another, then back at him. We then have a moment of silence for Lucas’ hangover.
Aside from the thicker than usual crowds at the station, our trek to university is mostly uneventful. However, being stuffed inside an extra-crowded train seems to warrant even more silence than is typical for peak-hour. It’s a silence that makes my overly imaginative mind begin to wander.
The carriage of the train rattles noisily. I find myself staring at an ad I’ve seen a dozen times before above the luggage rack. And as I do, I can’t help but wonder about last night.
It was all a hallucination — I know that now — but still harboring the niggling possibility that it wasn’t, I catch myself growing especially wary of movements in the shadows when the four of us leave Yotsuya station and begin the final leg of our journey to campus.
It occurs to me that even if I somehow hallucinated so hard that my plush toy started talking, the things it said might not have been entirely made-up. How can I know that the supposed threat to my life it so casually mentioned wasn’t based on some grain of truth buried in my subconscious? Maybe I’m being followed, and some sixth sense of mine knows that and is trying to warn me. Maybe there’s a psycho lurking around a corner, waiting for the right moment to drag me down an alleyway and do God knows what!
I cast a wary glance over my shoulder, feeling my skin prickle with paranoia, and it doesn’t take long before an even stranger thought begins to hover.
On the off chance that the entire confrontation last night was real — both the talking bird and the looming danger — I can’t know whether the assailant will take the form of someone like me or a sentient vending machine.
Why did the stupid thing have to pass out and disappear!?
We’re entering the campus gates now, so I quickly block out the last twenty minutes and downgrade the bird’s existence to nothing more than a crazy-ass dream.
“Anyone got any plans I can butt in on for the weekend?” I ask, desperate for a distraction.
“I know Jackie wanted to go to the aquarium in Ikebukuro tomorrow,” Georgia answers. “I haven’t been yet. Do you think she’d mind if we tagged along?”
“I don’t see why she would.” I tap Elena and Lucas’ shoulders ahead of us. “What about you two? Wanna come with?”
Elena responds on behalf of them both, shooting me a warm smile. “We already saw it last month. I’m sure you’ll have a great time though. The exhibits are huge!”
I nod and give Lucas a punishing squeeze on the shoulder. “Okay, maybe next time then.”
I figure I should find out from Jackie what time she plans on leaving tomorrow, so I swing my backpack around to my chest and wrench out my phone. I then notice a weariness seeping through me when I realize Matt’s routine onslaught of morning messages has come early today.
7 Unread Messages – Matt
…
Here’s the thing.
Whether or not I decide to be prompt in my response to this daily battery is always a fickle calculation — one dependent on my mood, how busy I am, and how neglectful I’ve been in the days prior. Today, however, I can already sense there’ll be little need for me to deliberate.
Look, Matt’s great. He’s always been great. And like I said before, everything was still very much sunshine-and-daisies between us when I left for exchange. Even though I could see the disappointment in his eyes when I told him I decided to begin the application process, he said to me that going on exchange would be the opportunity of a lifetime and encouraged me to go for it. He’s considerate like that — the type of person who would never let their insecurities or feelings cloud what they know is best for someone else. But now, as strange as it sounds, I’m beginning to think that this unrelenting kindness of his may be a problem.
I’ve started to realize that at times, dating Matt can be compared to dating a customer service representative. Our conversations can be… kind of flat. One-dimensional. Like a continual exchange of pleasantries and “How can I help?” And on the whole, the dynamic we have lacks something I’ve begun to notice in the couples around me.
Take Lucas and El. It’s clear Lucas does things that piss Elena off to no end, but the enthusiasm and competitive spirit they share is fun — even just to watch. They laugh and joke, and play tricks on one another like kids, and during the times I’ve found myself playing spectator to these exchanges, I can’t help but feel a little envious because Matt is just not that type of person. What he possesses in kindness and a willingness to give, he lacks in wit and energy. And recently, I’ve begun to worry that is a bad sign.
I guess this is what they mean when they talk about couples having a “spark.”
Eventually, I slip the phone into my pocket and make an executive decision to wait to talk to Jackie about her weekend plans in person. I already feel like a pretty lousy girlfriend, and I know I’ll feel even guiltier if I go ahead and message Jackie while ignoring all the messages from Matt.
So, I don’t do it.
I know I’m being stupid. I know that if this constant messaging is something that bothers me, it’s probably something we need to have a conversation about; I’ve watched enough Dr. Phil to know that. But I guess I just feel guilty for feeling this way.
I think he really misses me.
And so, rather than face my problems like an adult, I place a bucket under the leaky ceiling and walk away.
8:58 am
Sorry. Chat later. Got a hectic day xx
Needless to say, the ‘leak’ does not get fixed.
For the rest of the morning, I’m copying down the characters on the whiteboard with all the enthusiasm of a sloth. Every now and again, I can feel my phone still vibrating against my leg, but as I prop my head up sleepily on my elbow, I force the thought of Matt out of my mind.
I am so tired, and so goddamn bored, and today’s content isn’t making it any easier to pay attention. We’re revising verb conjugations.
Thrilling stuff.
Eventually, and with little other than rehashed grammar structures to keep me awake and stimulated, the space in my mind begins to fill with more interesting thoughts — thoughts of Sander.
As soon as I catch myself thinking about him, I bite my lip and grudgingly beat away the images; I was remembering the look he gave me when he suggested we argue about soulmates over tea.
What was that? Was that a real invitation?
I bite my lip a little harder when I realize I’m still thinking about him, but I’m desperate for any excuse to continue focusing on pleasant memories; it’s a great distraction from the looming paranoia brought on by last night’s trip. So, feeling torn, I begin in search of solace and carefully tease out the morality of my mind-wandering.
Married women in their forties fantasize about hunky firefighters and policemen, right?
Of course they do. There’s a whole genre of dirty calendars dedicated to that shit. Although, I find their supposed appeal somewhat confusing. And don’t even get me started on the photos that have animals in them. I get that including a basket of dogs or kittens is supposed to symbolize a nameless hunk’s sweet and nurturing side, but these calendars make me want to scream, “Keep your smutty lens away from those innocent puppies! They didn’t ask for this!”
But I digress.
Just because a homemaker spends her afternoon on the washing machine imagining all the things she’d like those emergency service workers to do to her, that doesn’t mean she’s inherently unfaithful, right?
Of course not! And by that logic, I am most certainly in the clear. I’m not married; I’m only twenty. And for the record, I was not thinking about that anyway. Sander is just nice to think about aesthetically. That’s all. So, as far as I’m concerned, my mind’s sauntering off just now was as innocent as sighing at a hunk calendar. The only difference is that Sander isn’t photoshopped and in print.
Not as far as I know, anyway.
But it’s as I’m deciding I’m satisfied with my moral analysis that a frightening realization hits me — one that just about makes me choke on my spit.
The guy is in his thirties, which means that, under those tight shirts he wears, h-he must have a whole load of chest hair.
I clear my throat and begin fiddling with my pen.
Oh, dear God. What is happening to me?
I spend the next half hour trying hard to suppress the feeling that I’m disgusting or that I’m undergoing some horrifying hormonal transformation that’s making my taste in men completely change. And what started as a quick moral check-in swiftly devolves into a tormenting back-and-forth screaming match inside my head, featuring the somewhat older eye candy I’m getting the urge to think about and my ideas about whether that urge is normal or not. Funnily enough, it doesn’t take long for the Matt factor to completely fall away in the struggle.
I soon find myself suppressing an anxious groan as I glance nervously around the classroom.
I’m too young for this shit— I only just turned twenty!
I never did like those stupid calendars, and I can’t stand hairy chests, so, even though it takes a while, I eventually manage to calm down, reminding myself that Sander doesn’t look a day over twenty-five, and I haven’t actually seen what’s under his shirt.
Deciding there’s still hope yet, I give in to my imagination and go with it, shamelessly indulging in my mental wanderings all morning, and it turns out to be great. I regret nothing. And I’m pleased to inform anyone concerned that no animals were humiliated in the making of this fantasy.
They’d be redundant anyway.
Because judging by the few short conversations I’ve had with Sander, he seems just about as sweet as they come.