Hiura Toiro was a nice girl. It was fun to be with her, and he felt safe. He finally had someone he could show his wounds to. When he was with Toiro, he also did not see any supernatural visions, though he knew they were still there and wouldn’t exactly disappear.
Even though the days passed by peacefully, Makoto’s nightmares still grew worse. He couldn’t find the reason for them. The nightmares compelled him to increase the dosage of his medication. Takaki was worried, but Makoto smiled and said everything was fine.
But on that day, he felt absolutely terrible. He felt dizzy and nauseated when he stood up. Takaki told him to skip school and rest, but since final exams were coming up, he couldn’t take a day off.
Besides, Handa-sensei reprimanded him for being too happy-go-lucky and laid back. If his quarter grades ended up bad, Handa-sensei would be proven right. For Makoto, that was something he could not allow.
Suppressing the nausea he felt from the increased dosage of sedatives, he forced the pills into his mouth. He swallowed them with a big gulp of water. At this rate, he was about to run out of pills before his scheduled hospital visit.
Holding his throbbing head, Makoto got ready to leave. “Whew… maybe I’ll stop by the hospital after school…”
“Makoto, I think you should stay home today,” Takaki called out in a worried voice.
“I’m fine… I’m fine. This is nothing.”
Makoto forced a smile in an attempt to allay his brother’s fears. But the attempt was futile. Seeing how pale Makoto’s face was only served to make Takaki worry even more.
“I’ll be going now,” Makoto said. “You’ll be late for work if you fool around too much, bro.”
“Yeah…”
Takaki watched his little brother from behind as he waved goodbye, walking out with his typical stooped posture. Ever since he was wounded, early on, Makoto had learned to act a certain way so others wouldn’t worry about him.
Jeez, why do you always try so hard…? Takaki thought. Just like back then…
Takaki carried wounds also.
Makoto didn’t clearly remember how he got to the classroom, but here he was, safely seated in front of his desk. He began to feel a bit better.
See, bro? he thought. I told you I was fine, didn’t I?
Toiro noticed Makoto staring out into space, with his face propped in his hands, so she went over to him.
“What’s the matter, Makoto-kun?”
“Oh, nothing,” he answered. “I wasn’t feeling too well until just a little while ago. But I feel better now.”
“Oh—well, that’s good,” she smiled in relief.
He felt comfortable, watching her smile. He thought this was the best medicine. He then noticed the book Toiro was carrying with her. It was a thick book, with a sturdy hard cover.
“What is that?” he asked. “A manga?”
“No. Do you only read manga, Makoto-kun?”
“Basically,” he answered.
“Manga are okay, but why don’t you read a book without so many pictures every once in a while?”
“Like that one?” he asked.
“I guess so.”
“What book is it?” asked Makoto.
Makoto never read anything other than manga, but this book somehow aroused his curiosity. The cover had a pretty illustration on it. It showed a brilliant blue sky with light that looked like it was really shining. In the middle stood a lone person.
“This is a collection of poems and essays,” Toiro explained.
“Hmm… Poems, eh?”
Toiro handed the book to him for closer inspection. He had lost interest in the contents, but did want to take a closer look at the cover. The book was entitled Poems for Boys. The more he looked at the cover, the more splendid the picture became.
“Who is this, uh…this…I kuma… Daiki…? Is that how you pronounce his name? Hm…” asked Makoto.
More attracted to the illustration than to the poems inside, Makoto began flipping through the pages, in the hopes of finding more pretty pictures.
One particular page caught his eye. The words seemed to pop off the page, communicating directly to his brain. The words were not handwritten, yet he felt something peculiar about them.
His heart jumped.
In the ancient memories I saw
The decayed color of steel.
I waited only for morning to come.
The scenery seemed just as it always was.
I waited only for time to pass.
In truth, I wanted to pass by this world.
To go somewhere not of this world.
Somewhere not like this world, somewhere
Only to… sleep.
“………”
Makoto was shocked. This poem was talking to him. He felt that the words expressed some kind of greater existence. He sensed a sort of power or energy existing in each word, between the words, and between the lines.
Seeing Makoto so immersed in the book, Toiro explained, “The theme of this book is death. Like about people who want to commit suicide or people who actually kill themselves. It was written by their friends and relatives…”
“What…?”
Startled, Makoto lifted his head. He now understood the identity of this “power.” It was life itself. The life that emanated from the cover illustration. The blue sky, which carried the light. He somehow knew that the drawing also evoked a desire for death, a painful longing for death. But the drawing was something which could exist in both planes.
“I wonder what they were thinking,” she said. “The people who wrote this…”
He felt the sincerity in her words. And more so, there was also… admiration.
“I wonder what people who commit suicide… in the instant they die, what do they think about…?” she wondered.
“Who knows?”
“I wonder what it’s like to die…?” she continued.
“Who knows?”
Answering her musings, Makoto suddenly remembered the dizziness he had felt that morning. Toiro’s expression changed. Written on her face was a look of envy.
In a suppressed voice, Makoto broke the silence. “I… I have no idea how people who died felt. And I especially wouldn’t know how a person who killed himself would feel…”
He felt something like anger welling up within him, along with a sense of nausea. “When you die, it’s over, isn’t it?” he stated. “Everything is over. You can’t say what you want to say… You can’t communicate what you want to communicate… That’s why the people who’re left behind write these painful poems, don’t you think?!”
“Makoto-kun…”
“Choosing how my life will be, it isn’t only up to me… It doesn’t belong to me. My life exists for somebody else’s sake, and I can’t do anything about it. Ever!”
Makoto ran out of the classroom. He couldn’t suppress his nausea anymore. His homeroom teacher was walking down the hall, but Makoto ignored him and dashed into the bathroom.
“Gwaaaghhh… cough cough cough!”
He had left the apartment without eating anything, so the only thing he vomited was stomach acid. The acidic taste and sharp smell made him feel even worse. He wished he could just vomit everything out. Everything.
Even that memory—
✦ ✦ ✦
He fell with a thud. The woman, drenched in red blood, looked at the lifeless corpse. A knife was clutched tightly in her trembling hand.
“Mommy…”
Hearing the tiny wisp of a voice calling out to her, the woman turned around. Behind her stood a little boy. He had bruises all over his body, as if he had been badly beaten. On his cheek was a fresh wound.
Still with the knife in hand, the woman reached out to the boy and held him tightly.
“It’s okay now…” she told him. “It’s okay now…”
The woman repeated those words over and over, as if it were a chant. The crimson on her clothes seeped onto the boy’s. The woman’s hands, steeped in red, caressed his cheeks. Blood trickled from the wound on the boy’s cheek.
The crimson from both of them flowed and mixed together. They blended and became one.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said. “It’s because I’m a bad boy.”
“What are you saying! It’s not your fault, none of it is!”
The woman sounded hysterical. Her voice shattered the silence. It echoed and rang in his ears. It hurt. As the boy was held painfully tight against the woman’s shoulder, his eyes began to well up with tears. The pools of water spread out and became larger.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts! the thoughts rang in his head. I’m sorry. It’s because I’m a bad boy.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the words would not come out. Strange. Maybe it was all just a dream? After all, the black shadow before him was taking Daddy away. It was taking him up into the sky.
“Please, don’t take him away,” he tried to plead. “It’s all my fault. It’s because I’m a bad boy. I was only being scolded. He was just scolding me because I was bad. Don’t take him away.”
“—It’s my fault.”