I looked down at the full-body sketch of Ayane, floating in midair. I hadn’t made any copies of the drawing or even taken a picture of it with my phone. All I could really do now was try my damnedest to singe its memory into my retinas.
Ever since I was a little boy, whenever my mother and I had confrontations like this, I often felt as though I was having an out-of-body experience, like I was hanging from the ceiling, looking down at my body in the third person. I would simply turn off my emotions and quash all of my willpower and volition as an individual to become little more than a puppet that nodded along and agreed to do my mother’s bidding. I knew now, of course, that there was a name for this mental phenomenon: dissociation.
I grabbed the top edge of the page with both hands, and by pulling each side in opposite directions, I ripped my drawing of Ayane right down the middle. I then tore the remaining half out. My mother seemed satisfied with this, so I continued ripping the halves up into even smaller pieces. Once that was done, I got to work trashing all of the other pages as well, shredding each one with my own two hands until eventually, all that remained of my sketchbook was a pile of paper scraps.
“A wise decision,” said my mother. “You don’t have the talent to make art for a living, so if you want to grow up to be an adult that can support yourself, you’d do well to invest that time and energy into your studies instead. Now then—let’s eat, shall we?”
My mother smiled, then walked over into the kitchen to get started on dinner. I gathered up all the torn scraps of paper with both hands, then walked over and threw them in the garbage.
Had I been a bit younger, I might have cried at being forced to destroy my own creations like this. Had I been a slightly less pathetic human, I might have fought my mother on it, and continued arguing with her until I somehow won myself the right to continue drawing. But I was neither of those things, and having lived alone with her like this for so many years now, I simply accepted this relationship dynamic as the static quo. I knew that at this point, it was entirely futile to stand up for myself, and I could no longer summon forth the willpower to even try. All I could really do was continue playing my role as her dutiful honor student—because we both knew full well that I was too weak to do anything else.
I remained in this dissociated state for quite some time after that, with my mind all but divorced from my corporeal self—though as far as out-of-body experiences went, it was nothing at all like the thrilling night I’d shared with Ayane a couple weeks prior.
Late that night, after ensuring that my mother was fast asleep, I snuck out of the apartment, being careful not to make a sound as I slipped my shoes on my feet in the entryway. Upon exiting the building, I was met by a humid breeze that shook the leaves in the trees lining the road. I walked down the sidewalk beneath the endless streetlights with no destination in mind. I just needed the taste of fresh air in my lungs again. I’d been fighting back a torrent of emotions from being forced to rip up my own artwork all night, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
I stopped for a moment and peered down into the small stream that flowed alongside the promenade—but all I could see reflected in its waters was a shadowy silhouette of myself, backlit by the lamplight shining down from above.
If I died here tonight, would I be freed from all of this? Would I finally be able to feel at peace?
I was struck by a sudden urge—I wanted to see Ayane. I recalled the night we flew together as ghosts through the skies. I was free that evening—free to leave my fleshy prison behind and soar away from the world and all its troubles. If I could die and become a ghost like her, I’d never have to feel this pain, this suffocation, ever again. And if so, why wouldn’t I want to die right here and now? I knew I probably couldn’t drown myself here in this shallow stream—but I knew that if I followed it long enough, it emptied out into a much wider river. I could easily find someplace deep enough to do the deed.
But then again…Ayane was still suffering from regret, even in death. I could see in her eyes, when she looked down upon her mother, that she hadn’t truly been released from the pain of living. Not yet, anyway. In that case, maybe I wouldn’t find the relief I sought in death either. Perhaps I’d still feel suffocated by these inescapable thoughts, even as a soul freed from material shackles and confinement. I assumed Ayane’s ghost would wander these streets for eternity, never able to let go of those lingering regrets, and especially once her mother died without ever learning the truth.
I could die just about anytime I wanted. I didn’t have to wait until the end of the year if I really couldn’t take it any longer. But before I did, I at least wanted to try talking to Ayane one last time. Such were my thoughts as I strolled aimlessly down the sidewalk.
I wondered how she really felt about the notion that her body was buried somewhere in a suitcase beneath the dirt, probably rotted to the bone by now. Was she really okay with just giving up the search and leaving it be? Or was she still holding out hope, somewhere deep down, that someone would come along and dig her up one day? If that was truly her last remaining desire, then I alone was uniquely positioned to help her achieve it.
I could deal with another couple weeks of suffocation if it meant putting an end to hers. And right now, all I wanted to do, more than anything in the world, was to find that suitcase, open it up, and give Ayane her first taste of fresh air in so, so long.