Endou’s apartment behind me, I proceeded along the dim alleys leading out to Imadegawa Street, still occasionally haunted by the specters of hunters hot on my tail. At last I made it out to the main street, where I breathed a sigh of relief. From here, I could make my way home on the city’s wide, brightly lit boulevards, where danger to my person seemed far less likely. When I reached the comfort of the Kitashirakawa Betto intersection, I offered another silent prayer to the Fushimi Inari, Kitano Tenman, Yoshida, and Kitashirakawa Tenjin shrines, thanking them for delivering me from evil.
It had been an exceedingly long day. As I trudged my way up the final stretch of hill toward my lodgings, a belated wave of anger washed over me. Yes, I was admittedly dependent upon modern civilization, but I was beholden to no one, aside from perhaps my parents and the global ecology. Here I was, living a completely harmless life, ensconced like a hermit crab, only to be branded a creep that harasses women. Not only that, but my accuser was himself a verified stalker!
My beloved Manami had been stolen. I’d been chased for sport by youth with nothing better to do than torment hapless college students. I had a deluded debt collector constantly knocking on my door. And all the while, Saint Christmas loomed ever nearer.
All of it was most unpleasant. I suffered a cruel reality. Though I wished to be left alone, I was bothered on a daily basis by the people I least wished to see. The people most important to me, who I would have liked to hear from, paid me no mind at all. (Please note, dear readers, that I do not in any way mean to imply that I longed to have Mizuo reach out to me.)
I plodded down the dark hallway to my room like a criminal led to his cell. I was exhausted.
When I reached my door, I found a cute little paper bag hanging from the knob. I peered inside, only to find another, smaller green bag, this one adorned at the neck with a most resplendent red ribbon. A card was attached, reading simply Mizuo.
My heart lurched. It threatened to speed off uncontrolled. I drew a deep breath to calm myself, plucked the bag from the doorknob with measured poise, and entered my lodgings. Moments ago, my spine had wobbled like a willow branch. Now it was as straight as the trunk of a dignified redwood.
Inside, I knelt in seiza on the tatami floor, briefly meditating to collect my thoughts. I expelled all foolish expectations. The task before me required a mind as clear as the waters of the Kibune Valley. I knew myself disciplined enough not to lose my cool over whatever trivial token waited inside, but I needed to be absolutely sure. No matter the nature of Mizuo’s gift, or any words that accompanied it, I would accept them with dispassionate composure. I had no expectation or desire for her to suggest a rekindling of our relationship. But if she did happen to insinuate getting back together, I supposed I could entertain the idea.
I was ready for whatever this packaged contained.
Bring it on.
I slowly tugged the red ribbon. As the bag’s neck loosened, a hypnotic gleaming arrested my eyes. It was somehow familiar—I’d seen this just days prior, hadn’t I? There was a sudden rustling, and then, before I could react, a torrent of tiny black shadows sprang happily from the open bag.
My exhausting day ended with a groan—a mix of astonishment and imprecation. I was given no further opportunity to speak or to see. My world was consumed by the oily brown sheen and deafening flutter of countless wings, bursting with the indefatigable, eons-old gleam of life.
When I finally escaped and found air, I screamed into the night, “Damn you, Endou!”
✦ ✦ ✦
Once, Shikama invited me to his lodgings to watch a movie. It was one of those classic coming-of-age tales. The protagonists were in high school, and their worlds revolved around the school sports team they all happened to be a part of. All the standard tropes were present: The boys fought, they helped each other through tough times, and at the end, they rallied together for a shot at the regional championship. In short, they were living the fiery days of youth to the fullest.
On their final night together, at a summer retreat just before they’d all head their separate ways, one of the characters sighed and said, “I wish we could stay like this forever.”
Shikama and I had been watching the screen from the floor, smoking cigarettes and lounging like unmovable, rain-swollen logs. But upon hearing that particular line, Shikama bolted upright.
Quietly, he offered his rebuttal. “Oh, grow up!”
Though we had embarked on our crusade eager and willing, it was true that at times we grew weary.
✦ ✦ ✦
Mr. Endou’s cowardly gift had transformed my beautiful abode into a sprawling Blattodean Empire.
That night, I’d been forced to flee and seek refuge from my friend Shikama. I am not one to be shaken by any threat, but I have to admit my inability to sleep with roaches crawling over me. I’m afraid the experience of having their tiny limbs stroke every part of my body would be far too sensuous.
Shikama displayed a complete inability to empathize with this particular tragedy. Upon hearing that my lodgings were now overrun by roaches, he clutched his sides and fell to the floor in laughter, rolling about for a full thirty minutes. I had inadvertently discovered the outer limits of our friendship.
The following morning, I purchased a commercial pest-control product of the fumigant variety and steeled my heart for the battle to reclaim my home. I returned to my building and opened my door just enough to peek inside. The entirety of the dim interior writhed with ancient life. I ignited the fuse of my poisonous grenade, slid it inside, and promptly retreated.
I do not wish to imagine the subsequent smoky hellscape or the screams of the countless souls sealed inside.
Hours later, when I returned from a full day’s work at the sushi restaurant, I found every speck of my four-and-a-half-mat floor littered with roach corpses. If one squinted, it almost looked like a luxurious brown shag carpet. Additional corpses were wedged at random among the slats of my window blinds.
I tiptoed my way to the kitchen and was left speechless by what may very well be the most revolting thing I’ll ever witness. There, in the sink, was the prior day’s half-eaten cup of ramen, its remaining broth almost obscured for the number of roach bodies that crowded its surface. It had been a cup of tonkotsu ramen—pork bone broth—and the soup’s thick, oily film now clung to the bodies of the dead pests, almost as if they’d been part of the original meal and I’d been greedily slurping them up along with the noodles. (To be clear, I would rather perish of hunger than eat a bowl of roach-topped ramen.)
More dead roaches littered my desk and the area behind my television. When I had gathered them all, the mound of corpses filled an entire garbage bag. I propped the door open and next set about vacuuming up the various legs and bits of wings that still clung to the tatami. I prayed their recently departed souls would find rest, but also made a point of being very thorough in my cleaning.