Ichiyo suffered a heart attack a few minutes after leaving Daiki’s exhibition gallery and getting in his car. Grabbing his chest in pain, he was immediately taken to the hospital.
But now he was in a coma, unconscious.
Daiki felt nothing. He thought his emotions were malfunctioning completely. Leaning against the white hospital wall, he could feel the cold of the concrete seeping into his back.
Lying in the intensive care unit, it seemed that Ichiyo’s condition was grave. People in charge of his business affairs paced back and forth in front of his room. They were already arguing about funeral arrangements and publishing rights after death, as if Daiki was not even there with them.
Visitors were not usually permitted in the intensive care ward, but they were allowing them—an indication that chances of recovery were close to zero.
Time passed, and everybody eventually left. As the hour grew late, one began to worry about the time, another about tomorrow’s schedule. And so, one by one, they began to leave for home.
In the end, nobody was left. There wasn’t anybody who truly cared for Ichiyo. In life and in death, power and talent alone don’t amount to much. The people who gathered earlier were akin to zombies, swarming to a feast.
Daiki pitied his father and felt the sudden urge to see him. Perhaps his own feelings might now be assuaged. He approached the secretary who had been keeping vigil all this time.
He said, “I’ll switch with you. You should get some rest.”
And so Daiki stood by Ichiyo, lying there all alone.
The room was populated with exaggerated machines from which numerous cords emerged. He saw the IV tubes attached to all parts of Ichiyo’s body. In fact, it almost seemed as though the tubes were growing out of his body.
Daiki was taken aback. It looked like a body made up of machines. A robot.
So this is how it is to stand on the precipice of death, Daiki thought. He saw how wretched life was and how miserable it was to be forced to live. He now knew. But he had never expected that it would be this disgraceful.
The weak electronic spikes on the electrocardiogram, indicating heartbeats, flaunted the fact that Ichiyo’s life was being sustained with the help of machinery. But the room was not busy with machine beeps and noises like it was in TV dramas. It was actually surprisingly quiet.
And for that reason, it seemed all too real. The reality he had sought was here.
So now he’s going to die? Daiki wondered. Is this what human death is?
The thing that Daiki had been longing for was now here, staring him in the face. And he found it disappointing. Much too disappointing. He tried to deny that this was how death was, that this was what he had wanted. It couldn’t be like this. How could the thing he wanted be like this?
That boy had shone so brightly, so should his father. But he didn’t.
“Why is it all so ephemeral?” he wondered, with his face in his hands.
—Ring.
“That’s because this is your reality.”
The girl in white again stood next to Daiki.
“…?!” Taken by surprise, Daiki felt his knees almost buckle.
The black cat crossed in front of him and hopped onto Ichiyo’s bed. As if searching for something, he curiously looked about Ichiyo, glancing this way and that.
“Y-you… what are you doing here?!” Daiki asked incredulously. He checked and saw the door to the room was still shut. “How did you get inside…?”
“I told you,” Momo responded, “I’m a shinigami.”
“……” Daiki refused to understand.
“Reality is painful…” Momo explained. “When you chase after illusions, they only slip through your fingers. And since you can’t understand that, I suppose there’s no greater irony.”
“So this… this is the reality I exist in…?” Daiki asked.
“Yes. You’ll understand that soon enough. I’m sure you will.”
“Okay, Momo,” Daniel interrupted. “It’s almost time.”
“All right,” Momo answered. “Now come on. Your father is calling.”
“What?”
The next thing he knew, a miracle was happening.
“…D… Daiki… Are you there…?”
Ichiyo was regaining consciousness. He was calling out to Daiki in a parched voice. Here he was, the very same Ichiyo whom the doctors proclaimed would not likely regain consciousness and whose prospects were pronounced as gloomy.
Daiki, wondering, looked to Momo. “…My god, did you… do this…?”
“Well, who knows?” She shrugged. She then looked straight at Daiki, as if to ask, “What are you going to do now?”
With a sigh, Daiki turned to face his father. Daniel obediently hopped off the bed and went to his mistress’s side.
“I’m here, Father…”
He seems so weak, Daiki thought as he peered down at his father.
Ichiyo’s eyes moved towards the direction of the voice, confirming Daiki’s presence. Although his body was still physically weak, his voice gradually regained its power as he continued to speak.
“…Daiki… paint pictures…”
“…?”
He’s still insisting on that? Daiki thought incredulously. Can’t he say something a bit more fatherly at a time like this?
Daiki couldn’t believe his ears. His father was still forcing him to paint, even after belittling his work just a few hours earlier.
Ignoring his son’s cold stare, Ichiyo continued. “Do you remember…? You drew so many p-pictures with your first… crayon set…”
“?”
“And eventually,” Ichiyo struggled with the words, “y-you drew a big, big picture on the w-wall of my studio. You wore down your brand new crayons doing it… I-it was that big…”
Daiki couldn’t remember such a thing. He had always suppressed his memories, his reminiscences. Especially the ones that happened before he realized there was no light shining upon him.
“And… I… You know, Daiki… I scolded you. But… actually, I was truly happy. I was hopelessly envious…”
“…?” Daiki couldn’t believe his ears.
Ichiyo laughed with a gentle, relaxed voice. “I kept that first drawing of yours all this time and I actually wanted to exhibit it. You might think I’m just being a dumb parent…”
Questions kept racing through Daiki’s mind. That last painting, he was the one who had it?! Was he the one who ordered the publishing company to display it?! Oh my God, that’s… that’s impossible!