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A normal event in life goes something like this:
First, wake up and drowsily take a shower. Next, eat your breakfast—either one that has been saved in a can, or find a diner at the break of dawn. Then, head to work, have a long day filled with paperwork—at times your boss will scold you and he’d throw those flock of papers on to your face—and drive back to your humble apartment once the day is over. After that, get a bottle of beer from your deserted refrigerator, go sit on the couch, and watch your favorite show. Lastly, you wash up and go to sleep, until it’s time to wake up again and repeat.
It tells so much that you’ve been leading such an ordinary life. Everything is almost predictable, unsurprising, and normal.
So, having put at gunpoint after a long day at work is not exactly an event that normally occurs on a daily basis.
And so, when—for some reason—that happens to a person, it is begrudgingly expected that afterward events in their life is going to cascade into something definitely no longer normal.
Something like being put in handcuffs for the first time, begging for your innocence on a matter you’re never even involved in, getting assaulted by the cowardice of a murderer who’s been peeling off women’s faces, and then getting suspected as the said murderer instead.
And, absolutely, something like running off to go ask ghosts—the very ones you’ve been trying to avoid for majority of the years you’ve lived—for help to prove your innocence, with the exact same woman who first accused you as a murderer, blew a loaded gun on your head, and you would’ve had your brains scattered across measly parking lot grounds if you hadn’t learned how to counter the situation.
Cain’s gaze follows Noa sprinting through the mizzle until she disappears behind the entrance door of the diner. Six in the backseat is saying something to him before phasing through the car window and rushing through the raindrops, hands over his head as if that helps him at all.
A sigh slips out of his lips—long as if he’s been holding in his breath the entire time, and loud in the silence that has followed in the absence of two companions. Leaning back on to his seat, he stares at the tiny specks of rain that tap on the window, mentally tracing the crooked trails they make as they slide down.
Oh well—it happened, it’s still happening though, and something has to be done about it. In he and Noa’s case, they have a plan—for now, they intend to stick on it and hope it’s the only plan they have to make throughout the entire ordeal. With another sigh, he snaps the folded map open, keeping track on how far they’ve gone and how far they have to go.
For the most part, there remains one constant in his life: that would be the unfortunate fact that he can still see ghosts. They remain annoying as ever, as well—very constant, they are. They can not properly answer a question for death’s sake, like: “have you seen a man with the same hair color as mine? And no, I promise he’s not me. But just so you know, he’s the murderer and he could’ve gone here to forge alliance with a ghost.”
Instead, when he asked, they gave him a look—some with eyes that squinted in doubt, while others with brows that furrowed in confusion—before one ghost proceeded to tell him, through necromancy they call, that he’s somehow pining for Czechoslovakia.
He's so sick of them. What is so hard about helping him out, quick, before the murderer they so despised could go for the loved ones whom they left behind in life.
Oh, right, and who is he to say that now of all times. He intently stares at the small spots of black ink, overlapping lines, place names in which he slightly has to squint his eyes to—how exasperating—just so he could scan for graveyards. While he could still say ghosts remain the ever-irritating, he’s doing all of the hustle to attain their help in which he’d probably owe his life to if the plan becomes a sweet success.
It’s ironic. Normal life has always been about repeating everyday routines—dull and common—turning away from sights of ghosts, and avoiding the call of Arks.
He quietly glances at the empty driver’s seat, and thinks it has really gone astray since then. A murderer chasing them, a doctor he’s talked with—every one of them is from that community he never wanted to be a part of. A ghost he’s forced himself to tolerate because he’s particularly annoying and stubborn, and a woman—sheltered, in such a literal sense—who also floats in the same boat.
It’s... not right, somehow. It’s not the normal life he’s built by using all his strength to feign ignorance to a reality he’s supposed to embrace.
He’s done some things to get the life he wanted for himself, risked some to achieve it, sacrificed a few parts of himself to earn what he believes is far worthier. No lousy serial murderers can easily snatch that away just because his belief for his clumsy murdering skills happens to be higher than the empire.
The reason Cain is confident enough to assume their plan could work is not entirely because they would have ghosts to simply outnumber that of the killer’s. He needs them to drain him out of his sick sense of regard that he can slip through the thinnest gaps of every police investigation, that the tools he had always needed had already run out on him, and that what should have been useful to him now seems to have a mind of its own and can work against him.
It’s going to work. One interaction with the nation’s most feared killer—involving knives and sidekicks and a faint hope that the police might arrive a little faster—is enough for Cain to deduce that the killer finds controlling his temper as difficult as restraining himself from preying on another victim.
On another hand, Cain can control himself as easily as turning away.
It’s the difference that renders their similar taupe strands and broad build to the sidelines, useless and a mere factor fueling the accusations. Somehow, it predetermined the outcome of this whole game of chase. He’ll lose his mind (not like he hasn’t lost his mind at this point), sabotage himself because he cannot subdue his own impulses and think clearly under duress.
He is a simpleminded bastard and that’s why the solution to repress him seems to come off simple, as well. They just need ghosts to assist for that. And if marching up to them—eyes fixated ahead, chest out, expression molded into something Noa or Six would probably make when they’re determined—stands as the most effective way to have it, he’d still not do that but rest assured he’ll talk to them. It’s a little sacrifice to gain what he wants, a small chunk to give up in exchange for something bigger and more wanted.
After that, it’s done.
Hopefully.
No. Definitely. They’ll make it. It’s going to be all right, he once said to Noa, and it’ll be. He can assure, as by looking at a tiny spot on the map, he can tell they’re not an hour away from the nearest graveyard—perhaps 20 minutes away or so; that’s not too bad. He just has to wait for his company to return, eat the food she bought, calm down, and think like he always does and as he should.
He’ll take his life back the soonest.
The door clunks open to reveal a rushing Noa immediately sliding into the driver’s seat. He sees a frantic look dilating in her eyes as she swiftly slides off her sunglasses.
“Let’s go. I think someone recognized me!”
Let him rephrase his sentence: he’ll take his life back soon right after Noa changes into another disguise.
Great. Knew she’d stand out too much to be ignored.
Now, to Noa, the woman who tried to kill him (he won’t forget that but he can set that aside for the meantime), his companion, the one who swiveled his life drastically if not completely.
He has no qualms on the look, genuinely. It is fancy, sure. A head turner, likely. He can also tell Noa is comfortable with it, why not. He’s in no way to complain against that when he and his suit can barely be called as disguise. Unlike him, Noa is hidden beneath long ginger strands and wrapped in a completely different style from what the police or her family last saw her in. With no photo out for the nation to spite, she’s safe.
He’d imagined lingering gazes, though, scrutinizing the woman just because their attention was caught by the teasing flutter of her (fake) hair. And he’d briefly pondered if ever they could sense something was amiss the longer they intended to revel.
But he immediately brushed the thought off when he remembered throwing Noa a secret glance yesterday—she had been staring at the unopened can in her hand, eyes cast down in rue, as they once had been within the confines of the chapel’s looming walls. So, he realized: no, they won’t. After all, her disguise had almost worked on Cain too, had him hastily scanning in that seconds-long daze for a flicker of an auburn strand to make sure it was not only her green eyes that proved it’s Noa.
So, he doesn’t quite believe someone could easily assess her like that. It is only he who truly knows who is hidden beneath the pretense.
He could make out a particular white suit with a bow tie approaching the backseat window, instantly realizing it’s Six. He phases his way inside again, and by the look of calm on his face as he seems to answer Noa’s rapidly growing concern, Cain supposes he’s right.
No one recognizes her. Good. With that, let him go back to his previous sentence: he’ll get his life back the soonest.
“Really? But you said one of the men was staring at me,” she says, her voice laden with uncertainty. Cain doesn’t say anything to that and only turns his head back in front. He could feel her eyes in his direction, but likely past his figure. He proceeds to grab the bag of warm fast foods.
Of course. Well, he guesses he’s right that no one recognizes her, and while he doesn’t hear a peep from Six, he has a rough guess what roots the brief worry. Again, she does stand out too much to be ignored. They’ve surmised, earlier, that Cain going out in just his suit—his cast barely secluded behind it—would be a bit too risky. Sunglasses on him is not enough. Meanwhile Noa, in her passionate disguise—and the sunglasses—could lessen the risk of being recognized, at least.
Next time, though, maybe sunglasses would do just enough for him. Noa can watch him fool people with it as she waits in the car for their meal.
He could hear her sigh softly in relief, justifiably oblivious to the glaring clues. Someone deprived of the simplest matters such as meeting strangers wouldn’t exactly be able to pinpoint that.
In Noa’s confession of the kind of life she’s been (forced to) living (live in), Cain briefly wondered then whether life in the basement had morphed into Noa’s own version of a “normal” life—thinking it’s what she’s meant to, claiming it as constant as it should be—or had she ever pondered another kind of life she truly wanted to live.
But later on, his own query spoke for itself when she cried over friends, schools, and a life with her family. Away from godforsaken basements and voices that always push her to that very room.
The sound of it has been familiar. The longing itself that had fallen with her tears and wobbled out of her trembling lips hits home—only in an almost similar but completely different sense. Really, he wished he stammered from surprise when she shared her truth.
But it had been too familiar for him to be dumbfounded. Recollections begin to surge now and he’d rather... not dwell on that.
She lets out a fake cough, which makes him shift his eyes to her direction. She is clutching the paper bag close to her chest, her gloved fingers lightly scratching on the dry surface, looking as if she’s about to say something Cain could be possibly expecting.
“I still don’t believe my family knows about ghosts, but the way I responded yesterday was very immature.”
He expects it’s going to be something about that, in some way—except the immature part.
“I’m sorry.”
Maybe that, too. But more on anticipating apologies for not believing him, not... because of the way she responded to his unintentional revelation—in which when she yelled, it made him jolt a bit. But he can’t really say she overdid the reaction.
She doesn’t really have to be sorry about something so....
...how many times had Noa uttered apologies to him now, by the way?
I’m sorry about that the night they first called each other, referring to that particular afternoon event that honestly scared him a bit. I’m sorry for doubting you when she realized how deep the wounds lay. There could be more in the past days that he might’ve forgotten.
As a matter of fact, she should. He treasures his life just to say ‘it’s fine’ to an awkward apology over the telephone, or even put it in the back of his head like past memories too insignificant to even be recalled. But only for that one time she nearly killed him, that’d be all, he quite does not need the rest and more of it.
Suddenly, he remembers himself every time things become out of hand. He turns away from them, while Noa might resort to apologies. And perhaps both hope, in their own ways, it’ll pass.
They really have similarities he wishes he could ignore.
And ignoring has been his forte. That’s why now he cannot really say things are going right, somehow.
“It’s all right. I understand the mood swings,” he says, mustering a tone as light as if it’s nothing. Because it’s nothing. For now, Noa should think of it as that way, too. “Besides, you’re with the man you love. It’s bound to take a toll on you.”
She shifts on her seat and Cain immediately knows the downcast look on Noa is finally scraped off her face, replaced with a sincere look of both concern and perplexity that is more humorous than worrying.
“Hey, wait, why do you keep saying that I like you?”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t,” is her straightforward answer. Cain knows that, most of all. Only a fool would look at Noa and say she feels something for her living company other than pure acquaintanceship. And clearly, he is not a fool to claim that. But does it help uplift the mood?
He thinks it does.
“Sure, let’s say you don’t.”
There is a clean look of disbelief on her face, mouth agape in surprise and he would lie to himself if he says it isn’t quite amusing.
“Don’t you understand? I said I don’t like you!” she retorts, twisting the cap of her bottle.
“I also said I understand,” he says, matter-of-factly.
Noa is huffing out retorts when the cola explodes out of the bottle, and she gets drenched in them while Cain soaks in the noise that ensues.
He sets aside the half-bitten burger to hand Noa a handkerchief, before fetching his own bottle. The faint savory whiff from their food and the fizzy waft from Noa’s spilt drink together smell too much like breakfasts in roadside diners. The scent of his recurring mornings before things began rolling downhill.
“When we get ghosts to help us, this’ll all be over,” he says, the bottle cap snapping off the lid.
The plan has been simple. The only thing complicated about it is that he’d have to intentionally talk to ghosts for that.
That’s all it really takes to end all of this. It doesn’t have to take too long. He doesn’t have to drift too far. He really doesn’t have to change too much. He just has to risk some, not a lot (by a lot, it means something like making a dangerous lie to the cops to clean a stranger’s name). That kind of far he doesn’t want to stoop into again.
“We’re almost there.”
What a satisfying ending it would be when they get there, at last. Cain will go back to his apartment, tiny but it has been a good enough space to accommodate just him—exactly just as he intended. Things will return to where he’d preferably placed them before matters gone out of hand. Back to drowsy mornings, lazy breakfasts, evenings meant for beers and couches and favorite shows, days filled with nothing but work and ignoring ghosts, the cycle that is dull and repetitive.
To the almost predictable, unsurprising, and normal life that he himself had chosen to live.
Living temporarily out of it for now makes him miss that life.
And for the two here...
Six... oh, he can pass the second time. That’s every ghost’s destiny, anyway. One day, as awful as it sounds, it’s going to be the same for him too. But that’s the last thing he wants right now.
For Noa, she will go back to her family—she loves them, after all, so unconditionally and enduringly she’s running away to lure the killer away from them. She’ll no longer frolic around with her short-term cohort, and instead amend misunderstandings with her family, find happiness in their apologetic and loving embrace, start anew.
He glances at her direction, her auburn hair now framing her face instead of the toupee, an even greater assurance that it’s Noa. As she wipes the remnants off her, there is a crease on her face that looks rather feistier in her true appearance—and Cain doesn’t want to have preferences in this particular matter.
“What are you staring at? I’m not going to steal your drink,” she says, just slightly catching him off guard.
“Oh, I just thought I might show it off,” he replies, and intentionally takes a sip out of the bottle right in front of her. It earns him an irritable groan. She turns away, muttering words—he can and cannot quite decipher—under her breath as he idly observes her for a moment.
He and Noa do not need to cross paths with each other again after this. They would each be too occupied to keep building the lives they’ve always wanted for themselves. Cain himself doesn’t also want to linger in any way.
If ever they do meet each other again, may it be on the streets or in another office (hopefully not his insurance office or another psychiatrist’s office), he’s not sure what would happen next but maybe he’ll greet her first thing. And surely then, too, there would no longer be any glaring and a “did you take my bag?” before they’d have to separate once again.
Before he even notices it himself, a smile tugs at his lips.
Well, he will miss her, though.