Status: Complete!
Lacrimo Crystallinus
Nonus Somnium Crystallinus
Takanori furiously scribbles at a drawing pad while Suzumura waves a sticky bun in the air with his left hand, as if trying to bait a dog into doing a trick. Though I claim to have eaten when they aren’t looking, they know I haven’t been eating. “Come on, Satoru,” he urges, some of the syllables slurring together. “Lighten up. You’ve been brooding more than I do.”
I give him a level look, unmoved by his pink cheeks, crooked sunglasses, and his Miyavi-esque smile. The only reason he’s talking this way is thanks to the bottles of sake and soju he’s drunk at the table. A girl with blonde hair and ridiculously large breasts walks by and makes eyes at him. He winks and slides out from the booth, ripping into the sticky bun while following the girl lazily. Takanori watches with a mix of amusement, annoyance, and affection, but quickly returns to what he’s drawing. I take a half-hearted look, seeing very little beyond that something exists on the white paper in the dim lighting of the bar.
“How did you tolerate him before me, Satoru?” he says behind a smile, although he knows I won’t speak. It hurts me; it is like someone who speaks to a person in a coma. “I assume you kept him from any and all alcohol for starters.”
He takes a gulp from his own cup of sake and sees my interest in his sketches. His eyes glint brightly as he slides it across the table to where I can see it. I lean forward to see the details. It is a gargoyle with blood erupting in a steady flow from its pursed lips, more like something I would expect from Kyo or someone of similar reputation than my friend.
“Maybe one day, I can put this on someone . . . or myself.” He repeats it always—that he had wanted to be a tattoo artist before being a musician. Sometimes we get wrapped up in this life so much, so involved in what persona we seek to emit, that we forget who we really are when the lights are dim and there’s no mob watching us. I can’t smile, but I finally look into his eyes. He seems surprised, and slowly takes the sketch pad back.
When Suzumura returns, Takanori is drawing again as if nothing had transpired. He reaches for Siu Mai and pops one into his mouth with chopsticks. “Have a drink,” he insists to me, pushing a cup across the table with chopsticks, something that would have been impossible to do back home where we had mostly wooden tables. Taking one look at it, I make no move to drink it, and instead give Suzumura a skeptical look. “It’ll make you feel better.” Even if I had wanted to drink, I wouldn’t have.
Another girl passes by and tries to strike up conversation with the two guys. They talk to her for a while, but Takanori is mostly interested in his drawing and I refuse to speak. Suzumura isn’t the best at communicating with women, either. Shortly afterwards, she leaves, looking disappointed. I look anywhere but at him; I feel bad for darkening their fun night out. Suzumura smiles and sways on his feet, pulling me up as if I am drunk also. As if reading my mind, he says, “Don’t worry. We’ll go back to the hotel and relax.”
****
When I wake up, I look around in the gloom. For a moment, I think I am at the hotel where Bao had sat in cosplay only feet away from me, condemning me and crying like the angels that the Europeans and Americans love to display on tombstones. However, I remain in bed, sitting up with my head cradled in my hands, and I realize that I’m in Shanghai, not Denver. I look outside at the brilliant network of lights, the nightlife. It is calming, but not reassuring.
Grabbing my new cell phone off the nightstand, I open it. 3:30 Shanghai time. I close it, somehow disappointed, and lay back down. The bed is cold beside me, and for the first extended period in some time, I do not crave sex. Instead, I think of Bao. Pleasant memories at first, but gradually more painful. How I’d saved her. How I’d meant to use her beforehand. I stare at the ceiling, my lungs shuddering oddly in my chest. Something feels wrong. I slide out of bed, stamping out a growing feeling of hysteria. Breathing is difficult now. I’ve reached the door to my room. Opening the door is almost impossible—the handle is heavier than it should be. I stumble into the hallway, my lungs feeling like useless paper bags in my chest. My throat burns as I struggle to suck in a breath, a strangulated wheezing sound escaping instead. Knocking on Takanori’s door with weak fists, I collapse against the red fleur de lis wallpaper and suddenly I’m seven years old in the ocean again. The waves tug at my limbs and sweetly call me into the depths. I can taste the ocean’s salty tang, the feel of it burning my eyes and throat as it enters my body in huge gulps. Coughing, sputtering, it suffocates me.
“Satoru!” “Satoru!”
The voices surround me. Mother and Momo call for me on the shore. The ocean’s singing grows louder until it hurts my ears and engulfs all other noise. I cannot breathe.
I sink into the cold indigo water, darker and darker until it becomes black.
I sink.
I give him a level look, unmoved by his pink cheeks, crooked sunglasses, and his Miyavi-esque smile. The only reason he’s talking this way is thanks to the bottles of sake and soju he’s drunk at the table. A girl with blonde hair and ridiculously large breasts walks by and makes eyes at him. He winks and slides out from the booth, ripping into the sticky bun while following the girl lazily. Takanori watches with a mix of amusement, annoyance, and affection, but quickly returns to what he’s drawing. I take a half-hearted look, seeing very little beyond that something exists on the white paper in the dim lighting of the bar.
“How did you tolerate him before me, Satoru?” he says behind a smile, although he knows I won’t speak. It hurts me; it is like someone who speaks to a person in a coma. “I assume you kept him from any and all alcohol for starters.”
He takes a gulp from his own cup of sake and sees my interest in his sketches. His eyes glint brightly as he slides it across the table to where I can see it. I lean forward to see the details. It is a gargoyle with blood erupting in a steady flow from its pursed lips, more like something I would expect from Kyo or someone of similar reputation than my friend.
“Maybe one day, I can put this on someone . . . or myself.” He repeats it always—that he had wanted to be a tattoo artist before being a musician. Sometimes we get wrapped up in this life so much, so involved in what persona we seek to emit, that we forget who we really are when the lights are dim and there’s no mob watching us. I can’t smile, but I finally look into his eyes. He seems surprised, and slowly takes the sketch pad back.
When Suzumura returns, Takanori is drawing again as if nothing had transpired. He reaches for Siu Mai and pops one into his mouth with chopsticks. “Have a drink,” he insists to me, pushing a cup across the table with chopsticks, something that would have been impossible to do back home where we had mostly wooden tables. Taking one look at it, I make no move to drink it, and instead give Suzumura a skeptical look. “It’ll make you feel better.” Even if I had wanted to drink, I wouldn’t have.
Another girl passes by and tries to strike up conversation with the two guys. They talk to her for a while, but Takanori is mostly interested in his drawing and I refuse to speak. Suzumura isn’t the best at communicating with women, either. Shortly afterwards, she leaves, looking disappointed. I look anywhere but at him; I feel bad for darkening their fun night out. Suzumura smiles and sways on his feet, pulling me up as if I am drunk also. As if reading my mind, he says, “Don’t worry. We’ll go back to the hotel and relax.”
****
When I wake up, I look around in the gloom. For a moment, I think I am at the hotel where Bao had sat in cosplay only feet away from me, condemning me and crying like the angels that the Europeans and Americans love to display on tombstones. However, I remain in bed, sitting up with my head cradled in my hands, and I realize that I’m in Shanghai, not Denver. I look outside at the brilliant network of lights, the nightlife. It is calming, but not reassuring.
Grabbing my new cell phone off the nightstand, I open it. 3:30 Shanghai time. I close it, somehow disappointed, and lay back down. The bed is cold beside me, and for the first extended period in some time, I do not crave sex. Instead, I think of Bao. Pleasant memories at first, but gradually more painful. How I’d saved her. How I’d meant to use her beforehand. I stare at the ceiling, my lungs shuddering oddly in my chest. Something feels wrong. I slide out of bed, stamping out a growing feeling of hysteria. Breathing is difficult now. I’ve reached the door to my room. Opening the door is almost impossible—the handle is heavier than it should be. I stumble into the hallway, my lungs feeling like useless paper bags in my chest. My throat burns as I struggle to suck in a breath, a strangulated wheezing sound escaping instead. Knocking on Takanori’s door with weak fists, I collapse against the red fleur de lis wallpaper and suddenly I’m seven years old in the ocean again. The waves tug at my limbs and sweetly call me into the depths. I can taste the ocean’s salty tang, the feel of it burning my eyes and throat as it enters my body in huge gulps. Coughing, sputtering, it suffocates me.
“Satoru!” “Satoru!”
The voices surround me. Mother and Momo call for me on the shore. The ocean’s singing grows louder until it hurts my ears and engulfs all other noise. I cannot breathe.
I sink into the cold indigo water, darker and darker until it becomes black.
I sink.