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It hadn’t been quiet for a long while.
There used to be screaming — short, panicked, guttural utterances of anguish and regret interlacing into each other like a net trapping within it this very pocket of the world. Its threads were sharp and cutting. There were loud bangs that shook the firmament itself — one, or three, or perhaps more? Perhaps some of it pierced through the wall. Perhaps some of it pierced through him.
The ghost was outside. He could see it through the gap in the door that he never realised was there, and its charred face was glaring at him. Sea water dripped from its waterlogged flesh, each drop a stab against his eardrums.
Nothing was real. Oosaki was sure of it. The mind was always imperfect. Humans navigated life through various illusory outputs from an interwoven network of very fragile wires. Each of them could be subjected to sickness and trickery. Each of them could be wrong. The sights. The sounds. The smells.
More so, a mind that wanted to terminate itself was already crumbling without its owner’s awareness. Why else would survival instincts — things that inherently defined a creature and ensured the prominence of a species — mean nothing to him?
The ceiling was a forest green. It used to be dark brown, or dark grey, but now it reminded Oosaki of the woods outside. It was the colour and texture of the pathway leading down to the onsen. It was the shade of the onsen itself, marbled jade under a thick veil of cloudy steam. Its surface bubbled and was ripped apart by crashing waves.
The sky outside was incomprehensible. Thunderous rain continued to fall, embedding itself into the roof of the shelter. The walls were washed under an emerald glow. The scarlet sun cast its thin rays through the window, which seeped into the sinuous wood grain like capillaries.
The young man was hugging him, tightening himself around his shoulders. Short hair poking the numb skin on his neck. Oosaki’s body weight sank onto and around the other’s right arm, and once he was aware of it, he was aware of how every part of his body was, perchance, being segmented. As time went on, it would be impossible for him to be whole again.
Day ■.
Oosaki was waiting. The pelting was still too loud. Time stretched itself thin, but it couldn’t be infinite. Soon the hallucinations would fade and he would emerge from this floor-bound existence with answers. Slow, excruciating footsteps paced back and forth, circling outside the room, then stopped. He could hear its ragged breaths.
“He’s looking at us,” the young man pointed. Oosaki didn’t follow his gaze. “Looking at you. Daiba-san, his focus is only on you now.”
Oosaki was wondering what happened to the others. What others? His eyes were burning. How could he not understand what he was asking? “It’s unfortunate, but… that’s just how it is. The island must’ve rejected them…”
Oosaki entrusted himself to the presence next to him, whose hands were warming his torso and stroking his back. It was wrong, but it was reassuring. It was meant to be. The young man pressed on his chest and felt his heartbeat. “Try to remember what I told you. You absolutely must not speak to him, or acknowledge him in any way. Focus only on me.” He whispered, and there was a trembling timbre in that thin voice that blended so well into the unevenness of the rain. “Once everything is quiet, we will know that it’s over.”
Oosaki thought to himself that eventually, the rain would become white noise, another respite within this box that kept him safe from the mad world outside. Who knew what was out there. He didn’t know. Everything was a solid green, and now that he thought about it, it wasn’t the same green as the forests and the leaves and the trees at all. It was like a traffic light, a giant eye that watched and judged and demanded attention. It knew what he’d done.
“It’s okay. I’m here.” A face was snuggling against his neck. “I won’t let anything hurt you.”
There was a voice that called out to him. It was fragmented, but there was something about it that was so dear, with the tinge of a sweltering summer when it felt like he was bombarded by arrays of colours and insect songs. It was tugging at him, begging him to remember. He wanted to tell it that everything would be okay. He couldn’t, because it wouldn’t. When it stopped, it was almost like a relief.
“Goodnight, Daiba-san.”
Day ■.
His vision tilted a little. The hard surface of the earth was oddly aligned with his back. A pain that hardly felt like pain enveloped his joints.
Shiodome Michio got up on his legs and walked around the kitchen, humming quietly to himself. There was a clatter of something, perhaps a kettle, being placed on the windowsill. The sound of droplets on metal sounded like bullets. When he returned, a hand was digging around Oosaki’s pockets to fetch a matchbox. It was cold.
This man was a murderer, Oosaki was sure of it. He had killed once, and he would kill again. But he wouldn’t kill Oosaki. There was a gentleness to the way he lifted Oosaki’s head up and soothed his chest, fingers clawing slightly into his shirt in search of something alive.
“Here.”
Oosaki accepted it, the sort of toxic green water ripped from a toxic green sky that not even fire could purify. He asked what day it was. “I don’t know,” the young man replied. A head fell on his shoulder. “But I think the worst part is over. The spirits are slowly retreating. Even Funeno-san has been weakened.” His tone was sincere, and Oosaki asked why these spirits gathered here. “Many of those who fell a long time ago must have harboured deep resentment that never got to be pacified. They are drawn here by the curse, for it has been a long time since they have encountered such burdened souls.”
In any case, Oosaki was inclined to believe the youth’s prediction. The shouting and screaming had indeed lessened, reduced to only distant echoes from somewhere beneath the crimson horizon.
The room was warm. Perhaps it was the stove. He believed there were some benefits to not being alone, even if the other party hadn’t lit a hearth for him. Shiodome Michio’s fingers laced through his and curled, and Oosaki could sense the quiet throbbing of an artery that was eager to live. “If we can hold out for a few more days…” Oosaki knew Shinkiba-san would look for him, but how long had it been? Maybe he had been rescued, but a part of his consciousness was stuck behind, within the confinement of the kitchen where no crime was committed.
He told the young man about this possible lifeline, perhaps to comfort him. He wasn’t exactly pleased. “I doubt outsiders can lift the curse. If they don’t come, maybe this is not the worst thing in the world.” Oosaki tried to think of the world out there, tried to imagine the old blue sky and light-coloured buildings and grey asphalt, and suddenly it felt so lonely. Something wet his cheeks, pooling in the grooves of his outer ears.
“Goodnight, Daiba-san.”
Day ■.
Oosaki didn’t believe in spirits, not really — or at least, not the tangible and vengeful kind. But he was sure, in one form or another, he was under the influence of the deceased. He had done one condemnable thing after another, the sin of desecrating a dead body piling on top of the sin of smothering any kind of justice for the deceased, piling on top of the sin of allowing something like that to happen in the first place.
His palms had been peeling, red layers coming away under the weight of the axe’s handle. The cause of Funeno’s resentment had indeed been him. It started because of the envelope. He wanted to explain again. He wanted to clear his name, but… “There’s no reasoning with those who hold deep grudges. He won’t listen to you. And I… I don’t care what you are. I promised you, remember?”
The person who had been with him thus far was stretching his own legs. He attempted to move Oosaki’s limbs, too, for no particular purpose, but thanks to him Oosaki’s muscles weren’t entirely atrophied. He rubbed his hair against Oosaki’s palms until they instinctively petted his head in a doting manner. He lay atop Oosaki’s fatigued heart and exchanged body heat through their clothing. There was a sniffle, and the lanky figure shuddered as if succumbing to a scary thought.
“Do you still trust me, Daiba-san? I really did try my best. All I wanted was to quickly ease everyone’s heart and help us go back home.” Shiodome Michio said, staring intensively at him. “At the end of the day, we were all sinners. I wish we had just forgiven each other.”
Oosaki closed his embrace. No, it wasn’t something that could just be forgiven, but he’d also lost the right to cast judgement. They were in a dimension unreachable by civilisation and all of its laws. Oosaki voiced his intention to bring everything into light, but his words came out wrong. They made Shiodome think that he was afraid, that the noises in his head would not stop and that he did not know what to do and even though it felt like death it wasn’t actually death it was a hundred times worse because it never ended and went on for eternity—
Shiodome’s bone structure was sturdy, solid scaffolding against the delusive sky, stable enough to grab onto. He smelled vaguely of incense, and his mouth was tasteless. The soft, flexible tongue timidly lapped against Oosaki’s lips, and once they parted, it slid over Oosaki’s own, somewhat clumsy in its advance. An affectionate sound burbled within the young man’s throat, followed by an airy sigh of contentment. Oosaki’s body was bound within both arms and legs and a lingering peck on his cheek. They were comfortable.
“Goodnight, Daiba-san.”
Day ■.
His name was not Daiba Shizuma.
Daiba Shizuma was a mask thrust upon him by an enigmatic doppelganger. It was an unfitting, stuffy body bag that he willingly climbed into under the guise of being human. Oosaki remembered reading about the metamorphosis of butterflies — the caterpillar surrounded itself inside a chrysalis for days, and within it, it completely disintegrated, a mass of amorphous, mushy goo that did not even resemble any living thing. Yet it was alive, its memories kept intact, and soon it sprang into the air with newly formed, beautiful body parts.
The room was filled with some kind of dense, sticky substance. It consumed and dissolved everything within it, until Oosaki could no longer tell himself from the pieces of furniture around him or recognise his own name. He wondered what kind of creature he would become once he emerged from this shell. He thought about the kind of creature he was when he was brought out of his mother’s womb. People expected someone like him to be deformed and mangled, but in reality a soul like his was much more malignant than any physical flaw. He was an existence that brought about tragedy upon tragedy.
What was going on outside the door? The phantom was gone, but the stench of death remained. The rain sounded like static now, millions of tiny bug legs scratching his nerves and crawling beneath his skin. His human exterior was cracking like defective pottery. The sky was still green, but it could very well be a beautiful, sunny day out there, in a world that completely shut him out. Perhaps beyond the threshold was light — bright, pure light with its own warmth and care. It wasn’t for him, though. Shiodome Michio was sobbing quietly. Oosaki thought he might’ve whispered something. “Please don’t say that again… The resentment is far too strong, you won’t escape even in death.” It was a desperate plea. “I’ll be good — I swear to you I’ll be good. Please don’t leave me.”
Once again, his arm was lifted. The young man caressed his hand, then grazed his teeth against the back of it. The nibbling was, perhaps, just a form of affection doled out by a restless child. His big, round, moist eyes were fixated on Oosaki. To him, they’d always looked crazed — bottomless wells that pulled their prey into a dizzying spiral. Oosaki asked how he was. Hungry? Thirsty? Lost his mind? He sighed, then grinned. There wasn’t an answer, but Oosaki felt relieved. For such a loud person, Shiodome’s silence could tell him so much. His smile was radiant, like an amber sunset that could melt even the coldest part of hell. Once Oosaki pictured it in his mind, memories of an earthly realm briefly flashed, and he was surprised he could still envision other colours aside from the sinister green and red.
He wouldn’t leave. He didn’t want to leave. He was rejected by the light, so he vowed to himself that he would protect the one being on this side of the threshold. After all, Shiodome Michio had no one else but him.
A sharp pain bored into his wrist. Something leaked out.
“Goodnight, _____.”
Day ■■.
“The person you’re waiting for is not coming.”
The young man stood by the window with a kettle full of rainwater. “It has been ■■■■■■,” he added. Oosaki briefly wondered who he was talking about, until r̵e̸a̶l̶i̷t̸y̸ crept up to him. Abandonment. It felt all too familiar. He reached for Shiodome Michio, his arm creaking like ungreased hinges. Shiodome took it and pushed him to the floor. Oosaki asked if they were in hell. “Perhaps this is the closest to hell we’ve ever been,” Shiodome said cryptically. “But we’re safe. I’ll channel the goodwill of the island to keep us safe. Even if the curse never lifts — even if we’re reincarnated, I’m sure we’ll be together.” He kissed him again, dragging his tongue upwards across his cheek. It was a gesture of love — the animalistic, uninhibited kind, and it was more familiar and natural to Oosaki than anything he’d experienced. A red blotch traced over his left eye, and he could feel the wet, rough papillae against his cornea. The gelatinous mass pulsed lightly within its socket under a shallow suction. “It’s salty.” He wondered if he’d been crying. “It’s alright. Even your crying self is lovely.”
It had always been like this — Shiodome Michio lying next to him, curling into a fetal position with limbs purposefully entangling him. The young man was shaking a lot during the first few ■■■■, but then he became more lively. He talked more, even though some of the words hardly made sense to Oosaki. He smiled more, even though his visage was swallowed by thick green fog. But Oosaki didn’t care, for he was indulging in those half-baked sights and sounds and touches that told him there was someone here who needed him.
“Have I been good?” Shiodome would ask, and Oosaki would say yes.
“I’m so glad you’re here with me. I love you so much,” and he would reciprocate.
“Goodnight,” and
Day ■■■■.
Oosaki was sure he had become one with the room, to the point he could feel himself spreading over the floor and dripping from the ceiling. He was near the end of his transformation. He didn’t know what would happen afterwards, because the idea of being freed from this cubic dimension had become little more than a delusion to him. Maybe he would just disappear.
Shiodome Michio was inseparable from him. Sometimes it was hard to identify where he ended and where the young man began. He would move Oosaki like a ventriloquist puppet, scarred hand rubbing up his stomach and slipping through the gap between his buttons. His weight would often sink down on Oosaki’s waist, sometimes just to fix his clothes or play with his hair. Sometimes a metal bowl would push itself beneath his lower eyelid, plucking away half of his vision and sever his optic nerve with a bite — and it was fine. Sometimes the thin flesh between his skull and his earlobe would slowly be torn apart, leaving him with an incessant ringing that lasted for ■■■ — it was also fine. He was giving. He was protecting. The man was climbing on top of him, and as always, he was welcomed. Nails ripping into skin could only be so sweet. His tongue tasted like blood, and the piece of cartilage was springy between his teeth. His body was tight; the gravity that plunged him down was violent and relentless, but he laughed in delight. What first drove Oosaki to crush those arms with his palms as they coiled around his head was anger, until he did not remember what he was angry about. A strange catharsis was released in bursts and quickly took over him, telling him not to attach any meaning to what they were doing aside from
“I love you, ” Shiodome Michio said with a smile, saliva and sweat dripping down Oosaki’s neck. He repeated it a hundred times. Thousands. Millions. There was no strength in any of Oosaki’s movements, not even to resist or obey.
Doing things 《alive》 creatures would do, but it didn’t come across that way. A long string of dreamlike memories formed, then shattered in front of him. If there were someone waiting for him out there, they would hate to see this. To exist within this building, this island, where green darkness consumed all.
It was good.
He did not belong to the world he’d left behind.
.
Day ■■■■■■■■.
There was a wet, slimy leech squirming within the divot of his skull, though he was unsure if he even had a skull. Rust kept seeping out through various pores all over his body. He’d been giving away parts of his useless self, and he regretted nothing. It was proof of his gratitude. His atonement.
His l̴o̴v̵e̶.
They held each other tightly. Shiodome Michio stood the handle of his spoon on Oosaki’s chest and made it walk across his breast pocket. His breath was tickling and vaguely smelled of metal — tiny puffs of air as though coming from an infant’s mouth.
“Where we’re going, you won’t need the muscles in your arms, will you.” He teased.
“Just a tiny piece. The knife should cut through it nicely. I love the way you taste. It’s so addicting.” He suggested.
“Regardless, you’ll remain beautiful. You always are.”
“I love having you in me.”
Sweet words poured into what remained of Oosaki’s ears like sake, coursing through his hollow bones. Just the fact that he could somehow feel his bones attached to his body signalled that he was near the end. His head tilted once again towards the disturbed waves. The sea breeze returned, and the green fog gradually dispersed.
The chrysalis cracked, splitting open to a white daylight. Shiodome Michio, still wrapped in bliss, mumbled to himself. Oosaki couldn’t hear what it was, though. The earth shook around him, and