FicWad

I file my way out, leaving the stone steps of the church with the last lingering members of the congregation. Each week, I have moved myself closer to the door; or rather, farther from the cooling weather. I’ve not yet made it inside, but I see no reason when it is still warm enough to bear a couple hours in the doorway, unseen. There is some small comfort to be had in the swell of the carved threshold, the ornate windows, the decorated cupola that dominates the cold building. The bodies huddled in coats on the pews testify to a poor heating system.
I have learned that there are five masses hosted weekly: Friday evening, Saturday morning, Saturday night, and two on Sunday. The rest of the week the church is open for confession, community activities, asylum-- all the staples and stipulations of Catholicism. In the last three weeks, in the absence of work, I have attended all of them, leaning silently near the door and smelling the warmth of the incense. All churches have the same dark wood panels, the same fraying red carpet, the same spackled light streaming from the colored panes. I imagine the communion wine here tastes as oily and thick as it ever did, but I have not gone to the offense of receiving it. Only believers may partake of the body of Christ; it’s a clean way of denying salvation.
“Couldn’t Jesus just save everyone?”
Our father glares into the backseat, leaving Aya to wriggle in her itchy pastels, socks and dress conspiring to annoy her. Petulantly, she shrugs, waiting on her answer, which comes by rote in a still voice.
“Salvation has to be earned. We earn it by believing.”
“So you could be the most horrible person in the world, and never do a thing like Jesus said, but still believe in him and be saved?”
He exhales loudly through his nose, pushing a gust of air through his nostrils. We always quietly imagined it would fog the windshield up one day and cause him to crash. It was funny. Our mother would tighten her lips into a line and tug at the loose tendrils of hair that floated about her cheekbones.
“That person wouldn’t truly believe, if they didn’t act as they should.”
Aya, playing her part in our Sunday morning ritual complacently leans back into the seat of the car, nudging me with her ankle.
“Oh. Well, I don’t know. I think Ran might have a better question.”
My father’s exasperation with clear through the back of the seat, through the nervous twitching of the rosary that hung on the rear-view mirror, its white beads clacking away the miles.
“Ran?”
It was an awful question. I bow even though his eyes were on the road.
“I wanted to know if it was possible for someone like that to believe, and then, to disagree. I mean, can’t you believe that Jesus is God’s son without agreeing with him? It seems possible to me.”
“Those people wouldn’t be saved.”
The answer was, as expected, immediate. I wondered afterwards whether he answered so quickly out of uncertainty, or in order to convey to us that he had the answer.
That question, unlike Aya’s, was asked once. She smiles at me, and goes on practicing the prayers she learned that morning. One week it is the Act of Contrition. The next the Nicene Creed. The Our Father. Hail Mary mother of god,…who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name….we believe in…for I have sinned. It all ran together in a long somber litany as she built them up upon the other, liking the sound of the words. I listened, and drew back, lingering instead in the smell of the white altar wax, and the oil they used to clean the pews, which smelled a little musky, a little dark, like char and alcohol at once.
The bookstore smells lighter, more musty. The smell of paper accumulating over time is dry, and sharp as it hits the nostrils. I pause in the doorway to enjoy it, and the comparative warmth of the shop to the street. It’s a small shop and I can see every shelf from where I stand. The newest books sit in a pile next to the counter, and I walk over to thumb through them, having already rifled through the rest of the store in my idle hours. I found a cheap copy of Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise, and, surprisingly enough, a well-preserved copy of Mishima’s Confessions of a Mask, unfortunately in an English translation. In addition to those were a myriad of books by Kerouac, Nabokov, Miller that I took to occupy my time, and help me sleep. Finally, on my first visit, I found a worn, unmarked collection of Shakespeare’s plays, which still sits, untouched and in its plastic bag, on my dresser. It simply hasn’t appealed to me.
The shop’s owner looks up and smiles at me as I stride towards the counter, and I nod in return, not quite remembering the man’s name. The other two customers presently join me in looking over the new stack. Together we uncover such objects of disinterest as a trio of Grisham novels, a coverless copy of Les Miserables, its front pages beginning to slip from the binding, a legal textbook, and several unrecognizably obscure authors. I vaguely consider taking the torn Hugo with me, when, previously unnoticed, a slim volume slips out from under it, having been wedged between it and one of the Grishams. The book’s pale cover is glossy in the yellow light of the store. A mouse peers from where it has been flattened onto the cover, in full and white relief. I flip quickly to the end of the novel, skimming the page until I reach the last line.
“P.S. please if you get a chanse put some flowrs on Algernons grave in the bak yard.”
A few paragraphs above that, another sentence catches my eye.
“I did something but I dont remembir what.”
I think I once said that I couldn’t imagine that: to live aware of one’s previous experiences without comprehending them; remembering them in the same manner one remembers a story, or a friend’s incident; or worse, in a vivid relief that relates what happened in precise imagery without explaining what the motives behind it were. I’m sure I couldn’t imagine such a feeling.
Dropping the Hugo, I pay for Flowers for Algernon. At least, I have replaced something of what I didn’t bother to bring here with me. And later, when I read it-- forcing myself straight through without pause-- I imagine a Charlie with blond hair.
______________________________

I wake with a corner of the cover scratching against my cheek, and the dry taste of paper in my mouth. Sunlight filters blearily through the fogged windows, and my skin is clammily cold where I hadn’t bothered to cover myself with a blanket. It rained overnight, and water beads down the glass, casting limp shadows on the floor. A manila envelope catches them from where it lies on the carpet, one edge still caught beneath the door and crinkling. Listlessly, I pick it up and wrench it open, glancing over the series of floor plans and instructions it contained. No cause is cited, but the information is enough to make it clear. The offices of a pharmaceutical company are housed on three floors of a skyscraper downtown, in one of the newer buildings-- all glass and fresh concrete. Despite the modest offices, the company is in excellent financial shape, primarily due to its diverse investments. However, if one looks closely, one can see a certain amount of funds being skimmed off the top, as the returns begin to shrink as far back as last April. In addition, the company-- BioTechniques-- is engaged in very specific research regarding medical technique and what amounts to chemical warfare, which is in turn leased to a somewhat shady organization. Apparently, the higher-ups, particularly those on the investment side of the business have been considering dismantling the project and backing out on their contract. The instructions are simple enough, to execute those higher ups and return the research to Kritiker who, I assume, will finish the project themselves, or else find another group to complete it.
Simple enough. Glancing at the back of the packet, I find a small note attached to the last floor plan.
“Use it.”
The sum written on the page is incredible, more than I’ve ever seen for a single job. I wait for a sense of resentment to show itself, and when none comes, I fold the note into my pocket and walk out the door, steeling myself for the rain.
_________________________________________

It is still raining two days later when, ducking my head under the collar of my jacket, I rapidly exit the Biotech building and duck down the street. Sirens flicker through traffic, their noise barely heard over the thrumming of engines and blare of angry horns, as the lines of cars pause to let the police rush through. My hiding is habitual, unreasoned, since I left no sign of a forced entry to trace back to me.
Regardless, my body is tight with adrenaline, and every step stings with its slowness. Giving into my anxiety, I slip into a mini-mart two blocks or so from the building. The lights are brighter-- glaring blurs of blue and red-- through the plate glass. I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching them hurry down the street before the clerk demands,
“Look buddy, buy something or get out. I ain’t got no room for bums in here.”
Shrugging, I pull myself away from the window and, not yet willing to venture back into the rain, point imperiously at the first item that catches my eye.
“I’ll have those then.”
“The wides? Or did you want menthols? Can’t tell from the way you’re pointing.”
“Wides.”
Sneering, the man drops the red package in front of me, waiting as I dig out a few folded bills and shove them towards him. His eyes are dull where they reflect the fluorescent lighting. Absentmindedly, I pick up the pack and rip it open, fingering the tips of the cigarettes, presented-- filter upright and yellowish at the end-- in three neat rows, tufting themselves into the air. The paper is smooth, rolled between my fingertips. I begin to play with one, lifting it in and out of the box.
“Hey.”
The clerk taps me on the shoulder.
“You can’t smoke in here, take it outside.”
“But I d--”
“Save it buddy, you gotta go.”
Glaring at him and his dirty little store, I let the clerk have his way and set back out into the rain, carefully putting the open box into a dry pocket. As I walk, I finger its glossy slick corners.
I had no reason to buy the damned things: I don’t smoke.
Refusing any reminders or hints of the manner, I run ridiculously down the street, hunched over and fixing my gaze straight at the ground. Denial is an absurd form of refusal, for it is impossible. After all, one cannot deny what one is not fully and entirely aware of.
Even so, I hurl myself forward until, soaking wet, I find myself under the familiar blue awning of my hotel. It is not unoccupied, an old man crouches against the door, flicking a lighter. My hand tightens around the box, aching where one of the corners cuts into my palm, peeling off a thread of white skin. The flame is blue just as it jumps up, singing the hole it its metal casing. A faint thrill of lighter fluid-- reminiscent of gasoline and church censors both-- hangs in the air, mingling with the man’s unwashed smell. It sputters and goes out in the damp air, and all one can see is the quick flaring of that brilliant blue. The man curses, flicking his thumb-- raw and reddened already with the effort-- against the trigger.
“God…damn it. What? What do you want young fellow? If you’re just staring you can go away or you can watch while I knock your ass off the sidewalk.”
He looked absurd threatening it, shooting meaningful looks at the curb as he spoke.
Perhaps it was the strange funniness of his threat that prompted it,
“Actually, could I get a light?”
“You can try”
Bending down, I held a cigarette close to the lighter while he fussed with it. Finally, the paper caught fire.
“Could I bum one of those?”
His face wrinkles up into a sort of eager hope, and I toss one into his lap. I sit down as he lights it, the coldness of the cement seeping into my clothes.
The chill becomes no less acute as we sit, silently, and watch the rain soaking the garbage that lines the dip between the sidewalk and the street, drenching the newspapers and making them run.
_____________________________________

Despite the relative clarity of the day, the steps to the church are pooled with water. It seeps through the edges of my shoes as I approach the door, hands buried deep in pockets. The wind rips at the collar of my coat, ruffling through my hair to chill my scalp. The door is closed, heavy and forbidding as I shoulder it open, unwilling to bare my hands to the icy air. It shuts with an unwelcome bang, instantly wrenching the attention of the resident nun where she reclines on a pew near the altar. She drops her psalm book on the bench and stands to greet me, a warm smile spreading across her face.
“I was wondering when you would finally come in. You don’t need to stand in the door like that, especially now that the weather is turning--”
“I’m not Catholic.”
Her smile stretches further and she lays a slightly clammy hand on my shoulder.
“That’s alright. Whatever your reasons are to come and listen, they’re all welcome.”
The air between us recedes into a warm silence, and I let her guide me to a pew. She sits gracefully next to me, her eyes drifting forward to settle on the large crucifix with its crimson stains and glittering crown. She seems content to say nothing. I shift on the hard wood, my fingers bunching around the objects in my pocket, crinkling and uncrinkling the edges.
Without saying anything, I pull the large white envelope from my pocket. It’s no longer so clean as it was this morning, and it smells more of wet cotton and smog than the crisp freshness of the bank, but the nun still smiles as I drop it on the pew between us.
Gripped suddenly by a sort of nausea, I stand and quickly walk towards the back of the church, away form the placid countenance of the Christ crucified and the smoky reek of the candles.
I can hear her tearing the paper open as my hands reach the door knobs.
“How generous.”
She moves quickly to stand behind me, again placing her hand on my shoulder.
“May I ask your name?”
I shake my head, earning a pitying look from her.
“Alright. It is a wonderful thing that you’ve done. Next time please do come and sit inside to listen. You‘ll be able to hear much better.”
“I don’t need it.”
And with that, I’m back into the cold, coughing on the pollutant haze and the rustling of the enfeebled trees that flank the building. Pausing on the step, I dig the pack of cigarettes from my pocket. Its glossy red embossing looks cheap and colorlessly dull in broad daylight. The cigarette itself looks too small to contain anything. My throat tightens.
Disregarding both impressions, I slide the stick into my mouth and flick a match, inhaling its dry heat as a cover for the wind.
____________________________________

The days are long in the hotel room, beginning with a dusky blue light embedded in the carpet that seeps up into yellow, circling the walls and leaving a glare on the picture frames, and which finally end in a wash of red along the ceiling, covering the light bulb. One finds quickly that, despite all the apparent crowds and occupations in a city, there is, in reality, very little with which to occupy oneself. One can only visit so many restaurants, frequent so many stores, before the hollowness of purposeless wandering begins to turn to loneliness, and can no longer be enjoyed.
I leave the “do not disturb sign” on the door, and the white placard is ignored only by the envelopes slid into the room. Their frequency varies, sometimes rushing in two or three a week, more often, appearing every two weeks or so. None of them are thick, and their contents lend no more occupation than a single night, at best, and more frequently an hour or two. The days they do not come I flip through books, half-conscious, and drift in and out of sleep as I keep a wary eye on the door. Half-eager, I dread the phone ringing, no matter that it is usually only an update on my bill or back accounts.
The nights are better. The lights from outside faint into a distant neon. The closest is a blue sign declaring “XXX” in broad letters. Exciting enough, one supposes. The traffic is quieter as well, which is better. I perch on the edge of the bed and run my way through cigarettes, turning the air blue with smoke, if only to provide an excuse to leave the room the next day. My lungs hurt when I run now. I wonder what they would do if I laughed, but I’ve found little to provide the opportunity.
Sundays are the simplest. Despite the cold, the doors of the church are left ajar, for when I arrive twenty minutes into the service to lean against the threshold. All of my pants are stained with the salt they use to dry the sidewalks, or else soaked yellow with the dirty snow. Half the time I can’t even understand the sermon, the words drift past my ears to be absorbed by traffic. It’s irrelevant, straining to hear it is as good a use of my time as listening would be. Afterwards, I deposit my excess funds on the altar, and wait until the confessional booths are emptied and the sister is unoccupied before leaving, to ensure that the money is taken by the right person. She invariably smiles as I leave, but does not try to approach me. I wonder, now and then when the words in my books start to blur and my attention waver, precisely why she doesn’t ask any questions. Perhaps the money is enough to concern herself with. Regardless, it is curiosity enough to occupy my time.
____________________________________________

The peal of the phone is irritating, too loud and close in the small room, the vibration making it rattle against the receiver, the plastic casing clattering about. I pause mid-sentence in my book to answer it, forgetting momentarily what Tom Buchanan’s life savors of.
“Hello?”
Even as I answer I find my attention drifting back towards my book where it lies open on the bed. I am greeted by the faint sound of breath pushing into the phone and wait a few moments for my interest in whoever is on the other end of the line to thin.
“Either say something or hang up. I’m not going wait around all day for you to speak.”
“Your last mission went well.”
“Then I assume there’s another.”
Omi pauses, presumably staring blankly at the receiver. It was always his habit to study the numbers on the phone when he was uncertain of what to say.
“No. I don’t have any more missions for you. Right now at least. There are certain things that need to be taken care of before we can carry through with the final steps of our current projects. Do you understand?”
I shrug, seeing no need to vocalize an answer. It certainly explains my being grossly overpaid for the last job.
The silence between us stretches into minutes, and I distract myself watching the glitter of cars in the street, reflecting the sun. It strikes me as odd, to see the light arcing down the glass sides of buildings, setting traffic to gleam: its been raining altogether too much lately. As much as I enjoy the damp, and the sight of empty sidewalks as the weather chases people inside, I’ve tired of walking through the puddles. The tableau outside my window shifts, the colors jerking forward with an irritating rapidity. The traffic light must have changed. I can almost hear all the curses hung in the air, arrested by the welcome green of the signal. I’m waiting for Omi to hang up, he’s typically more direct. If he’s hanging on the line for some sense of comfort, than hopefully he’ll be satisfied soon. It doesn’t matter that I have nothing else to occupy my time: his soft breathing into the phone sets me on edge, expecting a blow, waiting for news that will never come. The impossibility of it grits my teeth, is a hard stiff presence in my jaw.
“It might be awhile before we’re able to give you anything else.”
“I understand.”
His voice becomes suddenly plaintive and I can remember perfectly his gaping eyes and worrying grin, his overly helpful hands.
“I just wanted to warn you. You should watch your funds.”
Even with my donation earlier, I know I should have more than enough to survive a few months. When I do not answer, Omi sighs, his breath echoing loudly into the receiver.
“Aya-kun?”
“Hn?”
“What do you think someone should do when they want to help someone, but that person refuses it? When no matter what you offer they ignore it, and just go on deteriorating? And you have to watch it, because they’ve refused you.” he lets out a small laugh, a choking throaty sound, “It’s enough, almost, to question whether you can help anyone at all. Or better, its enough to think that maybe they don’t need help, because they shouldn’t have to recover from everything they’ve been through?”
He sounds hysterical, and I wonder for the first time if he’s begun tampering with other’s vices. He liked to harangue us all about drink. The taste of whiskey is something golden, and flashes green in the light as it glances from his voice to slur the end of his words into something smoother than they should be. The sound is foreign to his voice, half-obscene when mingled with the still childish lilt of his questions, the higher timbre of his speech. He doesn’t deign to wait for a response.
“Is it cruel to imagine that everyone should be as strong? Or just stupid to think that you’re not the broken one?”
His litany has picked up from some unknown place in his thoughts. I have no interest in his regrets, and no reason to serve as his solace. Omi never tried to take comfort in me before. I refuse to act as a substitute for him now, or a sounding-board.
“I don’t know.”
He laughs. He laughs and its brittle and broken and riddled with holes: gasping breath and the gurgle of liquid from a bottleneck. I find myself unwillingly horrified at the surreal quality of the sound. It seems somehow stolen-- it certainly isn’t a noise or an action that should come from him.
“No. You don’t want to answer. Never did. God help me, just look at you. Where’s your confidence gone? All your answers? It’s alright, you can shrink away, cover your eyes from it. I guess that look wasn’t quite enough, huh? I guess after all this time your fall from grace proved to be only a stumble? Only a few little bruises couldn‘t supply enough blood for you to drown in?”
He sounds ridiculous. I feel a strange amusement at his words, at his attempts to goad me into anger or whatever his drunkenness demands. His accusations hold no sting, for all the apparent necessity of their source. Its funny, that I can now do my mourning without an audience.
“Perhaps.”
He coughs, and I imagine the brown liquor dribbling down his chin in shock. There’s not another answer I feel obliged to give him.
He has no stock in my greatest crimes, in my lingering faith, in my detractions. I do not believe in an end of time to test my regrets against: it is simple enough, and so I have no answers for him, no retorts, no indignations.
“I had to clean it up, you know.”
His voice slows to a whisper, firming into a semblance of somberness, or determination. It makes little difference.
“Afterwards, I had to go back and see the wreckage. Pick through it. There wasn’t anything distinguishable-- nothing you would have missed. There was so little of the building left, it really didn’t matter that I hadn’t been there before that night, I’d have known it as well then as any of you would have. It was filthy. The ashes everywhere, the bits of plaster. It was so hard to believe that anything at all could have happened there. That it could have been important at all. But you know what, Aya-kun? I didn’t feel any pain. I’d thought I might. After all, that’s where it all fell off. Ken wouldn’t even come back with me to see it, to check for bodies or memorabilia.” He breathes deeply, and something hard clinks into the side of the phone as he pauses, “Not that it, after all, made such a difference. Couldn’t find anything, not even the bodies I knew had to be there. God, but it was so dirty! I dug through all sorts of shit, and found nothing.” He swallows loudly against the speaker, “I guess I just can’t believe that. What do you think Aya-kun? Don’t you think something should have been found? I mean, if nothing was there, than wouldn’t you imagine it could be found elsewhere? That it would have to be?
Things just don’t disappear, Abyssinian. You didn’t.”
“I’m lucky.”
“Really? Luckier than Ken, I suppose, no matter if he insists that he’s happier where he is.”
I give in, supplying the question I know he wants. My voice comes out so wooden I’m surprised it doesn’t splinter on my teeth.
“Where is that?”
“Prison. Can you imagine that? Happier in prison! He’s not helping anyone in there. And what good will it do him to remember? Mourning can only go so far. If he’s trying to atone for something-- he’s wasting his time. I mean, it’s not as if there is anyone that can forgive him, is there?”
“Hn.”
There isn’t. Somehow, I do not feel that I should remind Omi of that.
“Maybe you could--”
“There is nothing I can do for Ken, much less forgive him.”
“No, I mean maybe you could come back,” his voice begins to pitch higher, throwing itself back to a younger and more excitable tenor, “Wouldn’t you be happier here? You could convince Ken to come out and we could all go together and work, again. I don’t know…”
His voice thins and dwindles away at the end, in a way that makes obvious that he understands the absolute impossibility of what he’s saying, the immaturity of it, the hopelessness.
“If he won’t come out on his own, I doubt I would be able to persuade him.”
Besides, if it allows him to cope, what right does Omi have to deprive him of that? If prison is sanctuary enough for Ken, let him be left there. I can almost see his reasoning for staying. It’s near enough to atonement that he might be able to move on afterwards.
“There are other matters that you could help with. Even if you couldn’t convince Ken, I can imagine other affairs where your presence might be more persuasive.”
The light in the room is suddenly blinding, oppressively brilliant as I let my eyes drift out the window, focusing desperately on the horizon-- difficult as it is to make out between the rows of buildings. It makes my eyes water.
“Whatever it is, it doesn’t concern me.”
“As long as you’re satisfied. Don’t remember that ever happening though. You know, the reason you’re never satisfied is that you don’t move on.”
“And my going back to Japan would accomplish that?”
“Maybe it would remove any need to do so. Maybe you wouldn’t have to move on if you came back. I saw your sister the other day you know. She looked so lonely, picking through the flowers. Although, I must admit, she’s much better at it than we ever were. But she has more time to focus on that. No distractions? I thought about though, maybe she could use some. Making bouquets all day can’t be too interesting.”
A part of me grasps the absolute absurdity of the situation even as the rest of me revolts in anger.
“Leave her alone. It’s finished. I’ve accepted that I can never be around her. She is happy, and if everything I have done is the cost, than that is how it must be. Her contentment is more than enough of a recompense for my guilt. Promise me you will stay away from her, tell me you will not go ruining her. She is not indebted to you.”
“And you?”
Omi’s voice is too cold for comfort.
“I do the work you offer me. Its enough.”
“Is it Aya-kun? Are you sure there isn’t anything else I have to offer you? Nothing else I could be watching besides your livelihood? Money I find is so impersonal, so easy to walk away from. It‘s so easy to leave to other purposes.”
It’s obscene, what he’s hinting at, and impossible. Every bit of me denies it. My whitening knuckles testify to the falsity of his threat. It didn’t matter if I was careful or no, there was simply nothing he could have found. He even said he found nothing. And if Koua couldn’t have given him the answer, where could he have gone to find it? My shoulders stiffening, I shrug the questions off.
“Do me one small favor Omi. Leave my sister to her happiness. You couldn’t give her anything more than I already have.”
In that moment, it doesn’t matter that I can remember his youth, his shock at discovering his family, his look of turbid compassion from behind his uncle’s death, or his fervent grief as he walked through the glass doors at the Koneko, suitcase in hand; his name signed at the bottom of the checks I receive-- I can no longer stomach his thickening voice and clumsy words.
The click of the phone as I carefully settle it into its base is unsatisfying. The darkened city is appropriate, a fitting background to my discontent. The air is stale, thinly putrid with the smell of wet plaster and aging bedding, but the scent of it relishes less of dirt than of anticlimax, and I return to my book, oddly sympathetic to the brittle relationships and dried ideals of the superficial characters.
________________________________________

I find myself answering the phone again the next night, equally reluctantly but with far more distaste than before.
“Hello?”
“Aya-kun. I’m so glad I managed to reach you. I thought you might not answer. I’m sorry about what I said last night. Just forget it. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean it.”
Whether he meant it or not, it was a conversation rendered irrelevant by circumstance. Everything he mentioned felt so foreign, nothing that could have ever occurred. Or so it seemed, and felt as we spoke. I settle a cigarette on my lips to occupy myself. It’s comforting, the reel of smoke into my lungs, the distraction of drawing the scent in and out of my mouth, of tapping the stick to drop the ash.
“I understand if you’re upset. I’ve been……..it’s been wearing on me lately. I wonder sometimes if I’ve become everything I dreaded. But what is there to do about it, if I have to? I can’t just let it all drop. If I have to become that……like my uncle….to finish what I need to, isn’t it for the best? I suppose, however, that the justification doesn’t make a difference to you.”
“No.”
He speaks conspiratorially.
“Most of our actions seem to amount to that, justification. After all, you walked away from Koua. You managed to let your sister go. Promises aren’t enough to keep us from that.”
“I’m alive. That was as much a promise I could keep to her. It’s enough. I couldn’t stay there.”
Tonight he sounds calm, his vocal inflections carefully controlled. It makes me wonder, fleetingly, what prompted his drinking yesterday. That was never his recourse. My voice, by comparison, is rough, distressed, tainted with a sound of pain I don’t quite manage to repress. It lends it sincerity, I imagine, conveying a desire to speak that I don’t feel.
“I think I was right at first-- that I needed to separate myself from everything. I can’t move on if I’m stuck in the same damned trapped, dependent on the same actions, the same money, the same sense of being. My intentions, I suppose, have changed enough that whatever promises I’ve made are meaningless.”
“What would you do then?”
“I don’t know. I don’t feel like I should do anything. It feels too much as if I’m waiting for something. Any action only pushes that off, leaving me to wait longer and longer for something essential to occur. I know it has to, otherwise, what is the point of this feeling of suspension, this damnable idleness? You think you gave me a purpose again? Returned me to my usefulness? I thank you for your compassion, but there is no peace to be found in playing the mimic and trying to resurrect the calm and clear-sight I once possessed.”
“Are you looking for redemption Aya? I wouldn’t have imagined you as one to believe in all that.”
“I want to remember with detachment. It’s enough. I have no need to suffer twice.”
“And then no need or obligation to mourn or pay your respects? Or do the dead not deserve your energy? Wouldn’t want to waste your time.”
“Those who I most owe do not need my grief.”
He is silent for a long time after that and I wonder of whom he is thinking. While I wait for his response I wonder, suddenly, about my parent’s graves. Aya will take care of them well enough. I can almost imagine the vibrant colors she will surely have laid out on them, a whole series of brilliant bouquets and scattered flowers. It is her right to maintain them.
“You’re done then?”
The words are quiet, but clear enough, and I find myself nodding slowly before I remember that I must verbalize my response.
“Yes.”
“You know it will be difficult. Its not as if one can just write you out. You’re not dead.”
“Pretend I am. Whatever’s necessary. I don‘t care.”
“I’m reforming Weiss. I thought you should know.”
“Hn. Will Ken be involved?”
“No. I don’t think he could be.”
It doesn’t matter to me, except that it means that he does not need me. It should be easier for Kritiker to forget me here, across the ocean, with four new men to take up the work we left behind, and fled from, into varying states of refuge.
“Aya.”
His tone is childish again. I grunt softly in response, to let him know I’m still on the line.
“You do know that I’m sorry? That I didn’t want….I didn’t think that it would end like it did. That I thought they would have been alright.”
“I don’t blame you.”
There is not anyone I find myself capable of blaming.
“But you can forgive me? That it came down to letting it all go? I can’t believe that everyone is so far gone. It seems a strange miracle we could have ever been intact at all.”
“No.”
It is simple enough to respond.
“No?”
“I know that you will forgive me. It seems irrelevant. I do not want it. I would sooner forget than refute my memories so, and pollute them with forgiveness.”
There is a tepidness to his silence now, a furtive hostility at his having been slighted so. I cannot admit that this is an insult, this unwelcome admission, but it renders-- in his eyes-- my leaving a sort of betrayal, corrupted with ingratitude. His spite tightens his voice so as to be near-incomprehensible as he responds, the sound rapping in my ear with enough force to dent the plastic of the phone.
“I forgive you.”
His emphasis of the last word is bitter, its softness brutal as he repeats the phrase and drops the phone. It cuts out a second or two later, leaving me to deal with the dull roar of the dial tone.


Author's note: one more chapter to go! Since I'm going out of the country again, I'm going to try and get it up by friday, before I go. Seems feasible enough. Also, the quote earlier is from Daniel Keyne's "Flowers for Algernon", and the misspellings are part of the text. In addition, Aya is reading "The Great Gatsby" by F Scott Fitagerald when Omi calls him, which is what the Tom Buchanan bit alludes to, specifically the famous quote that his life "savored of anticlimax". as always, comments/criticisms are welcome