Part V: Paradox Spiral

Back when I was a kid, I used to hold on to this little piece of metal all the

time. It was an ugly little thing, with these dull, jagged teeth that started to

dig into your skin if you held it tight enough. A lot of times, it felt like holding

all the loneliness of a cold December day. Still, I loved that little thing.

I loved the way it made a click every time you turned it around, a chime

for each day’s beginning and another for its end. The sound made me

so proud every time I heard it, but it was also twinned with something

strangely melancholic.

But in time, I soon found those spiraling days coming to a close. The

only thing that remained is the silver glint of the metal, and the chill of its

surface. There was no joy when I held it now, only blood that sometimes

oozes when I grip it too tight. There wasn’t any sadness either. Maybe

there never had been. It’s just a simple sc.r.a.p of metal, nothing more. And

when I grew older still, even the glint of it—which once seemed so magical—disappeared.

It was then that it finally hit me: growing up is throwing away fantasy for

the cunning of survival. And for realizing that, I praised myself for my own

cleverness.

46 • KINOKO NASU

Prologue

This is the year when autumn went as fast as it came.

Having just entered the departing days of November, and with winter

already well underway, the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department found

another strange tale adrift on its sh.o.r.es. To be fair, ghost stories and the

like were never out of season for the Crime Investigation Section, a trait it

lovingly shares with hospitals all over the city. It’s practically a year-round

campfire, huddling together in a dark corner of the human experiment to

share what new stories the city decided to churn out the murder mill.

Which is probably why when Detective Akimi, who is as natural a police

as they come, actually gets interested in a case of his own accord, it is a

case of some deserved curiosity. Akimi built his career on stone whodunits,

a man who loved the mystery. Combine this with him hearing gossip about

a very peculiar report, and you have him phoning the relevant stations for

the very same report in no time at all.

So far however, reading the plainly written report held little for him. It

told a story of a bizarrely failed burglary that took place in some residential

high-rise a small ways away from downtown in early October. The perp was

a joe with a previous record, an all too common caper: burgle the apartments

of people who’d just left it unlocked. Simple, old, but still effective.

The day of the incident, he stole into just such an apartment after staking

the place out and waiting for someone to leave, which was probably the

extent of his planning.

What came after was what made this report interesting. Apparently, the

same guy came running to the nearest police station yelling for help. The

on-duty officers eventually got a story out of his hysteria: that he saw the

dead bodies of the family that lived in the apartment he broke into. An

officer escorted him back to the apartment immediately, only to find that

the family he spoke of was indeed there. On the other hand, they weren’t

dead. Instead, they were in quite good health and in fact enjoying a family

dinner. This understandably disturbed the burglar, though the officer really

cared only about the fact that the man had exposed himself to breaking

and entering, and thus, took him into custody.

Leaning back on his squeaky pipe chair, Detective Akimi offers an incredulous

“What the f.u.c.k?” at the air, directed at no one. The suspect tested

negative for alcohol or drugs, and didn’t suffer from any glaring mental

health problems. Certainly a strange and curious report, but otherwise,

/ PROLOGUE • 47

there didn’t seem to be a case here, if it was worthy of even being called

one. Hardly a case to stand beside the current investigation that’s got half

the section in a rustle: four missing one after another, with no clue as to

their whereabouts, and four families that they needed to shut up while

they worked the case from an angle that benefitted from their silence.

Much like the serial killings three years ago, it’s resulted in many a sleepless

night for him, and he certainly didn’t need this case to add more.

Still, he could feel the hairs on his back rise when he read the report, a

feeling that he’d learned to trust as the instinct that something was there,

waiting to be discovered; maybe even a report that could be turned into a

case with legs to spit shine the clearance rate.

“Worth a call, at least,” Akimi says as he picks up the receiver on his

desk phone and puts it to his ear. He dials the number of the station where

the report came from. Before long, an on-duty officer answers and Akimi

starts to inquire for details on the report. Did they check with the other

tenants for anything out of place? Did they find any inconsistency with the

suspect’s description of the family? But it becomes fruitless as the answers

fit his expectations, that they had indeed asked the neighbors, and no there

was nothing out of place, and that the description of the perp was spot-on

except with regards to the family’s state of being. With quick thanks, Akimi

puts the receiver back.

At that instant, a voice calls him from behind. “What are you on the

phone for, Daisuke? You need to get rolling. The second guy’s body’s just

been found, and you’re the primary on the case.”

“f.u.c.k it, another one? Don’t tell me it’s another partially eaten body.”

Akimi’s friend only responds with a curt nod, which is his cue to drop his

curiosity and get out of here. No one’s going to care about the report, but

it was all tumbleweeds when he read it anyway. And nothing takes priority

over this new serial murder case. With that, the report goes back into file

in a cabinet somewhere to be forgotten, even by Detective Akimi, the CIS’s

lover of mysteries.

48 • KINOKO NASU

Paradox Spiral - I

In the first few days of October, the streets already blow over with the

bitter cold.

Winds with fingers of ice grant gentle caresses to the lamp posts and

dumpsters. Usually, the city still looked alive at this hour, at 10 o’ clock in

the evening. But tonight is different. Tonight, scattered pools of light in the

streets, from display stores to the street lamps, only serve to accentuate

the little shadows and silhouettes playing across them. Winter is coming

early this year, and considering the temperature, it wouldn’t be at all out

of place to discover snow falling tonight. The silhouettes of people exiting

the train station, jackets worn and collars fluttering in the wind, lack all

the life they normally have. Like automatons, they walk at brisk paces to

their homes, not stopping for a look at a display window or a warm cup

of coffee. They hurry because they all want the warmth and familiarity of

their homes.

From the wave of people, to the heat that refuses to gather, and even

the shops whose lights seem just a little bit dimmer; the boy witnesses all

of it. He sits beside a vending machine situated in a little nook beside the

avenue, idly watching the people exiting the train station. Almost as if to

hide himself, he sits hugging his legs to his chest, and he cuts a pitifully

thin figure that makes it hard to determine his gender from afar. His hair,

arranged like a bundle of unkempt straw, is dyed red. He looks to be around

the age of sixteen or seventeen. His eyes are narrowed, yet they don’t seem

to be particularly interested in anything. He shivers under strange clothes:

dirty jeans and a blue jacket one or two sizes too big for him, with nothing

else to cover his top. It isn’t surprising to see him with teeth chattering.

He sits there for a long time, and just when the number of people exiting

the station begins to thin noticeably, he finds himself surrounded by a

number of other people.

“Yo, Tomoe,” says one of them, not even attempting to hide the scorn in

it. The red-haired boy doesn’t respond.

“Ah c’mon, Enjō, don’t be a d.i.c.k and ignore us,” he persists. Lifting the

boy by his jacket, he forces the boy from the ground. The boy saw all of

them now, five people surrounding him, stand at almost the same height

as he does, and it is easy to tell their ages are not so far apart. “What, just

‘cuz you stopped going to school, we strangers now?” The same person

continues. “Oh, now I get it. Our little Tomoe is a f.u.c.king grown up now, so

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - I • 49

he don’t talk to kids like us anymore, eh?”

The rest of his companions all snicker in response. But when the noise

dies down, Tomoe continues to ignore them. Frustrated, the boy holding

Tomoe by the jacket lets it go with a grunt, only to bring his hand back up

in a fist, punching Tomoe in the face. He collapses back to the ground, and

he hears a distinct clinking sound of something metallic falling out of his

pocket.

“Hey, don’t even think about sleepin’, man.” More laughter. Hearing that

clinking sound seems to jolt Tomoe Enjō from whatever state of shock he

had been suffering up to now. He whispers his own name, like some sort

of resuscitative ritual, remembering who he was, why he was here. With

senses regained, he looks at the boys surrounding him, finally remembering

them as his cla.s.smates, former “friends.” Normal students who played

at being adult.

Preying on weak people like me, Tomoe thinks.

“Aikawa, right?” says Tomoe. “h.e.l.l you doing here at this hour?”

“Right back at you, man. We all been worried you be suckin’ d.i.c.k behind

the restaurants just to get by. I mean, seeing as you’re such a girl. Am I

right?” He gestures and looks over his shoulder toward his compatriots.

Because of his overly thin build, Tomoe has been called a girl in school

for as long as he can remember. He never paid any heed to it, and that is

largely how he reacts now. However, he does pick up the empty aluminum

can he had been drinking from some minutes ago.

“Hey, Aikawa,” Tomoe calls. Aikawa returns his attention to him.

“Wha—“

As soon as Tomoe sees that pimple-ridden face turn towards him, mouth

half open to speak, he thrusts the can violently into it, twisting the can as

deeply as he can inside Aikawa’s mouth. He quickly follows it up by slapping

the can as hard as he can muster. Now it is Aikawa’s turn to collapse.

Tomoe’s slap partially crushed the can, causing the surface to bend sharply

in places, and when Aikawa coughs it up on the ground, both the can and

his mouth are dripping with blood.

Aikawa’s companions are dumbstruck. They thought they would just

mess with their former cla.s.smate, maybe even take some of his money. It

never occurred to them that it would turn to violence.

“Still s.h.i.t for brains, I see,” Tomoe remarks wryly. Then he kicks him

sharply and repeatedly in the head, almost like he wants to kill him, a stark

contrast to his seemingly uninterested demeanor earlier. Aikawa doesn’t

move an inch, though whether it’s because he’s unconscious or his neck

is broken, Tomoe doesn’t know. After a few quick kicks, Tomoe makes a

50 • KINOKO NASU

break for it, before Aikawa or his cronies can come to their senses. Thinking

the crowd will just slow him down, Tomoe turns instead towards one of

the side alleys where he can make good his escape in the sharp, confusing

turns. It’s only a second or two after he starts running that the group he left

behind start to process what just happened before them. He hears their

angry calls as they start after him.

“a.s.shole thinks he can just do this to us? Let’s kill that son of a b.i.t.c.h!”

says a voice echoing in the alleyways, whipping his companions into a

frenzy. Through the capillaries of the city, they chase Tomoe like live game,

baying for blood.

“Kill that son of a b.i.t.c.h.”

I let the words bounce around in my head, and I laugh heartily to myself.

I heard the verve in their voice, heard how serious they were, and they

would probably follow through on it when they catch up to me. But they’re

faking it, as much as anyone else who says it jokingly. They don’t know

what happens to you after you do it for the first time. They don’t know

what killing someone does to a person. But see, I do.

I killed someone, just before I went to the train station. I remember

gripping the knife, and feeling the tenderness each time I stabbed. Just

thinking back on it makes me shiver and want to throw up. My teeth start

to chatter again, and my mind recoils on the memory with the force of a

hurricane. Those guys don’t understand how far it removes you, and that’s

why they can say they’ll “kill” as if they’re just going for a little walk.

Guess I’ll be the one to teach them, then. I focus my mind and allow my

laughter to recede into a little smile. I don’t consider myself a particularly

violent guy. I believe in an eye for an eye, but tonight’s the first time I’ve

ever busted someone up who just hit me. Disproportional response. It ain’t

like me, but I did it. Maybe because I actually liked the feeling of not holding

back.

I come to a narrow alley sandwiched between two buildings, far from

the main road and any curious eyes or ears. I stop here, right at the corner,

thinking it a prime spot for the act. Before long, they catch up, and things

happen in snapshots of time. One of them, ahead of the others, rounds

the corner of the alley, and I take a fraction of a second to confirm it’s who

I want it to be before I spring on him. The palm of my left hand shoots up

to connect with his jaw. I think fast. In an amateur fistfight, it often comes

down to endurance in an exchange of blows. I know I don’t have a hair’s

breadth of a chance winning like that, especially outnumbered, so if I’m

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - I • 51

going to do this, I do it to kill them one by one, without hesitation, before

I’m surrounded.

The guy I just hit tries to return the favor, but before that happens, I

thrust a finger into his left eye. It feels kind of like slightly hard jell-o when

I twist my finger around.

His scream is enough to send a chill down anyone’s spine. Before he has

time to regain their composure, though, I grab the guy’s head and, putting

my whole body behind it, finish him off by slamming the head into the wall.

A dull thud as it makes impact with the concrete, and when I let go of him,

his body slides against the wall towards the ground, the back of his head

leaving a lazy blood trail on the wall and his left eye a dripping, b.l.o.o.d.y

mess. Still, he’s probably not dead from just that. I pull my eyes away from

him to meet the other four still coming, and if I’m lucky, they’ll be just that

little bit hesitant after they heard their friend screaming his guts out.

When the rest of them turn the corner, they are immediately taken

aback at the sight of their friend. Just as I thought, they are unprepared.

They’ve probably seen their share of accidentally spilled blood in street

fights, but they’ve never seen a body that looks like it’s bleeding its life out

on the asphalt. Wasting no time, I attack the nearest guy, slapping him, and

then grabbing him by the hair. I lower his head fast, then bring my knee

up to his kindly waiting face. A low crunching sound tells me that I may

have broken his nose. I give him three more kneeings for good measure,

then bring my elbow down at his skull. The impact is a painful shockwave

traversing my arm for a brief moment.

Two down. My knee is a dark red, soaked in the second man’s blood.

“Enjō, you motherf.u.c.ker!”

That last one finally pushes the rest of them over the edge. Without any

sense of reason or forethought, they jump into the brawl all at the same

time. That’s when I know I’m done. I can’t take on three guys at the same

time, and they prove me right.

They lash out punches and kicks, pushing me back against the same wall

I slammed their friend against not moments ago until they force me to the

ground. I feel the knuckles digging into my cheeks, and I reel from every

kick that lands on my stomach. Nevertheless, they’re not fighting the same

way I did earlier. No ferocity. They’re not gonna kill me. They don’t want to.

And yet, if they keep this up, they will eventually kill me. They won’t know

that they’ll break bones, cause internal bleeding, and make it more difficult

for me to breathe. The fact that my death will be a slow slide into nothingness

instead of a quick and easy one grants me a measure of anguish.

See? Even if they don’t mean to, people still end up killing other people.

52 • KINOKO NASU

As the hits continue to land on my body, I wonder: Between people like

me who truly seek to kill, and people like them who will just commit an

unintentional homicide, who carries it heavier in the end?

My body is already covered in bruises, but the pain is becoming routine,

almost welcoming now. I’m sure that bunch are getting really into it in their

own way, too. It won’t be long before they start to enjoy it, and they won’t

be able to stop themselves.

“Now don’t we look cute with that face, Enjō?” says one of them. He

thrusts his foot keenly into my chest, and my violent coughing immediately

afterwards leaves the taste of blood in my mouth. I’m down for the count,

and I realize I have maybe a precious few seconds before they completely

beat the life out of me, the same life that I never valued as anything

above expendable. A fist hits my eye, and half my vision goes dark. At that

moment, I hear a faint sound. Then a beat of silence. Another beat. They

don’t seem to be moving.

The noise resounds again like a bell: the singular, clacking tone of wood.

With pained eyes I see the three guys, heads already turned towards the

sound emanating from the alley’s entrance. I train my vision to the same

direction even as the swelling in my eyes grow more painful as I move them.

My mind stops.

Silhouetted against the mouth of the alley is a person who clearly

doesn’t belong here. The clacking sound we’d all heard earlier comes from

the person’s wooden geta footwear; the dark finish, red strap, and oval

shape clear even from this distance. A woman’s geta. The clothing on the

figure is peculiar to say the least: a red leather jacket atop a dead plain

orange kimono.

The shadow advances, each step like a reverberating wooden bell. The

person’s movement is a hypnotic sway of clothes and carelessly cut inkblack

hair that invite surrender, and I almost forget myself. Wraithlike white

skin, and eyes of clear void. Surely not the usual everyday sight in a backlane

filled with scattered bottle shards and discarded syringes.

A woman…a girl. I almost can’t tell her gender, but somehow, I know

she’s a girl.

“Hey,” she calls out, continuing to venture deeper into the alley and

closer to us. The three who had surrounded me now break off to meet her.

It’s painfully obvious what they’re planning on doing to the girl.

“Ain’t nothing for you here, lady.” The trio flex their fingers for a new

round of violence, the excitement in their gait barely contained. They move

to surround the lone girl. Unable to move more than an inch, and with

my speech coming out as strained gasps of air, I can do nothing except to

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - I • 53

curse them in my mind. I chose this place so as not to involve anyone else,

and yet here she is in defiance of all probability. And now, no doubt only

because she chose to turn the wrong alley for a shortcut home, she’ll be a

victim as well.

“I ain’t playing, girl!” one of the three shouts. “Don’t you got ears to

hear what I just said?”

The girl is silent again now, but in a flash, she extends a hand, using it

to grab the arm of one of the approaching boys. She pulls. Her posture

changes subtly to one that puts her entire weight behind the action, and

her purchase on the boy’s arm then forces him to the ground in one violent

motion. Watching it from where I lie, the entire thing seemed to go frameby-frame,

as if I was turning the handcrank on an old viewing machine.

The remaining two attempt to close in on the girl, and she immediately

strikes the closest one in the chest with her palm, causing him to crumple

like a ragdoll to the ground, unconscious. It amazes me that she knocks

them out of commission with such ease, all in the s.p.a.ce of about five or

so seconds, while I exerted so much effort to take out an equal number of

people. The last one must have realized this fact as well, since as soon as

the second man is down he starts to turn on his heels and run screaming.

She soon ends that with a swift roundhouse kick delivered straight to the

guy’s head, with barely the noise of rustling clothes to its credit. Like the

previous two, he is rendered unconscious.

“Ouch. Literally hard head on that last one,” she grumbles as she fixes

the creases on her kimono. I keep my eyes fixed on her, wondering if she’s

even going to talk to me. It’s strange but not altogether uncomforting that

I can still slightly distinguish her form in this isolated place, even in the

absence of light. “Hey, mister punching bag,” she calls out as she turns to

me. I try to speak but it only results in me coughing. She reaches inside

a pocket in her leather jacket and pulls a small object out, throwing it on

the ground within my reach. “Dropped it back there on the street. S’yours,

right?”

I turn my eyes sideways to look at it, and see a single, shining key. It must

have fallen out of my pocket when the guys were roughing me up. My key

to a house that I’ve already tried to stop caring about. She must have come

here just to give it back to me.

She turns her back on me without a single word and starts to make her

way back out of the alley with all the airiness of her previous entrance: the

relaxed gait of a casual night stroll, leaving me lying on the ground to fend

for myself.

“Wai—,” the word comes half-formed out of my mouth, and I reach out

54 • KINOKO NASU

my hand towards her. Though I’m hesitant to call more attention than I

needed to from a girl who just took out three guys in the time it took me to

take out one, I couldn’t stand just being left here like a fake toy, lost among

the refuse of the city.

“Wait.” The word comes out, though in a weak breath. I try to redouble

the strength in my voice and shout. “Just wait, for crying out loud!”

I try to stand, and every bone in my body throbs with pain from the

attempt. I end up having to support my half-standing posture with a hand

on the wall, itself aching from having to exert pressure. At least my noisemaking

manages to stop the girl, who now directs her cold gaze in my

direction.

“What now?” she says, her voice still as calm as before. “Look, if you

dropped anything else, good luck finding it.”

“Are you just going to leave these dudes here?” I manage to protest in

between bouts of labored breathing. The girl in the kimono takes in the

scene around her, casting her eyes downwards almost as if it’s her first

time looking at it. Her sight lingers on the two persons who I took care of

in my haphazard, improvised fashion, then finally looks back at me with

upturned eyes and a curious sigh.

“You don’t have to worry about them. That one,” she says, motioning

her head towards the first of the two, “will probably get an eyepatch and

be doomed to do pirate impressions for the rest of his life. The other will

have trouble breathing with his nose for a while. But no one’s dead. I’d be

much more worried about what the first guy who wakes up will do to you.

And yet, here you are, implying that we should get them some help?”

“I…guess?” I respond.

“Well see, that puts us in a pickle. Who do we call, hmm? The police? An

ambulance, maybe?” Her eyes narrow with each sentence that prods me. I

wasn’t thinking about calling the police. Maybe the hospital. But they’d ask

questions. If I mentioned self-defense…maybe the police would be faster,

but—

“Five-oh are out of the question.”

“And why is that?” she asks, but it feels like she already knows the

answer. Her eyes continue to bore into me. There’s no use in hiding it

anymore. She’s got me, and if I tried to hide it, she’ll just ask more questions.

And so I say it.

“Because…I’m a murderer.” As I say it out loud, as much to myself as to

her, time seems to stop and all things grow silent. Far from my expectation

of her being shocked, however, she only walks toward me. Her eyes scan

me up and down.

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - I • 55

“Well, you don’t look like one.” She looks me over, an eyebrow c.o.c.ked

and a hand on chin and lip paused in pensive observation. Overtaken by

the moment, and feeling quite shocked by her doubt, I feel compelled to

explain.

“It’s true! It weren’t a few hours ago, I swear. I took a kitchen knife and

stabbed her over and over in the stomach until everything was all wet

and mushy, then I cut off her head. You can’t tell me she ain’t dead after

that!” I start to snicker in spite of myself. “The five-oh are all probably in

my house wondering where the f.u.c.k I’ve gone, all scratching their heads

‘cause of another late night job. Just you wait, I’ll be all over the morning

news tomorrow!”

It took me a while to notice that I was making a sort of strange laugh

after I said that, the kind of noise that lies somewhere in that ambiguous

s.p.a.ce between laughter and sobbing. The kimono-clad girl gives me time

to calm myself down before talking again.

“Right,” she says, unsurprised. “Well, cool, I guess. You’ve convinced me.

Let’s put off contacting anyone unless you want your mornings to have

significantly more iron bars than usual. Guess that explains why you’re

shirtless. I thought that was what all the cool kids run with these days.”

Her cold fingers brush over my chest with a light, almost curious touch.

“Hey,” I say, but with little force behind it. She was right. I dumped my

shirt since it was covered in so much blood I’d get noticed easily. I just

grabbed my jacket to compensate as I ran out of the house. “Ain’t you even

gonna say something about me? I really did kill someone. You think I’m just

gonna let you go, knowing what you know? Ain’t no difference between

killing one person or two.”

That seems to grab her attention. She brings her face closer to mine,

eyes half-closed in disappointment. “Yes,” she sighs. “There is.”

“There is what?”

“A difference.”

Her presence is almost overpowering, even though I stand a head higher

than her and she’s the one looking up at me. Her empty eyes never stop

staring at me, and I gulp involuntarily. I’ve never seen anything like them

before. The black irises are a tempting well that threatens to drown you

endlessly. In my seventeen years, I’ve thought people can be many things:

cruel, deceptive. But never beautiful. So overwhelmingly beautiful that I

almost forget myself.

“I’m…a murderer,” I declare again. I feel that there is nothing more to

say. The girl casts her bewitching glance away from me and lowers her

head.

56 • KINOKO NASU

“I know. I’m one of those, too.” She doesn’t explain further. There is no

need to. She turns on her heels, and with the wind ruffling her clothes and

the sound of her geta on the asphalt she starts to leave. I didn’t want her

to disappear. Not tonight.

“Wait!” I run to catch up to her, but with my injuries still getting the

better of me, I fall to the ground. I stand up again, and look straight at the

girl, unwavering. “If we really are the same breed of person, then help me,”

I yell with such uncharacteristically reckless abandon, casting away reason

and shame. The girl’s eyes open in surprise.

“Same breed? Well, I certainly know what it feels like to have that empty

s.p.a.ce in your chest. But what do you expect me to help you with? The

crime of your murder, or taking care of your wounds? Either way, I can’t do

anything for you.”

“Sooner or later, someone will spot us here. Maybe you could hide me.”

She ponders the suggestion with a scratch of her head and annoyed

grumbling, probably the most human thing she’s done so far.

“Are you saying I should help you go find some place where you can hole

up?”

“Yeah, someplace no one would think to try and find me.”

“It isn’t like there aren’t eyes all over this city, man. The only place you’re

really ever likely to find any privacy is your own home,” she says, making a

perplexed expression.

“Aren’t you f.u.c.king listening?” I inadvertently shout. “I’m asking you

‘cause I can’t go back to my house! Maybe you could, oh, I dunno, take me

to your house, a.s.shole!” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop

them. The pain is making me lose my temper. At first I think I’m going to

regret saying that, but the girl just nods in understanding, letting the entire

thing slide.

“That it? Well, that’s a simple request. If my house is fine with you, then

you’re welcome to stay.”

Without even helping me to stand up by myself or offering a helping

hand, she starts to walk again, the movement of her back telling me to

keep close and follow. With renewed strength to my step that I didn’t know

from where in my battered body I obtained, I pursue her. The sound of her

clacking steps, and the sensation of the asphalt and broken bottle gla.s.s

beneath my feet seemed to make both the pain on my body and mind ebb.

Though I haven’t even asked her if she lived alone, or even what her name

was, I think it too insignificant for the moment. I only see her silhouette,

dimly lighted, guiding me like fate. It is the only thing I can see.

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - II • 57

Paradox Spiral - II

I hear the sound. An ominous metallic click, coming from the other

room.

The time must be almost ten ‘o clock. Dead tired from working my job

into the late hours of the evening, I immediately resigned myself to the

safety of my mattress after I got home. But it isn’t even a few minutes

before I am stirred from sleep by the sound. I heard it only once, but that

is enough.

The door to my room opens, letting a slit of white light into my darkened

room, widening slowly with each inch of the door that is parted. A shadow

occludes the light, and I turn to towards it only to see my mom.

It’s always around this part that I realize, and wish that I could never see

this scene again.

The light makes it difficult to make out any detail on her figure save for

the fact that she is standing. However, what little I can see of the scene

beyond the doorway is clear to my eyes: my dad, collapsed over the dining

room table. It isn’t clear at first whether he is merely unconscious or dead,

but it isn’t long before I see what I first perceive to be some sort of spilled

coffee. It slowly dawns on me that it is blood, dying the varnished brown

table into a deep red. It is then that the shadow in front of the door speaks.

“Die, Tomoe.”

I remember what comes afterwards. My mother advances, kneels in

front of me, raises the kitchen knife high above her, and brings it down on

my chest, then up, then down again, too many times for me to count. Then

I see her taking the same knife to her throat, then in a single, determined

motion, plunges it deep into her neck.

All of my nights are bookended by this nightmare, the worst I ever have.

I hear the sound. An ominous click, through which I wake up.

I turn my eyes toward the bed, only to find Ryōgi gone. I lift up my

bruised and battered body to observe where I find myself in: a house in the

nook of the second floor of a four-floor low rise, the house of the kimono

wearing girl. Well, better to call it a room than a house, really. A one-meter

long corridor barely deserving the label separates the front door and the

small living room, which, seeing as the bed which she slept in is also there,

probably also doubles as her bed room. Flanking the corridor to the right

is the door to the bathroom. Another door in the living room leads to

58 • KINOKO NASU

another, presumably unused, room. She led me to this place last night after

an hour’s walk. The name plaque that rested beside the entryway bore the

name “Ryōgi”, so that must be her last name.

That girl—Ryōgi—never said a thing when we entered her room, only

taking off her leather jacket and heading straight for her bed to fall asleep.

Her apathy almost provoked me to protest, but the last thing I wanted to

do was mouth off and have the neighbors be curious. After some consideration,

I took a cushion lying discarded on the floor and used it as a pillow,

then slept away.

And now I wake up with her nowhere to be found. I wonder what she

could be up to. It looks like our ages are quite close. Considering her age,

maybe she went to school? And yet, that wouldn’t be at all fitting for such

a drab room. The sum total of things in her room: a bed, a refrigerator, a

phone, a coat rack with four leather jackets, and a closet, which I a.s.sume is

for clothing. No TV, no radio, no throw-away magazines, and consequently,

no table to read them on.

I suddenly remember what she said last night. When I said I’d murdered

someone, she said she was the same. I only half-believed her last night,

but seeing her room, it might actually be true. Her pad seems to be set for

functionality, like a room designed not to be lived in, but instead for someone

who could suddenly be on the run at any time and could leave the

room behind. Thinking about what she said makes a chill run up my spine.

Did I think luck would allow me to draw the ace of spades, but instead

brought me the joker?

In any case, I don’t plan on staying any longer than I have to. I want to

at least give a word of thanks to Ryōgi for helping me out in a pinch, but

since she’s out, there’s really nothing I can do. With silent and careful steps

more befitting a burglar than a visitor, I make my exit from the mysterious

girl’s room.

Without heading toward any particular place, I loiter around town to kill

the time. Initially I am hesitant, even a bit scared, trying to make myself as

inconspicuous as possible, and think at first that I made the wrong decision.

But it soon becomes apparent that the world is turning like it always

did, with no one giving me a second glance. The days go on with all the

haste and weight of the hour hand on a clock. Somewhat disappointed at

the realization, I make my way to the main avenue.

It is here in the main avenue that I expected to find cops asking around

for a Tomoe Enjō, or at least people that might throw me the “I saw him

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - II • 59

on the 6am news” look, but there are none. Maybe the bodies haven’t

been found yet. Still, maybe I give myself too much credit. There’s no way

someone like me can affect people’s reactions to a noticeable degree with

such a half-baked murder. Either way, it seems, for the time being at least,

I’m not a fugitive. That being said, I still didn’t feel like going back.

Noon comes and pa.s.ses, and I find myself in Hachikō Square, right next

to Shibuya Crossing. I find a bench to rest on and feel content to spend

an hour or two just looking up at the neon lights set upon the buildings

stretching high into the sky. When the lights turn green, the cars stop to

give way to the mad press of people, flowing like water from a burst dam

across the large avenue. I can’t even imagine what it’s like when it’s a holiday.

The people are mostly teenagers like me, happily smiling and with a

levity to their walking pace, looking like they’re the most blessed individuals

in the universe. It’s the face of people in their world: a world where they

don’t aspire to anything anymore, or need to live for a good future. There’s

no need to. Their life is all laid out for them, and they know that’s all they

need to get by in their world. So how many of those smiles are real? All of

them, or only a handful? I keep looking at their faces, trying to figure out,

but it’s impossible to tell the real from the fake. I should have known better

than to try, since that realization comes from your own self.

Tired of looking at all the people moving to and fro, I instead cast my

eyes toward the sky. Let’s be frank. I’m as much a fake as the rest of them.

Maybe at some point in time, I thought that my life was good and real, but

reality soon stripped that away.

Junior high school was my time. I was a sprinter in the track and field

club, and I kicked a.s.s in it. I partic.i.p.ated in all of the inter-school compet.i.tions

and I never, ever lost. I never even saw anyone’s back. No one could

say anything about my skill. All I cared about was cutting my time, and

even a few milliseconds difference was enough to make me happy. I was an

engine built for the sport, and I cherished it more than anything.

It follows, of course, that all this came to a screeching halt.

My family was never one blessed with an abundance of money. Dad lost

his job back when I was still in grade school, and never got one back again.

Mom was born into a rich family, but had a falling out with them after she

ran away to marry my dad. Her world didn’t teach her anything about what

happens after that. I think that broken family did only one thing right for

me: force me to grow up faster than other kids. I had to juggle jobs after

school, lying about my age just to get in, all so I could sc.r.a.pe out money

to pay the tuition I needed. I stopped trying to care about the antics of my

parents, and began to focus only on what I could do right by myself: sustain

60 • KINOKO NASU

myself, go to school, and work my a.s.s off for tuition. I thought of running as

my only release from both the constant problem of living expenses and my

parents who to me no longer seemed anything of the sort, the only reason

I kept paying for school and going to the club activities without giving a

heed to how tired I was.

Our troubles only truly began when my dad took the car out without

a license one day. He was never really good with driving, but it had never

bothered him before if he had to take his time parking or maneuvering the

car. That day, however, whatever luck that had compensated for his skill

ran out, and he got involved in an accident. He ran a pedestrian over. It was

apparently a quick death for the unlucky guy. It forced my mom to go back

to her family, head bowed and pleading for money just to pay the cost for

indemnities. To me it was yet another f.u.c.kup that I needed to look away

from, and so I refrained from prying too deep. What eventually concerned

me is the fallout from all that. It didn’t take long for everyone at school to

find out about the incident, and though I thought nothing of it at first, I

found that the att.i.tude of everyone at school had changed. My coach, who

had always been more helpful than anyone I could remember, suddenly

started to ignore me. The uppercla.s.smen who were so proud to have me

as the rookie star of the track and field team pressured me to quit. All

because of something I had no part in; all because I was their son.

My family was the real problem. Losing what little money he’d saved

over to help pay for the accident, my dad was far from fit to keep a family

together. Mom started to work part-time in jobs society hadn’t prepared

her for and she had no real idea how to do, but even that only paid for a

portion of the gas and electricity bills. Rumors about the accident began

to infest my neighborhood, growing and catching its own embellishments,

to the point that dad couldn’t even get out of the house without so much

as an angry neighbor trying to give him a piece of their mind. Mom still

tried to work, but the rumors always caught up to her, and it never made

her stay in one place for too long. I remember one time I was just walking

around when some random n.o.body threw a rock at me. And always, there

were the threats.

Yet even though the abuses got worse and worse, I never could muster

the motivation to be mad at them. After all, the one driving the car, the

one really at fault then was my dad. It’s all his fault. But then it’s not like I

hated my folks in particular back then either, because it’s when I realized

that whatever you do, even if you try as hard as you can, no matter how

fast and how far you run, it’ll all be the same. You can’t escape your family,

your past, or what you are. I mean, my folks walked their own path, tried

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - II • 61

to live a life as best they could, and look where it got them. That’s when I

stopped trying to fight it. I figured if I just accepted it, then I wouldn’t have

anything to cry about. It’s the moment when you’re a kid and you throw

away your fantasies because they’re useless, and in its place grows a kind

of new, self-crafted wisdom.

After that, feeling that there was little else it could teach me, I quit school.

Besides, I had to work whole days now for the money. If you aren’t picky

there’s plenty of work to be done even for people my age. Being someone

still straddled with at least half a conscience, I couldn’t completely abandon

my family, and so I had to put money in the house. Still, that didn’t

mean I needed to talk to them. I never did after I quit high school. Slowly,

like a poison, the joy and exhilaration in running and sprinting that I’d once

found essential faded into dim memory, along with the faces of the people

who once cheered me on, and the cold wind whipping past my face. It was

something I’d thought I couldn’t ever live without at one point, and to find

that I’d essentially thrown it away gave me no small measure of surprise.

My mind made its customary excuses: I didn’t need it anymore, there were

more important things. But they were only excuses. I lost. I gave up.

That’s the proof that I’m fake. If “running” was some sort of origin, a

cosmic impetus laid out for the boy known as Tomoe Enjō, then I had failed

it. And maybe, my mind thought, things would have turned out better if I

had just indulged that call.

My parents took me to see a stud farm once when I was little. There I

looked at all the nameless horses, whose lives were bred and figures built

solely for the singular act of running, and I cried, thinking that if such a

thing as a previous incarnation was truer than a tale spun for the naïve

idea of destiny, then I must surely have been one of those beautiful beasts.

My pa.s.sion was born there. And it was killed by the weight of the real. I

ultimately amounted to nothing more than a sham, imbued with dreams

that only lie.

And in the end, I became a murderer. I laugh, though there is nothing

truly funny about it. The sky I look at hardly changes, and I turn my eyes

back to the spectacle of the city, where at least the people move, never

stopping, with their smiling and content faces, all of us dolls as fake as

anyone else with no real purpose. Or maybe they do have a real purpose:

to fool around. They are in Shibuya after all. That’s the brand of reality I

can’t really tolerate, though.

The collective footsteps of the throng bring me back to reality. Positioned

above the entryway to a nearby building is a clock, showing the time nearing

evening. Not wanting to loiter here any more than I’ve already allowed

62 • KINOKO NASU

myself, I push myself up and out of the bench and leave the ma.s.s of people,

heading for no particular direction.

Even here in the housing district the streetlamps shine no brighter than

in any other part of the city. I’ve been walking aimlessly for the past three

hours, and the autumn sun has long since set, reminding me that I still

need a place to stay for the night. Without thinking about it, I find myself

back in the familiar façade of Ryōgi’s apartment building. Though I always

thought that I could let go of lingering affections easily when the situation

demanded it, judging by where my wandering feet took me, it seems that’s

not the case. I look to the second floor, and find that her window is dark.

Looks like she isn’t home.

“Well, since I’m here anyway…” I mutter under my breath as I start to

climb the stairs to the second floor, squaring myself with the fact that the

only reason I’m doing this is to hang on pathetically to the last person that

helped me in my life. The metal treaded staircase rings a harsh sound as

I ascend as if to announce my presence. Confronting the door of Ryōgi’s

room, I find that the newspaper that was slipped under her door as I left

this morning is nowhere to be found. At first I think that she’s inside, but

when I rap on the door, no response follows. So she came home at least

once. Deciding to leave if the door is locked, I reach for the doork.n.o.b and

turn it.

But it moves unhindered, and the door slips ever so slightly open. As

I saw back in the street, the lights inside look like they aren’t turned on.

In the silence, even the mechanical clicking of the doork.n.o.b is audible,

and for a moment, it freezes my hand and blanks my mind in hesitation.

Thinking myself ridiculous for standing there doing nothing for such a long

time, I slowly widen the opening I’ve made and creep inside. I probably

would never have thought as a kid that I would be committing trespa.s.s

after killing someone not a few days earlier, and yet here I am. Well, she did

say I was welcome in her house, but I don’t know if this is what she meant

by that.

While my mind is busy making excuses, my body is creeping forward,

closing the door, going past the entrance, past the short corridor, and

finally into her living room. It’s black as pitch in here. Nothing can be heard

except my m.u.f.fled footsteps and my suspiciously rough respiration. Man,

this makes me look like any random break and enter. f.u.c.k, I need a light.

The lights, where the f.u.c.k are the lights? I start to take a hand to the wall

and feel around for the switch.

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - II • 63

At that point, I hear the distinct sound of the front door opening. The

person turns on the lights faster than I could even begin to consider who

it is. As the fluorescent lamp casts a warm glow over the room, she looks

at me with slightly surprised eyes that blink twice before she starts talking.

“Oh, you’re here. I hope you weren’t doing anything inappropriate,

what with lights being off and all,” she says in the manner of someone just

berating a cla.s.smate. She closes the door and takes off her jacket, then sits

down on her bed, rifling through the plastic bag she’s holding and producing

a small cup. “Wanna eat it? Cold things just don’t do it for me.”

She tosses the cup toward me, and up close I can see that it’s a cup

of Haagen-Dazs strawberry. Why she doesn’t care about my trespa.s.sing

is as much a mystery to me as her buying something she doesn’t even

like. Taking the cold cup in my hands makes me think. She knows I’m a

murderer, though I don’t know how seriously she takes it. And yet she

offered her room to me. I remember what I thought this morning: that her

room looked like she was some sort of fugitive ready to run at a moment’s

notice.

“Square one thing with me, Ryōgi,” I say to her. “Are you someone I

should be keeping one eye open for when I sleep?”

Contrary to what I expect, she laughs quite heartily at my question.”You’re

a strange one, aren’t you? A nice way to phrase that question, I have

to say,” she says in between bouts of raucous laughter that throws her

already mismanaged hair into even greater disarray. The sight only tells me

to be more cautious than before. At length, her laughter finally starts to die

down, and she exhales one long breath before she continues to talk. “Hah,

well, it’s true that this place has a shortage of people that can carry themselves

in a fight better than I can. But hey, you’re here aren’t you? Since

we’re both stuck with our respective pieces of wood in each other’s eye,

let’s just leave them in there and keep our peace. Is that all you wanted to

talk about?”

The kimono-clad girl looks up at me with a dangerously calm countenance

of a child expecting to get a new present, her grin laden with meaning.

“No, there’s something else I need to ask. Why did you help me?”

“’Cause you asked me to, that’s why. I wasn’t doing anything at the

time anyway, so hey, what the h.e.l.l. By the way, you don’t have a place to

sleep right? I meant it when I said you could use my place for now. Not like

Mikiya’s going to come by in a while, anyway.”

Because she wasn’t doing anything? What the h.e.l.l kind of reason is that?

My brain might be a bit frazzled lately, but not to the extent that I’d believe

what she just said. I glare at her, which seems to garner no reaction. She

64 • KINOKO NASU

only ignores me, not—I sense—out of indifference, but of a dignified sort

of oblivion that just comes naturally to her. It’s an alluring paradox. Still, I

realize that Ryōgi hasn’t given me any real reason to lie to me. Maybe she

does have no particular reason to take me in. She could have invented any

number of excuses to leech money from me by doing this, but she didn’t.

But even so…

“Are you serious? You take me in no questions asked without even being

suspicious of me? You sure you aren’t high?”

“You are seriously damaging your goodwill here, buddy. And to answer

your question seriously, no I don’t take drugs, and to answer the question

percolating in your mind, no I didn’t report you to the police this morning.

Although I will if you tell me to.”

Well, nothing to worry about on that front. Besides, just the thought of

this person talking to the police in polite tones seems like an impossible

picture to paint in my mind. “Then what are you after? Is it a quick f.u.c.k,

because—”

“Huh? There’s far better places a man can go to for s.e.x in this town than

my place, that’s for d.a.m.n sure.”

“Well, see, what I’m saying is—”

“Alright, fine, whatever man! If you don’t like it here and you’re just

gonna stand there and criticize me then you know the way to the door,

buddy. I absolutely do not understand why you feel the need to judge every

word out of my mouth, you know that?”

Her words brook no refusal. A silence hangs between us, but is broken

by her rummaging through the plastic convenience store bag again, pulling

out a triangularly-shaped tomato sandwich. Well, if I had any doubts about

whether or not she thought nothing of me before, I don’t now.

“Well…then I’m sleeping over! You said it was fine, didn’t you?” I say

maybe a bit too loudly. Ryōgi, for her part, doesn’t even seem all that angry,

even though her words seem to indicate otherwise.

“Yeah, go ahead. I’ll be sure to tell you if your a.s.shole glands are working

up again,” she says while nibbling on the sandwich. At that, I suddenly

realize how tired I am and promptly sit myself down on the floor. Time

pa.s.ses, but I can’t seem to give a mind to how long or how short that lasts.

I turn my thoughts away from my little spat with Ryōgi to more practical

matters. I’d found a place to sleep, if only temporarily. The 30,000 yen in

loose change I hastily took with me should last me the month for food, but

finding some way to work so I can survive while still hiding from the cops

is going to be key.

Wait. Now I remember what I was supposed to ask Ryōgi. How could I

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - II • 65

forget?

“Hey,” I call to her. “Why ain’t your door locked?”

“Lost the key, obviously.” Her answer is almost like a blow to the back

of my head. “I only lock the door when I’m sleeping, and I just close the

door when I’m out. Works for me, and as you can see, not much here for a

burglar to burgle.”

So my attempted trespa.s.sing wasn’t just some lucky coincidence. Her

not locking the room might even be the reason for why she barely has

anything in the room. Some regular thief could be slipping in and just stealing

what isn’t nailed down. It’s too much of an a.s.sault on my regular sensibility

that I have to tell her off.

“Christ, girl. You could at least ask for a spare one from the landlord.”

“Lost the spare too. C’mon, it’s not as if you have to worry about it, and

it’s not as if I need one.”

It’s really starting to grate on me how she just takes everything in stride.

I can’t have any sort of peace of mind without a key. Meanwhile, Ryōgi

here seems to lack the part of your brain that’s supposed to sound warning

alarms when you aren’t secure even in your own home. I forget about

my anger toward her some minutes ago and replace it with worry for this

reckless girl.

“A house without a key ain’t a house. Just you wait; I’ll get you a new key.”

An idea suddenly forms in my mind. I remembered the last job I managed

to hold down, until two days ago at least, was in a moving company. I got

to learn a few things about fixing some household related stuff, so a simple

doork.n.o.b replacement wouldn’t be beyond me. They must have some

kind of regular doork.n.o.b in that warehouse of theirs. “No, scratch that. I’ll

replace the whole d.a.m.n thing.”

“Well, whatever floats your boat. Do you have money for it?”

“Of course I do. It’s the least I could do for you. In fact, I’ll even do it

tonight, so you’ll have no problem tomorrow!”

And on saying that, I stand up immediately, filled with a force of will

whose origin even I couldn’t even begin to guess. I run towards the entrance,

twist the doork.n.o.b, swing open the door, and break out into a run into the

city canopied by night, barely allowing Ryōgi a word in edgewise. Here I

am, a wanted (or soon-to-be-wanted) man sprinting to a moving company

I planned to rob in the dead of night, putting some serious thought into

how I could slip in without getting caught. Forget Ryōgi. Going on this little

excursion for a girl whose first name I didn’t even know pretty much makes

me the certified crazy one.

66 • KINOKO NASU

Paradox Spiral - III

I’ve been living with Ryōgi for close to a week now. Over time, we’ve

established a simple pattern to our lifestyle. She wakes up, sometimes

going out earlier than me. Sometime later, I go out for the day as well, and

we only really see each other’s faces again when I come back to sleep at

night. It’s strange business to be sure. At some point, we gave each other

our names, thinking that it’d be quite strange to not know each other’s

names when it’s obvious I’d be over for some time.

Shiki Ryōgi. A repeating high school student…well, on paper at least,

considering her current truant history. That’s pretty much the sum total of

what I know about her.

She calls me by my last name, Enjō, which is why I might be given to

referring to her similarly as Ryōgi. She’s said more than once that she didn’t

like being called by her surname, but I can’t bring myself to call her Shiki.

It’s a pretty simple reason. Calling someone by their first name has always

seemed to me to be like some stamp of permanence, but this daily life right

now is as temporary a setup as I can imagine, which means someday, me

and Ryōgi will part ways. At any given time I could be actively hunted by

the police. I could be forced to run. Calling her Shiki, with all the baggage

that the first name tends to give you, will just weigh me down when that

day comes.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend, Enjō?”

On this night, like all the other nights, Ryōgi sits cross-legged atop her

bed, and as always, asks me a question that seems to come straight out of

nowhere. As for me, rolling around on the floor right next to her bed, I’ve

long become accustomed to them.

“If I had one, I wouldn’t need to swing by this dump every night, would

I?”

“That’s kind of strange, considering you’re not all that shabby looking.”

“That actually sounds more like an insult than a complement, coming

from you. And besides, I’ve had enough of women.”

“Interesting. Why, I wonder?” She lies down on the bed, which from my

position on the floor next to it, makes her temporarily unseen, though she

soon pops her head out directly above mine. She’s actually kind of cute like

this. “Are you gay?”

I take that back. Seeing her as anything resembling cute must have been

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - III • 67

a trick of the mind.

“No way. It’s just that, well…I’ve got a history with girls, and it didn’t

work out too well.” Before I know it, I’m already reminiscing with her. “Back

in high school, I went out with a girl for two months, and we spent most

of that quality time arguing. I didn’t want anything special from the relationship,

but she certainly did. She wanted all the cool, fancy things that

also happened to be expensive. I could practically hear my wallet screaming

at the time, but I still did it for her. When I could buy her things, she

was happy. When I couldn’t, she complained. That didn’t warm me to the

experience. And the s.e.x wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be, honestly. Besides,

I could’ve just jacked off if I wanted to feel good.”

I thought this story would bore Ryōgi, but she actually seems to be hanging

on every word, so I continue with a sigh. “Eventually, I started to dislike

her. All the money and affection I gave her slowly looked more like a waste

of time. Maybe if I was a normal student, I could’ve given her more of my

time, but as it stood then, I didn’t have that kind of freedom. The hours

I spent with her started draining any hours I had left for sleep. Without

the free time, I guess it was doomed from the start. But, stupid as I was, I

never tried breaking up with her.