The Haunted Hikikomori

by Pearce, Lawrence

  I creep with eager caution down the dark hall towards the light from the lounge. The lamp is on, and as I round the corner I see him sitting there, curled up on the rocking chair and sipping a cup of steaming hot tea. He seems lost in thought and hasn’t heard me. Or is ignoring me. He is staring at the freestanding mirror but from an angle so that he can’t see his reflection. I wonder what he is looking at.

  I tip toe past him, one eye locked on his face, ready to smile back if he smiles for me. He doesn’t smile for me. In fact, he looks right through me as if I am not there. This isn’t how it’s meant to go, my creations are meant to work for my attention, not the other way around.

  I reach the kitchen and fill a glass with cranberry juice from the fridge. I down it all, gulping fast to settle my teenage anxiety.

  I hear a smash behind me and I spin around, dropping my now empty glass to the floor. It shatters into pieces and as I stumble forward I step on a shard. It cuts and digs into the soft flesh of my sole. I howl at the shooting pain, and grab my leg to yank the shard out in a hurry. I am more disappointed once I see that he has disappeared once more than I am worried about my wounded foot, but I grimace none-the-less.

  3.4

  I find antiseptic spray and a large plaster in the medicine draw. I then hobble over towards my harp, which is still sitting centre stage in the lounge, and seat myself carefully on the stool.

  I improvise and the song my fingers play is both beautiful and makes me want to cry. I will never remember how to play this haunting melody, but I don’t want to. I keep playing, despite the sting in my eyes as the tear ducts moisten. I keep playing, knowing that without those pills, the lows, as well as the highs, are to be expected.

  Eventually, my fingers run out of inspiration and the last rivulet of notes float into the air and dissipate.

  ‘That was beautiful.’

  I look up to where the whisper was spoken from and he is resting his head on one of the cushions. He is laid across the sofa, his eyes closed. I circle him and settle into the armchair opposite where I can watch him fall asleep. He has a foot rested on the arm of the sofa, with a plaster in the same place as mine. How cute! My imagination is creating a bond between us by giving him the same injury that I have.

  He is beautiful. I want to tell him that, but his breathing has already deepened and become heavier. I pull my feet up to hug my knees, and perch my chin in between them, and I watch him sleep.

  I am awoken some time later, presuming I must have fallen asleep, to the sound of my snoozing creation stirring and groaning. He is having a nightmare, I deduct, and I slide off the rocking chair and shuffle with soft feet, careful not to press on my bandaged cut, over to his side. I soothe his forehead with my hand and he immediately settles.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he whispers.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here too.’

  3.5

  The sun has risen and shone invading rays into my world and I am reminded, as I rub the sleep from my eyes, that I have a job to go to and a reality to face. How I hate reality.

  My mouth is dry and my neck aches from sleeping curled up on the rocking chair; one of my favourite pieces of furniture this place provides. As my focus sharpens I check on my creation. He isn’t on the sofa, but I am not surprised. My previous creations never stuck around the next morning either. It always felt like a long string of one-night stands.

  I think something about the harshness of the morning light, and the doziness of my morning brain, means my imagination takes a few hours to kick in again.

  I am standing bare as the day I was born and I turn the shower control until the water gushes out of the showerhead at full velocity. It is cold, but I am prepared mentally for it. My body, however, is never prepared and I jolt as the freezing water attacks my skin. I instantly shake and gasp for oxygen. I wrap my arms around my chest in an admirable but useless attempt to protect myself from the bite.

  The water warms up soon enough and in comparison to the start the shower now feels like bliss. My shoulders drop and relax and my arms lessen their grip, now massaging the warmth over my body.

  I sense a change; the water hits me from a slightly different angle.

  I open my eyes and peer through the countless droplets relentlessly splashing my face, to see him standing in front of me. The shower rains over his broad shoulders, as he stands tall with his eyes closed. He opens them and for the first time looks straight at me, into me.

  We kiss. Not a peck on the lips, followed by a courteous smile, and nor a ravenous, hungry, lustful, devouring snog. But a kiss which feels deep and warm and, well, loving.

  As our lips begin to part I open my eyes again. His expression has changed to one of horror, scoping me with dread. He pushes me aside; his strength so much greater than mine that I slam against the frosted green enclave. He rushes out of the spiral enclosure and I watch his flesh move behind the glass. My heart is racing.

  He stops and leans against the tiled walls of the bathroom. I gather my breath, and one step at a time, edge out of the shower to join him.

  ‘Did I do something wrong?’ I ask.

  He doesn’t reply, just slides down the wall with his back squeaking against the tiles, until he lands on his bottom. Naked and dripping wet, he holds his head in his hands.

  I feel exposed, as I stand there naked and vulnerable. I cover my modesty with my hands until I can move over to my towel. I wrap it around myself. I feel rejected by my own creation.

  4.1

  I would love to sit on the lawn and do nothing, if I had a garden.

  I would love to trek a snowy mountain all by myself, with no peak in sight.

  I would love to inhale sea air, while bobbing along the waves in a little dingy.

  I would love to lay down all day in such peaceful silence that my relaxed breathing provides the only soundtrack.

  Instead the soundtrack is harp after harp played technically proficient but without real feeling, and so therefore as horrendous to my ears as fingernails not just clawing at a chalk board, but cracking and snapping off.

  These kids don’t get it; to them it’s just rehearsed motions, notes and timing. I wonder if any of them can learn to inject some truth into their playing or if it is all too late for them.

  Jeffery, a twelve-year-old veteran (eight year olds are prodigies, ten is already a seasoned pro here) is navigating his way through a particularly complicated piece as I sit and listen and smile when he finishes and looks up.

  Please don’t play ever again, I think inside.

  ‘That was strong Jeffery, but I’d like you to spend some time not playing the piece and instead listening to it only in your mind,’ I say.

  He frowns, confused, ‘Why Ms?’

  ‘Don’t call me that, Melissa is fine. Listen, music is artistic expression first and foremost, right? You can do everything else technically perfect, but unless I get that honesty in your performance, that feeling that you really, truly understand the story you’re telling and the emotion you’re sharing with me? Well, then it’s just ... good workmanship.’

  I pause, feeling impressed that I sounded so professional.

  Jeffery’s face scrunches up despite his best efforts to hold firm, and his eyes water. His bottom lip quivers.

  My bubble bursts. I’m not cut out for this.

  The rest of the day I spend with my headphones discretely hidden behind my hair, curled around my ears and fed down my dark blue blouse. The jack end peaks out of the bottom of my blouse and into my trouser pocket where my mp3 player hides.

  I nod and say Bravo, that was wonderful, coming along nicely, to every assessment later that day, while inside I’m rocking out to Fiona Apple and Tori Amos. It gets me through the day, blocking out their wretchedly robotic performances.

  4.2

  Another day where the air tastes dirty, where the oxygen is thinner, where every face is vacant and haunting and where my feet, heavy and lumbering, drag my tiresome body home to where I can fina
lly breathe easier and feel safer.

  There is barely a moment when I don’t think of him throughout the day. Now that I am ascending with the metal encased lift of my building, I feel a heady mix of excitement and anxiety over seeing my creation again.

  I open the door and a waft of pizza takes charge of my nostrils. I notice that I have left the French windows of the balcony wide open and reason that a neighbour with their windows also open must have had a pepperoni slice or two. The smell would have escaped their apartment and the wind which races up and down the face of this building must have chased it up, or down, and in through my windows.

  My attention is taken by a search for him. Like someone returning from a holiday to assure themselves their home hasn’t been broken into and that nothing is missing, I scour every room. There is no sign and all those pent up nerves are deflated. And I feel tired.

  Having barely slept last night, time seems to move slowly. Every second feels like three.

  It is now midnight and I haven’t seen my creation once. I find myself longing for his company, but I wonder if since the shower incident this morning (the first time my imagination has rejected me) my mind has changed its ... mind. Maybe subconsciously I don’t want imaginary friends anymore. Now that I am older, is my psyche refusing to play?

  No, I know I want to. Up here on top, on the surface, I want to see him again.

  Sitting in the same spot on the rocking chair, gently rolling forward and then dropping back while staring at the empty sofa, I hear something.

  Roll. Thud. Roll.

  I climb the sofa and poke my head over the top of the backrest. I see a football coming to a stop, teasingly rolling forward and then dropping back. Is it mocking me? And where did this football come from?

  I think I would normally be spooked by a before unseen inanimate object moving of its own accord, but I know the sudden withdrawal from the prescription of pills, and the lack of sleep I managed last night, must be playing tricks on me. I reach for the bedroom. I reach for sleep.

  4.3

  I tuck myself in, pulling the thick duvet up to just under my chin, like when I was a child. It feels cosy and I can sense a deep sleep will engulf me tonight.

  I purr a little. I have always liked to do that when I’m in a dozy state, about to sink into the pleasure of a delicious, immersive sleep. The kind where you give yourself over completely and your dreams are deep in a misty haze of comfort.

  I am interrupted by footsteps. Bare feet pat the wooden floor. I squint in the dark, urging my eyes to adjust to the scarcity of light, and then I see him again.

  He is a casual silhouette, drifting through the doorframe and sliding into bed next to me and resting his head on the other pillow. I remain still; oxygen escapes my lungs, slipping away from me. I hold my stomach in and my chest down. My hands grip the rim of the duvet tight, pulled up to my chin.

  Yet my eyes are wide open, staring through darkness to my side where he is laid with his back to me.

  His disinterest makes my fear evanesce, and I turn my head to face him, before swivelling my body too. I reach out and my hand hovers over his strong, bare back. His back muscles are tense, taut. His neck is hunched forward, not relaxed at all. I pull my hand away before touching him.

  I clear my throat and speak in a soft, tender manner.

  ‘You seem so tense. What’s wrong?’

  He flips onto his back to face the ceiling.

  ‘I missed you tonight, where were you?’

  He opens his hand palm up and I instantly know to slide my fingers between his. Our fingers intertwine, and I feel guilty.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m here now.’ I say.

  I lift his hand up to my lips and kiss it softly.

  ‘I feel guilt over Sarah, and I wish I didn’t. I wish I could let it go, to accept that what happened was out of my control, just terrible bad luck,’ he confides in me.

  My imagination has gone further than I thought it was capable of after so much time dosed up on pills. I have built a backstory for my creation. I look over his body to the frame on the bedside cabinet, the photo of the pretty girl. That must be Sarah. I’m creating framed photos as well as human characters. My mind must have been bursting to be set free, and now that the pills are no longer holding me back I am on overdrive!

  ‘Go on,’ I encourage him.

  ‘I want to let it go. I think you can help me. I want to give myself to you, to be free and open with you,’ he says.

  We look into each other’s eyes for a few moments and I feel the urge to comfort him.

  ‘I am here for you, and I understand. I will help you through your guilt. You can trust me,’ I promise him, although I haven’t the foggiest what he has to feel guilty for.

  He smiles for me through the darkness, and I smile back. Then, just as I am about to reach out to embrace him, he crawls out of bed away from me. I lift my head to watch him casually stroll towards the door and exit the bedroom.

  I am left once again bewildered and piecing together the surreal moments which have just past.

  I drop my head to the pillow in resignation.

  Sleep.

  4.4

  I am dreaming. I know this because I see everything from the eyes of a baby. As I move my arms and hands in front of my face, not quite in full control of these awkward limbs, I can tell those stubby fingers and toes belong to someone too young to walk or talk.

  So I do neither, I just allow myself to be held tight in the arms of a woman. I catch glimpses of her face illuminated by moonlight but mostly her hair falls against my face or I find myself staring over her shoulder to see, in the distance, the blurred lights of seaside homes. My head flops forward, since I have little control over my neck muscles, and I see sand below.

  The dry sand gives way to wet sand, and then soon I see water. The woman carrying me is walking us into the sea. She is pushed back by the waves every few seconds. My view of the blurred lights makes me dizzy.

  I hear the sound of the waves building and then crashing. The embrace the woman has me in is strong and protective.

  My head flops again and I see the water has risen to her waist now. Her long, thin skirt spreads out along the foaming waves, floating like clouds carried by the wind.

  Then she turns around and moves my little body in her arms so we are both facing the shore and the orchestra of lights further in.

  ‘Wave bye-bye to Jared sweetie, he has his own journey ahead.’

  The woman’s voice is soft and familiar.

  I don’t react; I don’t have the ability yet to speak. Instead, I dribble.

  ‘You’re going to be a brave girl for mummy now. Yes you are, my angel.’

  She turns us both around and I see the moon; full in silver glory, whole and assured. To my eyes, it has sprinkled magic dust over the beautiful waves surrounding us and reflecting the light.

  My mother, who I know isn’t my real mother, who is a dream world mother instead, takes us another step into the sea.

  I feel the water flow over my dangling foot for the first time. It is cold, real cold. My foot jerks up and I don’t like this anymore. I hear myself yelp. Then the waves splash over my legs and thighs.

  Onwards she goes, taking us deeper, and now the waves are relentless, attacking her chest and arms, and I am sinking to my waist.

  I am not quite scared, as being a child, I have no concept of drowning, but my heart, however little it is, is beating out of my chest.

  I have become agitated, moving my eyes from the water below to her face. To the water. To her face. To the water. She gives me a reassuring smile, and then the smile drops as she stares out into the ocean.

  ‘We’re not built for this world baby, we have to go,’ her voice cracks.

  We are now under the control of the waves. Her feet slip and she stumbles, before regaining her footing. She steadies herself once more and steps forward again.

  ‘I’m just so sorry I can’t take both of you, but you need me most, you need
to stay with me. Jared will understand.’

  My arms flail in front of my face, trying to slap the splashes of salty seawater away. I taste the salt on my lips; my face screws up and I spit out.

  I shiver from the painful freeze of the cold night water engulfing my body.

  The water is up to both our necks now. I turn to face her and she is looking to me with that same reassuring smile. But the smile isn’t quite right. It is a forced smile.

  I watch as her eyes sink below the surface.

  And then the water rushes in.

  5.1

  The end of the working day arrives and before my last student’s fingers drift off the last string I am already grabbing my bag and heading for the door.

  Even the cattle herd blocking the tube tunnels aren’t enough to slow me down, as I slice through the rush hour crowds into the train.

  ‘Chikan!’ is what young Japanese women shout if twitchy-fingered Japanese men grope them on the Tokyo Metro. Once recited, all the other passengers will instantly turn to identify the pervert who will then be apprehended and shamed. I feel the urge to scream Chikan, so that the mass of bodies pressed up against me like some sort of human fast-food abattoir will step away.

  I feel trapped.

  The sooner I am home, the sooner I can begin to feel normal again. My version of normal.

  5.2

  Five days in my new home and I still haven’t unpacked all my clothes, washed them and put them away in the bedroom wardrobe and drawers. Keeps it from feeling permanent this way, like I’m spending a week in a hotel.

  I dig deep into my luggage case and pull out a pale blue vest top and underwear. I strip off my work clothes, a smart grey skirt and blouse combination, and then I hear something emanating from one of the rooms; a whirling, rhythmic, mechanic pulse accompanied by a hard, awkward stamping.