“Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo … Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo …”
“All right, all right, I’m up …”
I roll over and open my eyes. I’m in a large extravagant room, on top of a score of down pillows piled in its centre. Thin mesh drapes surround me. Beyond the drapes and the pillows, hundreds of candles line the walls and extend far into the darkness. A giant paper lantern hovers in mid-air over the blankets. The fire glowing within it is a deep blood red. Ghostlike wisps of incense hover in the dark air.
I have a bad feeling about this.
I roll across the pillows, to come out from under the drapes. My arms and legs feel heavy, as though something is weighing them down. The atmosphere, perhaps? I don’t know. Maybe wherever this place is, it’s high up a distant mountain. That would explain why it’s so cold. The air feels strange, too, and not just from the thick odour of incense and tatami. I bundle myself in my robe as best as I can, but it is so thin it does little to improve how I feel. I stumble in the dark until my hands find a door that I can slide open. There is more illumination beyond the door, in this strange, narrow hallway; I’m grateful, but still uneasy. I don’t recognize these surroundings, either. It is still cold. The tatami under my hands and knees crunch with breaking frost. What is this place?
“Cybelle?” The sound of my name is soft, but close. “That is Cybelle, isn’t it?”
“Huh? Oh. Hey …” My words get lost as a strong pair of arms wrap around me from behind. Instant warmth against my body; just what I needed.
“So, you’re here at last. I’ve been waitin’.”
I laugh a little, finding it hard to breath against the arms tightening around me. “Geez, it’s only been a few hours. Did you miss me that much? Ow. Zaniel, what’s gotten into you?”
“Zaniel, Zaniel, Zaniel … don’t you ever think about anythin’ else? Come on, this is your chance to be with a real man. Your last chance, if you think about it. Then again, you don’t think about much, now do ya?”
“Ow. You’re hurting me …”
The arms tighten even more. “Good.”
A gurgle comes out of me, a choking sound that cannot escape my body any more than I can escape the arms pinning me. Even my breath feels trapped in my lungs. I can barely scream for help. This is not Zaniel. It can’t be; Zaniel would never do this. I lunge sideways and forward, trying to break from the deadly embrace. I’m only able to breathe for a moment before the arms release me and pin my throat between two strong bicep muscles. A high-pitched sound I didn’t think I could make squeaks from my mouth. My eyes roll back against their will. I can’t see anything.
“Don’t bother,” says the deep growl that is no longer Zaniel’s voice. “He can’t help you now. Don’t you get it? He’s mine.”
“No … h … he —”
A light flickers in the darkness. A lit cigarette glows. “Buzz off, Hino,” the voice growls again. “You don’t need to see this.”
A high school girl leaning against the distant wall takes a long drag on her cigarette. “I really do not understand your actions sometimes, Akki. You got him back; what do you want with her? She cannot do anything for him.”
“This don’t concern you. This’s between me an’ her. I won’t let her take him from me. She ain’t takin’ him back to America, where they tortured him. They made him suffer!”
“You really believe that is what she wanted?”
“WHY ELSE WOULD SHE TAKE HIS BRACELETS OFF, HINO?”
I croak out another horrid sound. “I —”
“Fuckin’ gaijin. You destroy what you don’t understand and mourn for it when it’s gone. Don’t think you’re special, half-human. They’ll just do the same to you.” The arms tighten even more around my throat. “Consider this a favour.”
“N— no,” I choke. I try to pull at his giant fingers, but it’s like scratching at thick bands of rope. I gag. I can feel my body has frozen up. It’s as if I’m already unconscious, but I’m looking down on myself from high above, and watching my body thrash in my struggle for breath. He is choking me, here, and killing me, there …
“You’re a tough one,” growls a voice in my ear. “I’m gonna enjoy seein’ those big brown eyes of yours every day.”
As I slump to the floor, he kneels behind me, still squeezing. What do I do? I feel liquid running down my cheeks from my eyes and hope it isn’t blood. What do I do?
Cybelle. It is but a whisper, but it rings so familiar to me it seems to echo off the walls. “Help,” I struggle to say. But deep down, I know it is the whisper of someone who cannot help me.
The whisperer can only watch. Even before the whisper continues, I know what I need to do.
Cybelle — RUN.
Summoning what little strength I have, I concentrate, shunting it down my body. It hurts to move. But I have to. My right foot shoots out behind and drives hard into the man’s groin. He lets out a high-pitched cry as he crumples to the floor, holding himself in his hands.
“Ow! Fuck! Why do you keep kickin’ me in the crotch?!”
My only reply is with my other foot, driving right into the giant man’s face, knocking him to the floor. Sobbing, coughing, still unable to see, I stumble-run down the hallway for my life. I run blindly down the twists and turns, slipping several times and banging against the walls, down a long flight of stairs to where I see a door — a regular push-and-pull door with a knob.
With a last burst of speed, I launch myself forward and go right through it.
“Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo …”
I flail upright in my bed. Thank God, it was only a nightmare. I collapse back down onto my pillow and give it a good, tight squeeze. Then I stop, remembering the feeling around my throat. I touch my neck. It even feels tender. I wonder if there’s a bruise. No, that would be ridiculous. It was just a dream. A vivid, bizarre, fucked-up dream.
“Cybelle!” I hear my name. “Breakfast!”
Downstairs in the dining room, everyone is already seated and digging in. I take the seat next to Bully in front of a short stack drowning in maple syrup and topped with a pat of butter. “Look what the cat dragged in,” my twin sisters snicker.
I ignore them, clapping my hands together. “Yum. Thanks, Mom.”
“Hey,” Dad chides me. “I helped with the bacon.”
“Thank you, Daddy. Itadakimasu!”
“We’re not in Japan,” Bully snaps at me. “Just eat, already. We’re going to be late, thanks to you.”
“Late? For what?”
Bully slams her fists on the dining table. “She forgot about the wedding. Mo-om, Da-ad, Cybelle forgot about my wedding!”
Mom ignores her. “Cybelle, eat fast or we’re going to be late. We don’t have time for jokes today.”
I pick up my fork and knife to start hacking away. “I didn’t forget. It’s just that … well, I should tell you. I just had the most horrifying dream. I was —” I look up from my forkful of pancakes. There’s something in the kitchen window. “What the hell is that?”
No one seems to hear me. They go on, chatting with one another. Something scratches at the window. It disappears from sight, reappearing at the back door. It’s a giant boar. Somehow, someway, it manages to wedge its thick, massive snout into the aluminum side between the door and the kitchen wall. It pushes through the crack, and the door begins to slide open.
It’s coming inside.
“No!” I leap from my chair, toppling it over. Again, no one notices anything out of the ordinary. I throw myself against the door, trying to stop the beast. I push my shoulder and my foot against the door, noticing two more creatures in the backyard. They look like shiny gold aliens with bulging black eyes. One is eating plums off a small tree. Its mouth is smothered in dark juice as it crams more and more fruit into its face. Another is fishing in the mint garden, fishing rod in its awkward hands and a small bucket of fresh smelt beside its naked bum. It turns and sees me and smiles a stretched-out row of translucent shark teeth. I scream for help again and again, but no one comes to the rescue.
I look over my shoulder. My family. Where did they go? There’s only a gathering of glowing will-o’-the-wisps around our dining table.
“Storm’s a brewin’,” says a high-pitched voice. “Perfect weather for a wedding.”
I turn my attention back to the door. The boar is now a person, two feet taller than me with dead anime eyes and a wide toothy grin. It isn’t pushing the door open anymore. It’s reaching for me. My last cry for help is cut short, gagging in my throat as the dead-eyed creature smiles, squeezes, and smiles even more. Slowly, I begin to lose the battle for my life. My eyes flutter. My legs kick. Everything goes dark and quiet.
“Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo …”
“What?” I sit upright.
I look around the big round table, covered in white linen with a huge bouquet of flowers in the centrepiece. At least ten empty dishes lie in front of everyone sitting at the table. All the women are dressed in their finest kabas, and all the men sport kente vests under sharp-looking suit jackets. Couples. If they’re not engrossed in conversations with each other, they are scrolling and clicking away on their smartphones. No one seems to notice I’m even here.
I’m in a violet-pink lit room full of people sitting at similar-looking tables in heterosexual pairings. The shouting and thumping bass are loud. Somewhere behind me, off toward one end of the room, tables have been moved away to make space for an already-packed dance floor. Several onlookers are snapping away on cellphones or giant cameras on tripods. Something tells me that is the part of the room I should be in. Not here, the only single girl at the table.
I stand up. Someone grabs my hand and pulls me down. I can’t place who it is, but the couples on either side of me are now staring at me intently. “Where are you going?” the women ask in unison. “Come on, talk to us. How was China? The food was obviously good there, eh?” I feel fingers jab at my stomach and my sides.
“Leave me alone,” I stand up again, violently this time. My chair topples over. Déjà vu.
“Aw, come on! Talk to us. Stay here with us.” The chorus of voices follow me down the room as I finesse my way around each table, heading for the dance floor and yet feeling like it’s so far away that I’ll never reach it. I’m bombarded with questions and gossip and grabby hands pulling at my kimono from each table I pass:
“How did your youngest sister end up marrying before you?”
“Didn’t you bring anyone back with you? How sad!”
“You’re not going back there, are you?”
“Don’t you know how much your family needs you?”
“Wish I could pack up and ship off to a foreign country anytime I want. If only I didn’t have a husband … You’ll see, one day you’ll see how lucky you were …”
“Let go,” I tell them all. “Get off me!”
It’s like wading through thick seaweed, trying to get past. Someone grabs my wrist again. I whip my arm out of their grip and smack into a butler — or something that looks like a butler. It’s half my size, and there’s a metal block where its head should be. “You-want-some-more?” It holds up a flute full of champagne. I shake my head no and keep going. “You-want-some-more?” I hear behind me. With its robotic voice, it sounds more like a statement of fact than an offering. You want some more.
I don’t want champagne. I want my family.
That’s where I’m going. To see my family. It’s my family in the centre of the dance floor. Five women who look like me are all in a line wearing matching bluish-purple bridesmaid dresses, flanking the youngest-looking one in a long, flowing wedding dress. An older woman bumps up against me, forcing me into the dancers.
“There you are, Cybelle! We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Don’t tell me you fell asleep again. I warned you about that jet lag. Now, go take your sister’s train before she trips.”
I squint at the woman. “You’re not my mom.”
But the woman just rolls her eyes at me and laughs. She pushes me again. I’m in the middle of the throng now. I have no choice, but as I pick up the long wedding train, I grow more and more certain that that woman is not my mother. Something isn’t right about all this. I can’t keep up with the dancers, or the song: something about stomping and sliding and going to work … I’ve never heard this song before in my life. The directions are simple enough, but I can’t follow along. I’m always one step behind, coming face to face with angry partygoers. My legs tangle with theirs. They glare at me, but they keep dancing. Something is wrong with everyone’s eyes. It’s not just looks of disdain. Their eyes are warped, turned vertically. Everyone’s eyes are … except for the bride. She stops dancing and rips the train out of my hands.
“What are you doing?!” she demands to know.
“I … what?” I’m turning away from her. I can’t help it.
She grabs me before I can spin away again. “You heard me. I want to know what you’re doing.”
Everyone collapses on the floor like rag dolls. The bride and I are the only ones standing.
“I don’t understand,” I say. I feel numb. But it feels good not to be spinning anymore. “I’m … supposed to be here.”
“You know you’re not.”
The song is still going, encouraging people to move. No one moves from the floor.
“Now look what you’ve done.”
Tears sting my eyes. “That’s not my fault!” There’s a giant shadow floating over their bodies now. I look up — there’s a massive skylight in the ceiling I didn’t notice before, and a giant shape is hurling toward it. The bride grabs me by the arm and pulls me out of the way just in time for the glass panes to break and shatter over the crowd. The dancers get up from the floor in a screaming frenzy, but they are caught in the rain of shards. I slam into a table and fall to the floor. My instincts kick in and I dash under the table to avoid the glass and the impending rush of feet I now hear all around me.
Something gigantic and heavy lands on the floor with a crash. I lift the tablecloth, just to peek. Within that inch of space, I can see everything happening in the room. The floral centrepieces on the tables explode into dancing flames that streak through the air, singeing decorations and the guests’ clothes and hair as they swoop down on them. The wedding cake also explodes; fireballs pop out of it like they’d been hiding inside and waiting to make their appearance. The music is eaten up by the sounds of high-pitched cackling laughter. In the middle of the dance floor, the dark, giant shape takes form.
It’s a boar. A giant boar with blood on its tusks and flaming, neon green eyes. It rises to stand on its hind hooves. “GET ME THE DREAM EATER.”
In front of my table, two women run right smack into each other. Like cats fighting, they claw at each other, grabbing and ripping off one another’s faces, exposing torn flesh and veins. They point and laugh at each other.
“No, you are not the yokai we are looking for! Oops!”
“Let’s look for her together!” Arm in arm, they attack another guest, ripping off the man’s face, laughing again. Another rebuff, they laugh and the three go off in search of another face, and another. A gruesome game of Zombie Tag.
I duck back under the table. The tablecloth moves, exposing me, but somehow no one spots me underneath and comes to collect my face. I feel like I’m in full view of the demonic creatures running around, but for whatever reason they don’t see me. Perhaps they are too engrossed in catching the people running for their lives to look down here. I can see the bride — my sister? She looks so familiar now — and her new husband hiding under another table nearby. She turns and sees me. The bride scurries past the thundering feet to my table and pulls the tablecloth down behind her. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I … it’s your wedding,” I reply. I can hear the tears in my own voice.
“No, it isn’t! Cybelle, you’ve turned this into a nightmare!”
“How is this my fault?! I didn’t …” I’m crying now. “I didn’t mean to —”
“No, Cybelle. Shut up and listen to me. You’re HAVING a nightmare. You need to wake up!”
“Why does everyone keep telling me that?”
Someone screams as a fireball hurtles past the table. The blast shakes the room, sending guests screaming in all new directions. I can feel the heat of another fireball as it streaks above and hear the tinny, anime-like sound effect of something catching fire.
“Come on!”
The bride grabs my wrist and runs out from under the table. “No!” I say, scared out of my wits. But she’s always been stronger than me. She pulls hard and runs.
We’re running through a forest. There’s mist and green everywhere. A peaceful, beautiful scene, incongruent to our fleeing in terror from whatever just happened. Now I really don’t understand what’s going on. “You owe me some answers,” the bride says without losing her stride. “Who are you?”
I’m someone who’s just been to the stupidest party she’s ever been to. But I can’t say that to my own sister. Wait. No. Not my sister. I close my eyes and let her pull me through the trees. I think. I think hard. I’ve been asked this question before.
Who am I?
I open my eyes. “I’m …”
Silence. Darkness.
“Bully?”
She’s gone. So is the forest. So is the wedding hall. I’m in bed, now. I creep out of the bed, out of the dark room, down a flight of stairs to a dark hallway. There is a small light — a night light — plugged into the wall, here. I think I need to go to the washroom. Yeah, that’s what I’m doing here.
A light clicks on. There’s blood all over me, soaking into my robe. My period has started. Terrific.
I’ve just about cleaned up my legs when I hear a squeaking noise just outside the washroom door, like rubber wheels dragging on a rough surface. I stick my head out. There’s a little boy standing there, maybe about two or three years old, with a little red wagon behind him. He’s looking right up at me as if he expected me to open the door. Maybe he’s just waiting for the washroom. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “Do you need to go?”
“Yada,” he squeaks. He runs off, leaving his wagon behind. I step out of the washroom. He’s already gone, lost to the darkness beyond the night light.
I try to go after him. I think I know him. Maybe he can tell me what’s going on here. Beyond the hallway there is a living room with a single couch. Someone is sleeping on it. It’s completely dark in here except for something glowing — a pillow under the sleeper’s head, I believe? Or maybe it’s a folded-up towel. I can’t tell. But it’s emitting enough light for me to see there is someone sleeping there. I go over and place a gentle hand on the person’s shoulder. I think it’s my mother. “Mom?” I ask. “Where’s Bully?”
My mother moves in her sleep. “She’s dead,” she mumbles. Her voice is strangely deep. “Bully is dead. And Zaniel is dead. And Cybelle — she’s dead, too.” She giggles. It’s a deep, inhuman chuckling sound. It’s awful. I shake her harder; maybe I can wake her up and save her. The harder I shake her, the louder and higher she laughs. It’s a squeaking, high-pitched laugh now. Like that boy’s wagon.
“Leave my mother alone,” I shout. No. Whatever this thing is, it’s not my mother. It’s something possessing her, making her say these horrible things. I yank the glowing pillow out from under her head and try to smother her laughter, but it only gets louder, ringing in my ears.
“That won’t wo-ork,” sings the pillow.
I drop the pillow and run out of the living room. Down the little hallway. It’s so dark I trip over that kid I saw earlier, curled up in a ball on the floor. “What are you doing?!” I ask him. “We have to get out of here!” I scoop him up without thinking and run. Out the front door. Out of the house. Running down my foggy street, I can still hear the demon laughter. “Fuck off!” I cry, clapping my hands over my ears. Wait. What happened to that little boy? He’s gone.
Maybe I shouldn’t have left the house. Maybe that was my mother. I run back, try to get inside. The front door is locked. The demon laughter grows louder. It’s a man’s laugh now. It rattles the windows and bangs the front door. I clap my hands over my ears as I scream and cry, half of me hoping it will drown out the sound. Hoping that the demon can’t hurt me if I can’t hear it. It doesn’t work. It’s all around me, it’s even inside my head.
Then I hear a long, tea-kettle scream. It takes a while for it to register that it’s me.
“Ima okina-EE-to, okurema-SOO, yo …”
I open my eyes to pure darkness. There is nothing here. Okay. This is good. Well, it’s better. But not by much. I just need to remember that this is all one big nightmare, and I have to get out or get help. Panicking, I wade through the black, hoping to find something. Someone. Anyone.
There, in the distance. A faint pink light. Taking careful steps at first, in time picking up the pace and running toward it. A giant cherry blossom tree in a tiny courtyard. I throw myself against the trunk. It’s real; solid wood. This fact comforts me. I sob against the bark, heart still pumping, grateful to be touching something that cannot hurt me.
“Konbanwa,” says a voice above my head. I scramble to my feet. A man stands before me, holding a short candle in his hand. It must be a tea light, because I can hardly see any candle underneath the flame. “Jibun Jishin e youkoso,” he welcomes me with a deep bow and a wide smile. He seems awfully happy to see me. I don’t care why. Someone is here. Thank God.
“Please,” I pant. “Onegai … tasukete … um …” It’s a struggle to breathe and speak Japanese at the same time. The panic is too much. “Hashitte … running. I’m running … nigete imasu … Chasing — no, I’m being chased. Attacked. I need help. Keisatsu. Can I call the police, please?”
“Attacked? Oh my. That’s awful. Please —” the man gestures to a sliding door. It draws open. He walks into the main space of a restaurant. I follow him, nodding my thanks. The restaurant is empty, but the stage is lit up. The man pulls out a chair at the nearest table. “Have a seat. Would you like some … water?”
I practically jump at the word. I hadn’t noticed the lumpy, choking feeling in my throat until now. Water would help. I can taste it already. “Thank you.” I manage to sit down. The man leaves and brings a glass full of clear, sparkling liquid. His smile widens with each of my greedy gulps. All I can see is his smile … the rest of his face is all … fuzzy …
“Tell me: What is it you are afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid … I’m being chased. I was attacked.”
“Attacked? Oh, my. That’s … awful.” He strokes his chin in deep thought as he repeats himself. “What can we do?”
“Can you call the police? Please?”
“Police.” He makes a face, as though the word leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Ugh. No police. You go to police when you’re lost. Are you lost?”
“Lost?” What the hell is he talking about? Has he not heard a word I’ve said? “No! I’m —”
“Lost. Yes. You lost. I mean, you lose. I mean —” He smiles, enjoying a secret joke. “I mean — you lost someone. Yes?”
I open my mouth to protest. “I … yes.” I pause. “I did.” I remember now: the music, the people … and then, the monsters. What happened to them all? “I was at a wedding. There were so many people. I lost them all.”
“A wedding? Hmm,” says the man. His smile widens even more. I can’t help noticing how sharp and numerous his teeth are. “How strange. Don’t you think? A wedding, in this neighbourhood? Are you sure? Sounds like make-believe to me.”
“It wasn’t. I was there. Just like … I’ve been here before. I know this place.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. But then, why’d you leave?”
“I ran away. There was a —” How can I explain it? He’ll think I’ve lost it.
“Nah, you can tell me.”
“It wasn’t safe. I wanted to find somewhere safe.”
“So, you came here?” the man titters. “To this place? Take a look around, chickie; there’s no one here. And there’s nothin’ around for miles, either. Not at this time o’night. Face it, girl: you’re in a make-believe place. It’s not real.”
That’s not true, says a voice in my head. Try to remember — the train station nearby, the 7-Eleven down the way, the supermarkets, your school … they’re all real, this is not …
“You tell yourself that. But maybe you made all that up, too! Maybe you ain’t really even in Japan. Ever think of that? Maybe you’re at home right now, asleep in your four-poster bed, surrounded by your little anime posters and Final Fantasy shit.”
How does he know all that?
“Oh, I know. Trust me. I know all about you. I know you’re a good cook, I know you like kitsune udon, I know you think nightmares taste like lemon, and I know you’ve wanted to go to Japan oh so badly your whole life. But think. Maybe, just maybe, this is all in your head. You’ve always had a big imagination, haven’t you? You ain’t thought this could all be in your head.”
He’s reading my mind or something. He’s in my head. I’ve got to get him out.
“Want me out of your head, eh? You’ll have to do better than that, chickie.” He brings his face close. “No one’s comin’ to help you. The kid sure as hell ain’t comin’. He don’t exist no more. Hey. Are you sure you didn’t make him up, too?”
“No! He’s real!” The intensity of my own voice suddenly makes me question who I’m trying to convince. Who? Who is real? Who am I talking about? I try to draw the image of a face in my mind, but only see an empty outline. An empty outline with piercing eyes.
“See? The kid’s gone. Bye-bye. And soon, you’ll be, too.”
I cringe. “No …!” What is he doing? “Let go — that hurts!” I try to pull my wrist out of his grip, which just makes him squeeze even harder. He twists it backward, pulling me off the chair, down to the floor as if he is trying to crush me under the strong torque of his arm. There’s a good chance he can. My knee hits the cold tile of the floor, and it hurts, as well. “Ow! What are you doing?! Get off me!”
He throws his head back and laughs, a laugh as though holding me down is the easiest thing in the world, my pain and terror merely entertainment to him. He twists my arm again, winds up, and cranks it again, and again. There’s a popping sound coming from the socket. My screams empty out of me as the sleeve of my kimono, my skin, and my entire arm rips away from my shoulder, like dough. The man raises my detached limb into the air, tilts his head back, and lets the blood and dangling pieces of meat tumble into his open mouth.
“Ooh. Mmm. Salty and sweet. And caramel. Wasn’t expectin’ that. I need more. I need more.”
Automatically I begin to scramble away with my good arm, but he plants a firm, heavy foot right down on my stomach, pinning me. Kneeling, he grabs the glass of water and pours it on my face. When I open my mouth to scream for help, the tiny trickle of water feels like a gushing faucet emptying into my throat. I am drowning. He is laughing. I have to do something.
My feet kick out and my one hand swipes the air in a fit of fear. My clawed fingers connect with his face, and I can feel the sick sensation of my nails right on his eye. With a yelp he reels back and releases me. I crawl away fast until I can get to my feet. I vomit up all that water. Then, I run straight for the stage. If I can just hop up there, I’ll be out of his reach. I plant one foot against the board to boost myself up and swing one leg over. I’m almost there.
Without turning, I can feel the man’s pain as he clutches his eye and feels blood trickling down his face. It’s like watching a movie, watching myself. He lets out an anguished cry, which becomes a deafening bleating sound. I somehow know it is not the blood he minds — it reminds him he is alive — it is the fact that I’m getting away. He will not let me get away, not this time. His rows of sharp, wide teeth sport fangs and tusks as he wriggles out of his clothes and gets down on all fours. He charges at the stage, knocking over tables in his way, and leaps at my outstretched leg.
I’m too late.
I scream. It feels like sharp metal digging into my calf, the pain so deep it reaches the bone. He hooks his tusk into the flesh and rips off the whole calf at the knee. My high-pitched scream turns guttural. I didn’t know such a sound could come out of me. But it doesn’t stop me from dragging myself onto the stage where I can hold what is left of my leg and cry in pain. The air, if not the whole room, smells like rotting hamburger mixed with dead fish. The floor underneath me becomes wet with warm ooze pooling around me. I can’t even form words to cry out for help.
“Ah!” says a faraway voice. Somewhere in the vast room there’s a young woman in a colourful kimono decorated with birds. She steps out from the darkness. “I thought I heard something. See?” A man steps out from a doorway — to a kitchen? — wiping his hands on his apron. He also seems shocked to see someone on the stage. “What do we do?” asks the woman.
“We have to tell them to leave, of course,” the man shrugs.
“Excuse me, honourable customer,” the woman calls out. I’m still screaming, unable to form coherent words. With a patient sigh, she approaches. Not questioning the overturned tables and chairs; she simply clicks her tongue and picks them up. “Sumimasen, okyaku-sama,” she tries again in Japanese.
Then she sees the boar. He stops ramming at the stage boards and regards her with an exasperated look that only boars can make.
“Aw, come on, lady, it’s way past sunset!”
“Demo …” she stares at the talking boar, horrified. “Kyou wa getsuyoubi desu ga … yasumi desu …”
“Oh, for the — You’re closed on Mondays?! Since fucking when?!”
The young woman is out of rational thoughts, it seems. She runs, screaming for the man. The boar sighs — “Be right back,” he says to me — and chases after the woman with an excited squeal. The clashing of pots and pans in the kitchen and the ear-piercing human screams bring me back to my senses.
I have to get out of here. But how? Half of my leg is gone. The muscles in my good leg have seized up. I can’t walk, let alone run, and when I roll over to drag myself with my remaining arm, I feel a hundred pounds heavier. I can’t do it. I collapse on the stage, eyes shut. Think. Something about what the man-boar said, about make-believe. No, this can’t be make-believe. The pain is so real, and there’s blood everywhere. It smells.
It isn’t. Just think about it. You have to try. You have to get out of here. It’s the only way.
All around me, the stage lights get warmer. They’re getting brighter. I don’t open my eyes, though, not yet. Just a little more. I need to concentrate. I have to imagine any place but here.
The stage lights grow brighter and brighter. The boar trots out of the kitchen and is instantly blinded. “What the fuck?!” His hooves are too short to shield his eyes. Luck is on my side. I squeeze my eyes tighter. I can do this.
Everything gets brighter and brighter, until …
Light. Warm, soothing light of a sepia-coloured sky surrounds me. There’s something hard underneath me, not unlike cold, smooth glass. A floor that stretches as far as I can see. Translucent and dark, opaque checkered squares alternate with each other. No walls, no ceiling, only the sky with its misting pink clouds. Down below me, beyond the clouds — green and brown farmland, reminiscent of the grid I’m lying on, on the cusp of a blue ocean. I start to cry at the beauty of the landscape thousands of miles beneath me, on top of my own tears of panic. “Home.” It is so far … too far to ever be there again.
Run … run there … run home …
“I can’t,” I sob. “It’s so far down.”
You have to … run …!
The comforting, rational voice that may be all in my head is right. I have to run. And perhaps home is the safest place for me to be. I look down at my body. My arm and my leg are back. Why am I lying here when I have perfectly good limbs? I push myself onto my knees and immediately my body buckles under the weight. I cry out sharply as my body connects with the glass floor and cracks it. “I told you, I can’t!”
You have to.
Never have I felt so alone. It feels like something has been ripped away, and not just my arm and leg. “Come with me,” I weep. “I need you with me.”
Don’t worry about me. Get out of here!
A horrible bleating noise rips through the silent air. I can feel the high pitch and volume in the wells of my ears, like a loud, deep source of feedback. There it is. The boar. It is far away, miles away, but I know what that shadow in the distance is. Its eyes blaze green like fire. Its fiery bristles quiver in the wind.
“Ah,” the boar moans. Blood and bits of coloured kimono ooze from its mouth onto the checkered floor with every sentence. “Your eyes. He always liked your eyes. I hope they taste like salty caramel things, too. They’ll be a perfect addition to my home.”
Akki. The voice in my head sounds sad. Why are you doing this?
“I have a thousand years to kill. I can do whatever I want!” He stamps his hoof as a stubborn child might stamp their foot. “And you’re supposed to be asleep! Leave me alone, can’t you see I gotta do this?!” The boar lets out a roar of aggravation, of exasperation, of white-hot rage, and charges at me.
What can I do? If I try to get up again I’ll just stumble, and the boar, who is bigger, faster, and stronger will just tower over me, then it will pounce and gore. I could crawl backward on my hands, dragging my sore legs with me, to the edge to throw myself over — if there was one — but the floor stretches out for miles. Now, suddenly, inexplicably, so do I. I do not know what is happening, but I am taking up more squares than I was before. I’m growing, or I’ve grown. Somehow, through all the pain and suffering, I’ve grown.
I won’t be more feast for the boar. I can do something.
I pound at the floor, cracking two more tiles. Success spurs me to punch and hammer through the pain in my good arm, punching even through the wringing feeling in my wrist and the splintering feeling that travels up my now-giant knuckles. The glass cracks like the surface of an icy river.
I fall for miles and miles. I feel everything. The air being sucked from my lungs, the flailing of my heavy limbs, the wind sharp and cold against my skin. Every muscle in my chest clenches tighter. I shut my eyes.
It won’t hurt, hitting the bottom. It won’t hurt. Aim for the water. Just like we did before.
No. It will not hurt. It will wake me up. That is all I need. One big burst, one shot of energy to jolt me.
Deep breath.
“I can’t …”
Cybelle.
The sound in my ears is like an explosion. The water is cold. My body, still hugged in a tight ball, descends farther and farther down before unravelling. I have plunged too far down. Now, the sharks come. I must hurry. Every tread of water comes with the sharp, blinding pains of exertion as I fight against the pressure. Every moment hurts. It is so painful, but it is the only way.
Fangs sink into my legs. I can only use my arms now. I paddle and paddle … the surface is so close, and my lungs are about to give out.
I’m sorry, Cybelle. Goodbye.
I burst through the surface, sending water everywhere in a powerful cascade. I’m sitting upright in the dark, coughing the water out of my lungs. Trembling violently with the shock and cold, I haul myself over the rim of my bathtub. The momentum of my own weight does most of the work. Shuddering in my soaking wet nightgown and the pool of water that has flooded the bathroom floor, I let out racking sobs of panic as I try to remember how I got here. My washroom, my bathtub. I remember none of it. It’s okay. I drag myself across the tiny floor to the wall to turn on the light. The light will make everything better.
Everything — my nightgown, the water left in the tub and all over the floor — is red.
I want to go home.