Hey Mortality (18 page)

Every taken step
, every moment, every second of time, and every thought, they all vanish like the painting. Now a sheet of pure black wet paint, drying silently in the sun, innocently disguising all that came before it. A world now covered with darkness. My world.

All of my existence ticks away now, my only solace lost and discarded. A silent anger builds up within me, an anger that fills me with all of the rage in the universe. All concept of time will completely dissipate in this moment of fury. I want to fight and I want revenge. I see red and then remind myself that this isn’t the fault of anyone. This isn’t the universe trying to taunt me. This isn’t a demon trying to shatter the last object that takes the painted form of my only relief. No, this is something that even paranoia can’t begin to touch.

And just as easily as my rage came upon me, I breathe deeply and slowly and try to relax. If someone wanted to paint over their shutter, then it is their choice, not mine; but why they would want to discard such a beautiful world of wonder is beyond me.

As my rage slowly disappears, I too disappear and walk away. Thinking about how in the end, black paint or darkness will eventually consume everything I own and every memory. I too will tick away into the nothingness that comes with each step I take. Every second I am swamped by thoughts, enveloped by the knowledge that with each moment I am alive, something else disappears. The painting disappears. Time disappears. I too will disappear.

And as I walk along, surrounded by thoughts of time and paintings lost, I know that everything will end in silence. But before silence comes chaos. My head becomes so full of madness that will one day fill my dreams, paint them black, and wake me from nightmares into a chaotic sea of paranoia. There is no escaping the darkness, it seems, nor the paranoia. It comes and goes but always returns. It bleeds from every scar of my unconscious self, bleeds constantly until it overflows; all the matter in my head filled with blood, submerged and encased, until even my consciousness becomes merged into a dream world.

I arrive back at the Plum Ship filled with a sense of misery, and sit for a while on the steps. No red box. Fading photographs and blackened screens. And then I hear the stamping of the man that lives in 505. He passes me in his jet black suit once again, crosses the road without a smile, and walks at pace.

I decide that of all days, nothing is left to lose. I am overpowered by the thoughts of discovery, a new distraction, something else to do other than to mourn my many losses.

I wait until he is almost out of sight, before crossing the road and walking in his direction. At first he wanders through the west side of Yoshiwara, but he doesn’t enter an establishment; perhaps he is not interested in pleasure. Instead, he continues on, passing the adjoining street that houses the Ichiyō Memorial Hall, and to the main road that houses the temple of the rooster.

I take great care not to be seen, but I don’t really need to, as when he walks, he does so with strong purpose and with an obvious direction in mind. He stares straight ahead, not once turning around, and not once do I see his face. Even so, I can still picture that all too familiar frown that he so often displays.

After twenty minutes of following the sound of his stamping, with me ducking behind vending machines, and stopping off for the occasional half cigarette while maintaining earshot of his heavy feet, we eventually arrive at the busy Nippori Station.

We pass the station, and he takes a left turn through a concrete underpass reserved for parked bicycles. I don’t enter because I feel that now, this might indeed be a trap of sorts. Instead, I wait until the sound of stamping begins to lessen, before considering my next move.

Having visited here before, and getting to know the area quite well, I know that he has to turn left at the end of the underpass, and walk up some steep steps, then across a bridge that traverses the train tracks of the Yamanote Line. Even if I followed now, the opportunity to be spotted is greatest, so instead, I decide to wait.

I think about Liar, Ichiyō, and the story of time travel that seems too far connected with the life of my own, that it is not without reference, not a chance find. Someone or something actively placed that story in my possession, but for whatever reason remains unknown.

The moment flitters past, and I allow myself to wander the length of the dimly lit underpass, passing bicycles that look to have not been moved for years, and eventually to the steps.

Looking up, there is no sign of Yakuza Guy and no sound in the distance, so I begin to run. I cover the length of the twenty or so steps in a few seconds, and begin to sprint across the bridge. The other side leads directly into Yanaka Cemetery, a favourite haunt of mine, although haunt would be an inappropriate word to use. A place I often come to contemplate and relax in the silence that the area offers.

In the distance, mixed in with tombstones of silent ash, I see the suited man, slowly walking across a field of death; and the field of death is huge.

There are no bodies in the ground. Every grave here features a cremated corpse in an urn. As I wander through the resting place of the dead, following the man in the black suit, I am surprised to find that he walks silently here, as if not wanting to disturb the sleeping souls of the deceased.

Eventually, I follow him to the other side of the cemetery, to a stone wall that guards a temple.

An interesting fact about the area of Yanaka is that it faces the direction of the Ox Tiger; depicted with horns, sharp claws, and evil. Because of this, it is located in an unlucky direction, and Yanaka shares the unfortunate possibility that it contains a demon gate, an invisible gate that leads directly to hell, known as a
kimon
. Often, temples in Japan face the same direction as this Chinese Zodiac symbol. The area around the cemetery features over thirty temples and shrines; initially built to help purify the area, close the gate of hell, and to prevent an
oni demon
from showing up and killing everyone.

As I stand distracted by thoughts of death, it is in my periphery that I see, beyond the temple wall, the man in the black suit vanish into a burst of white light.

Something impossible has happened. Something I find hard to believe. But I saw it, a light from nowhere, a pocket of light suddenly appearing for a second then disappearing forever. A man sucked into the void.

Whatever that light was it scares me to the point that I dare not approach further. I dare not enter the grounds of the temple. Instead, I run.

I arrive back
at my apartment just before the dusk sky blankets the Tokyo concrete, and I sit. I think. I consider that I myself have turned to madness. A state that is so easily pushed from my mind. Nobody wants to accept it, nobody wants to relish in it. No, I am fine, absolutely fine. A speck of dust in my eye or another trick of the light, and whatever that temple was, there is and will be a logical explanation as to what I saw.

But, I know that, or even doubt that, doubt it more than I have ever doubted. I watched a man disappear into a sphere of light; vanish from this world. I have witnessed things already that are beyond the sense of reality. The photograph of me hidden in a mysterious box. The story that one day appeared to be in my possession. I am completely lost once again, a reoccurring theme it seems. Lost in whatever it is here.

I came to Japan wanting the simple life. I would have been happy to take numerous part time jobs that covered the cost of my rent and my meals, and perhaps my alcohol and cigarettes. The rest of the time, I could enjoy a stress-free existence and just live. Because, just living, with basic needs fulfilled, is all that we need to survive. And, even if needs or distractions or addictions are not provided for, our very survival still remains true. Hell, I can sleep in the shopping arcade with the rest of the homeless if it gets too hard. There is always a way out. Everyone that wants to survive somehow manages to do so. For me, this would have been just fine for a year or two. I just wanted to relax and not have to think about boxes, or homelessness, or strange men in suits. I wanted none of this.

I wander back to my room and lock the door behind me. Some deep intuition makes me drag my bed to barricade the door. I will stay here, stay in the safety of my room, where the demons and ghosts can’t enter, where peacefulness shrouds me. And here, I will try to sleep, I will try to dream of better days or simpler days. I want to forget it all.

But, sleep is not forthcoming. The idea that a man just vanished, and a strange man at that, is too much for my intrigue and overactive imagination. Nobody has stirred my silent moments of thought more than him. So, I pull away the bed, and check the outside of the door. There are no scratches or claw marks, but there are no reasons that there would be. No evidence of anyone even passing my door during the time I waited. No footsteps or sighs.

I decide that I have to close this now, close the mystery. I traipse outside not even bothering to switch to shoes. Sandals even in the early night-time heat are still too warm for feet here.

I follow the same route as before, passing through the edge of Yoshiwara and beyond, toward Nippori Station. At night, the area is a bustle of drunk salaraymen hopping from one bar to the next; drunk from one drink and talking about work. Suits everywhere.

I eventually arrive at the underpass. I am delighted to find that it is still illuminated. Bicycles bask in orange light. It makes me feel safe, but the same cannot be said about the darkness of Yanaka Cemetery.

At the other side of the tombs, I arrive at the temple again. It is said to house the King of Hell, Enma Dai-Ō. Inside, there is a statue of the King of Hell carved from stone, with his servants sitting either side. His servants are Shimyo and Shiroku, and their job is to deliver the King’s judgement and record the King’s judgement respectively.

It is said that Enma Dai-Ō will judge the conduct of the dead while they are still alive, and determine their destination after death. Rumour has it that if you tell a lie in front of the statue, Great King Enma will remove your tongue. I decide to test this out with a paradoxical thought, “You will cut out my tongue.” Nothing happens, therefore I have told a lie, meaning that Great King Enma should indeed cut out my tongue, but if he does, then I can’t have told a lie, therefore nothing can happen and this continues endlessly. The statue eventually disintegrates in a quarrel of logic in my mind, and for a second, I feel like a god. But then, the strangeness of reality returns, and for whatever reason I am consumed; basked in a glowing white light. And then I am gone.

I am standing
on a tiled floor, light blue tiles littered and stained with dirt from a thousand footprints. Before me stands a row of twelve knights, each in shining silver panoplies, their faces hidden by helmets, unmoving. Like statues waiting to come to life.

The room, if it could be considered one, stretches off into oblivion. I can see no end. There is no sign of a ceiling, just an endless stretch of muddy blue tiles and these knights, under a shimmering sky of stars.

I consider walking away, but it appears I have nowhere to go. Just as I look behind me to see where the distance ends, I hear the rattle of metal, and in my periphery, I see movement.

Each knight takes turn to approach, one by one they walk with heavy steps before stopping before me. They stand within a few inches, their helmets so close to mine that I can smell the steel. The knights are of equal size, and although they are slightly shorter in comparison to my height, they stare through the cracks in their helmets looking directly into my eyes.

As each knight does this, I feel absolute fear. Like my soul is the black box of my existence, and they are watching parts or my life through darkened eyes. This goes on until the twelfth and final knight stares at me, his judgement almost lasts an eternity, before, without any warning, the floor below me disappears and I black out.

I wake up on a mound of dirt by a bridge. A bridge that is reminiscent of the bridge in the strange manuscript I read. I stumble to my feet, and as I stand, I see the man from room 505, Yakuza Guy. Shocked but ever silent, I am. And the man
—
who from now on will be referred to as the Devil
—
stares at me looking puzzled. He doesn’t appear to have been expecting me. Perhaps I am here by mistake and can take my leave just as easily as I arrived.

I decide to nod at him. He doesn’t nod back. I remember the thought of me tempting him with my paradox; if he is in fact the man that the statue is carved to represent.

I realise now that I haven’t said a word since losing Liar, my life, since everything collapsed. Not a single word to anyone. I feel that my tongue cutting might be prolonged, at least for now.

The Devil eventually grins, and then he speaks, “You seek the grim? So to why do you meddle and mess as I peddle distress? My realm of being is my helm and seeing you here as a seer is bold. Yet, not words do I hear and for this is quite queer and for that I assume you are, as in fact, ignoble?”

I cannot decipher his bad rhymes or questions; which are rhetorical, and which are literal, I have no clue. But, before I have chance to nod or shake, the Devil continues to speak.

“So I ask you this, you do wise to not speak rhyme, you do wise to not say a word in my presence, for words mean less than thought. Look at the gods’ of creation, can you hear them now?”

I shake my head in response.

“You cannot see the gods’, even the actions they left behind, you cannot hear them. Gods’ are without tongues. Those immortalised by shrines and temples, they took the sacrifice of being. To become immortal, enshrined, they cannot be able to influence. Without tongues they cannot change the very people that seek their words. They can have no influence on the people that call worship to them. They are nothing more than empty histories of days passed.

“To be a god you have to be immortal. Sat in silent contemplation. Allowing others to make judgement of your being. All the gods’ come together as a large unspoken mouth. Gods’ do not communicate, change, or fear. And, it is such silence that you present to me, that I, make a judgement upon you. To judge a valid silent god, yours, is based on love. A person you love. A person in need of saving. A person you will never see again. Already flowing in the depths of hell right now, she. Not in the world of mortals, but, the ever flowing time of infinity. She is already here and has been forever. Mistaken and being broken. Raped and tortured by her captors. The gods’ above do not approve of her lies. But lies are the work of others; my kind. Not the silent but the active. With that thought, the person that you call Liar will always be here. But, you have a choice. Reach out, speak to her, touch her. Everything in the world for just a spoken word, cancel out your silent sacrifice. I deal now. Choose her and join her in the waters of hell.”

The Devil here is trying to trick me to speak, I think, so instead I stay silent.

“Take her now, join her here and hand over your tongue. Speak a word and I will take your tongue and reunite you with your own devil, her. I offer you eternity with her, and the tormentors, together rejoined. Just a word and your life is eternal and as I have so judged you already, then the choice is of your own. Live or die. The choice is ticking like grains of sand in an hourglass, we don’t have forever,” the Devil begins to laugh, “in fact, maybe we do.”

It is with the thoughts of her, trapped forever in the flow of the afterlife, a never ending time filled with torment and horror, that I consider the sacrifice.

“What do you choose? Immortalisation in the afterlife? Eternity with the love of your life? Take the choice. You can speak now.”

I decide to break silent vows and respond. A mistake perhaps, but I have nothing left, nothing else to lose.

“I have so much love for her, still today. I can, I suppose, be happy living for the rest of my existence that time allows. Happy living a life of loneliness and emptiness, because, I know I had something great just once. Some reason to live and smile and laugh. A reason to wake up every day and enjoy reality. Now lost, of course. But it was there, a feeling so strong that I can credit it absolutely to whatever love feels like. Whatever is contained within my heart or soul or the matter that makes up my person. Wherever my memory is stored, or wherever my thoughts disappear to and come from. They form somewhere and it scares me that I don’t know where, but, when I was with her, they appeared to flow from somewhere different. Somewhere more magical. Somewhere that the logic of science doesn’t agree to be real.

“Those thoughts are gone, but occasionally, when I am sitting or drinking, they flicker through my mind. Images appear before my eyes in the darkness of dream. Shapes appear on closed eyes, colours and images of her. I want to save her. I want her to be real again, to be in my life again. I want to capture every last moment that we can possibly spend together, and relish in those moments once we are forever apart.

“And in my complete and total misery, I am almost ready to let go. Almost ready to give up on everything I am, and everything I own. Give up on every last breath, however short. Ready to swim away in the dark waters of time. Maybe there is a light. A flickering in the distance. A beam that is ready to suck me in. But I am not ready to choose death or suffering. I am ready to forgive, and forgiveness comes before all that you have said to me, Devil.”

“So be it,” he replies. “You still have love for that poor girl you call Liar. I can see that. But you have to give me proof. If you can offer proof I will let you both go, for I am a reasonable man. But, know this. If freedom for you and her is what you seek, and you can prove it with your words, then in death, I will take your tongue, an agreement I will confirm in letting you leave this place. If you cannot offer proof, I ask you to jump into the river of time, and let it flow you into the afterlife. So proof, now, you can speak.”

I speak, “I have lost everything. Lost my reason to breathe. Reason to wake up. I have nothing now. Nothing left. I should probably end it and leap into the river, like you ask, but I am afraid. So completely afraid.

“If life is this, I fear what the death you describe is like. I used to believe it was a peaceful nothingness, not even darkness or light, absent of thoughts or ideas. Even that is better than the reality we call here. But that place, that dark place that I can sense in the very reaches of my mind, fills me with more fear and emptiness. An endless vacuum of empty feelings. I have nothing here, and there will be nothing there either, and even if the place you describe is real, then it makes me wonder if there really is any reason to my being. Why I can think and have thoughts or suffer pain. There is no explanation; something I will never truly know.

“When my world is so full of darkness and struggles, even the freedom offered by society does nothing to help. It lets itself down completely. A broken system. We can do anything we want to, but we don’t. Instead, we continue to suffer our slavery and endure the daily challenges of life. We continue to fall in love then just as easily we fall apart. We strive to be perfect and to make ourselves important; remembered maybe. Leave our mark on the universe and to give ourselves immortality in our death. An immortality that we can never observe or experience. A little pointless existence.

“But, just like everything in the entropic cycle, all will be forever lost, eventually and certainly. Lost, decayed, and seldom resolved. And, any resolve also suffers decay. Our dying star our life and lost love. Everything dead, eventually.

“The stage that makes up my existence in the other world is littered with problems, like a minefield in a labyrinth. Every direction I choose to turn is mapped out before me, but regardless of this, for each turn I make, I am still as always lost. Even when experiencing a moment of happiness, I feel an endless emptiness, like I am turning at every corner and finding nothing there but the landmines of my creating.

“Every moment that endorphins of love are so craved, my brain returns them to me as a feeling, one that perhaps isn’t even real. An illusion of complete happiness existing only in a maze that tangles up with all other emotions and tricks the mind into thinking it is something else. But then, love must be real, people have loved forever and ever. But no happiness exists in their souls.

“If somebody asked me last week if you, the Devil, really existed, I would laugh at even the assumption or possibility. Yet, when being swallowed up by the realms of impossibility, I still question the reality of this situation. I still question the reality of the concept of hell or even love. Nothing can be proven here. All sense is lost.

“So there it is, I have no proof. I will just wait for you to decide, or to take pity, and even if you want more words, I can barely provide them, for now I am either fated to eternal punishment in silent immortality, or fated to return to the living world and to return here once more when resolution and closure absolve me.

“All I want, more than anything else is to save her. Even if I can’t be with her, I will give everything for her. Let me save her, please. I will wait, in sadness, to be asked by another if everything is okay, or to be touched on the arm, or even kissed on the cheek. Those acts that make me feel alive for a single moment. A second. A skipped beat of the broken heart, they too can be ignored in the living world. So perhaps there is nothing, anywhere, nothing that can heal me. Nothing that can change my mind about the concept of love. But I don’t know where to find it in this maze of dizziness I so find myself trapped.

“My disturbances offer no way out. I search hard for any remaining happiness or joy, but much like my love, it too, is forever lost. Lost in my utmost thoughts of ending everything and letting everything lost stay forever lost.”

The Devil grins again, and begins to speak, “Take you words with you, and leave your tongue in death. The one you love is not up or above, she is swimming right here as we meet; in a time that nobody knows. But it isn’t too late now. She was fated, and hated. Gods’ will still judge her in eternity, but for now, you can have your resolve. I will free her, and in death I will have your tongue.”

Seconds later I am standing again before the statue, and have no way of knowing if any of this is real or not. But that doesn’t matter now, I still have her, but, I will never know why, and, she might never know me.