The man didn’t respond. Toshihiko could hear him breathing heavily through his nostrils.
Toshihiko pressed his attack. “Who is it? What do you want?”
Still no response. The breathing became louder.
Toshihiko raised his voice. “If you don’t have a purpose here, then leave. I’m calling the police.”
Before he’d finished speaking, the footsteps ran off.
The cowardly man had withered and fled from Toshihiko’s (Ai’s) threats.
It was a relief. Exhausted from the fear and anxiety, Toshihiko slumped weakly to the floor in his entryway. There, he began to think.
He pictured his terrifying stalker fleeing red-faced, and he tried to imagine what that man was feeling.
What if that had been him—the man he used to be? If his beloved Asaka Ai had spoken to him like that, what would he have done?
Toshihiko considered it carefully.
First, he would have run away. He would have run, crying, as fast as he could.
But then what?
Filled with determination, the timid man had come to visit the idol in a once-in-a-lifetime act of courage. But he’d been flatly and coldly told off—and not just by anyone, but by his beloved idol. He wouldn’t have the courage to come calling a second time.
The man was surely in emotional shambles now. He would never see Asaka Ai again.
If that had happened to Toshihiko, what would he have done?
He knew the answer without having to think about it.
There was only one answer.
I would kill Ai, and myself.
The terrible phrase, almost forgotten, filled his chest.
Toshihiko felt as if every pore on his skin closed up.
The man would have no other options available to him. He would watch Ai for the right opportunity, and he would act.
Slowly, quietly, the greasy man would come, knife in hand, with dreadful intentions.
Toshihiko closed his eyes and tried to shake the mental image. But no matter how hard he tried to banish it, the vision remained seared into his mind.
Resolving to protect Asaka Ai, and by extension himself, he stood and walked to the kitchen where he kept the thirty-centimeter-long kitchen knife he’d purchased to kill Ai, and himself. As he opened the cabinet under the sink, he grinned cynically at the strange irony that he would protect Ai with the very same blade he’d bought to kill her.
Toshihiko’s heart froze. Cold sweat materialized on his forehead.
The knife was gone.
It had been there, but now it was gone without a trace.
Toshihiko put his hands to his head. Someone had stolen his knife. And he knew who it was. That man. Who else could have done it?
Skriiiiiikkk, came a noise.
Toshihiko jumped.
The sound had come from his window. Something sharp was scratching at the frosted glass.
Toshihiko hurried back to his room and looked to the window.
The tip of a blade was slowly scraping from left to right.
It’s him, it’s him. He’s here. He’s come with the knife to kill Ai—and me!
Toshihiko’s body froze as if bound hand and foot. He couldn’t even scream. His eyes were locked on the window.
Following the knife’s path, a mop-like mass smushed and smeared against the glass. Toshihiko knew what it was—hair. The man was pressing his greasy hair against the window. Slowly, the knife and the hair moved right to left. The knife etched a thin, sharp gouge, and the oily hair left a wide slug’s trail.
Finally, the knife and the hair reached the window’s edge and disappeared.
Toshihiko wondered where the man had gone but quickly realized where—the man was going around to the apartment building’s entrance.
His fear was not groundless. As proof, only moments later, those miserable, dragging footsteps returned to the hallway, before stopping right in front of Toshihiko’s door.
Bang bang, came the knock. Bang bang.
Even upon hearing that ominous sound, Toshihiko remained frozen, standing in the middle of the room. He was too afraid to move.
The knocking became louder. Bang bang!
The man outside was timid no more. He had come in unwavering conviction. He would kill Asaka Ai.
Toshihiko needed to do something. The locked door provided no true safety. The man would break it down to come in, if that was what it took.
Toshihiko knew this. And yet, he couldn’t move.
The knife sank into the thin, flimsy wood of the door. The blade’s tip glistened as it jutted from the interior side. The man twisted the knife, widening the tiny slit it had made.
A thin finger reached in through the door. A jagged splinter cut into its flesh. Blood began to form along the scrape.
Undeterred by the injury, the man began prying at the board with nothing but his finger. More of his skin tore, and blood began dripping from his fingertip. Nevertheless, he kept pulling at the board.
Soon, he had created enough of an opening to slide his arm in and undo the latch. The door creaked quietly open, and the man stepped in, bathed in the red light of the sunset outside Toshihiko’s window.
The man wore a sweat-stained T-shirt and dirty jeans. His greasy, matted locks clung to his angular face and curled into points on either side of his head. Catching the sunset’s light, the two points shone like Astro Boy’s hair. The man’s hand gripped the sharp knife tightly.
Toshihiko saw that the knife was the same one he had bought.
The man took one step toward Toshihiko and then another.
Toshihiko knew he was about to be stabbed. He knew he had to run. But his body wouldn’t move. The more he panicked, the more firmly frozen he became.
The man spoke.
“A-Ai-san! I... I...”
His voice sounded as if it came up from the depths of hell. The voice was clammy and unpleasant, like that of a drunk and frustrated salaryman shouting unintelligibly at a karaoke bar.
“Forgive me, Ai-san,” the intruder muttered as he bowed his head repeatedly. “This was my only option.”
Then, with an inhuman wail, he rushed toward Toshihiko with intense speed.
Toshihiko could see it in the man’s eyes—
I will kill you, and me.
The stench of the man’s body assaulted Toshihiko’s nose. In the next instant, he felt a burning pain in his side, as if he’d been struck by hot tongs.
Blood began soaking through his yellow dress.
The man withdrew the knife. White fatty tissue clung to the blade, then spilled out and dangled from the open wound.
Toshihiko looked down at the yellow dress, the red blood, the white fat. He found a strange beauty in the colors.
The man took the bloodied knife in a reverse grip. He plunged it into Toshihiko’s chest. The pain felt like a strip of tape pressed against his skin and then forcefully yanked off.
Unable to move, Toshihiko was at the mercy of the man’s knife.
The wound went deep into his chest. Blood sprayed out in a fountain. In an instant, his yellow dress was yellow no more.
The man twisted the knife inside his chest.
A numbness spread from the wound. Toshihiko began to cough; blood burbled from his mouth.
As the man showered in Toshihiko’s blood, he said, “Ai-san, Ai... You’re beautiful. You’re so cute.” His voice rose into a crazed shriek. “You’re beautiful. You really are. Every day, I’ve touched myself watching you. I’ve done it more times than I could count. You understand how I feel about you, don’t you?”
The man’s flushed face was right in front of Toshihiko’s.
The man’s features, angular and bony, resembled the leftover parts of an amberjack fish, already gutted and filleted. His eyebrows were off-putting and scraggly like dried kombu flakes. His nose was bulbous. His lips were slug-like, with a vaguely oily sheen, and his eyes were round and pleasant.
On the verge of unconsciousness, Toshihiko thought in sudden realization, So, that’s who he is.
He understood.
The man had Toshihiko’s face.
He had Toshihiko’s smell.
He had Toshihiko’s personality.
So, that’s who he is.
He’s... he’s me.
The man looked into Toshihiko’s eyes, then blinked in sorrow. Toshihiko felt an indescribable love for the man.
I’m going to die soon.
In those last moments, Toshihiko looked the man in the eyes with as much affection as he could and gave him a smile.
The man smiled back at him.
Still smiling, the intruder slashed his own throat open with the knife.
As he coughed, fresh blood spilled from his mouth. He tried to say something through the coughs but couldn’t form the words.
To Toshihiko, it sounded like he had said, “Thank you.”
The man was telling him, Thank you for understanding how I feel.
The two shared a blood-soaked embrace. They held each other tight for as long as their strength held out. Then, still entwined, they fell to the floor.
The two became one.
The sunset painted the room in deep, deep red.
It was a terribly tragic sight.
Why did it have to be so tragic?