Perfect Blue: Complete Metamorphosis

by Yoshikazu Takeuchi

  Using her head and her feet—the only parts of her body she could still move—Eri struggled fiercely, but for some reason, didn’t say anything. Maybe she had imagined the dreadful fate that awaited her and sheer terror had stolen away her words.

  The man unwrapped his treasured knife from its cloth and let out a deep breath. No matter how many times he looked at the weapon, it always had the ability to calm him. At the same time, the feel of Kirigoe Mima’s image in its handle gave him a high. The sharpened blade glimmered with power and danger.

  His heart cried out for him to act.

  Putting the knife in his right hand, he stepped toward Eri. He felt a primal energy building within him. His heart began beating faster, more intensely. Sticky beads of sweat dripped from his forehead.

  Eri’s eyes were so wide her eyelids threatened to split apart entirely. Cracked and dry, her lips trembled like the beak of a trapped bird, as she finally managed to squeak out, “What—what is that? What are you doing? What are you going to do with that knife?”

  Paying no heed to her questions, the man grasped her head, fingers like an eagle with talons in its prey. With his other hand, he pressed the knife’s tip at the base of her scalp.

  Eri’s body froze solid.

  And then she screamed with everything she had, her shrieks ringing through the room. She shook her head back and forth in crazed panic.

  The man tightened his grip. “If you keep moving, you could ruin everything! You can’t move. If you move, I’ll cut into places I shouldn’t, so just stay still. I don’t want to harm your skin.”

  He leaned his arm in against the base of her neck to keep her head in place. “Eri-chan,” he said. “This won’t hurt. I promise it won’t hurt.” He put the knife back into position at the base of her hairline. Slowly, smoothly, he moved the blade.

  A red line appeared and traced across her scalp. Sharp and bitter pain twisted her expression. “Stop! No, stop!” Eri cried, vainly trying to kick her legs.

  But the man’s powerful arm kept her head firmly in place.

  “Now, now, don’t struggle,” the man said gently. “If you struggle, it’s only going to make this hurt more than it has to.” He kept moving the knife. The blade’s tip passed across her temple, then followed the line of her jaw all the way back up to the opposite side.

  The man was impressed by how easily the edge cut. He hardly had to apply any pressure at all as he glided the blade across her skin.

  At last, the knife had finished a full circuit. Streams of blood draped down across her torso like a veil of reddest silk.

  The whites of her eyes blotted out by red, Eri mumbled in machinelike repetition: “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts…”

  VIII

  Mima’s soft but athletic thighs peeked out from her white wrap skirt. Every time she stepped to the beat, the skirt offered further glimpses, while her hips swayed in seductive rhythm. Her low-cut tank top bared the deep valley between her breasts, and when she shook her body, it set her bosom swaying. Droplets of sweat traced little arcs as they danced from her forehead to the base of her neck.

  Tadokoro watched Mima’s performance on the monitors in the studio control room.

  Next to him, the director of Nighttime Hit Parade said, “This is great television.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Tadokoro replied. “And I’m not just saying that as her manager.”

  The director said, “Looks like we can call her new image a success.”

  Tadokoro nodded in great satisfaction. “A huge success, if you ask me. But it’ll all depend on how the viewers take it.”

  Rumi came into the control room. Her cheeks were flushed.

  “Tadokoro-san,” she said, “I just heard from our office. Our phones have been ringing off the hook!”

  “What for?” Tadokoro said.

  “What do you mean, what for? Everyone’s calling about Mima-san’s new song. The moment she came on the TV, our office has been flooded with calls!” Rumi punctuated the news with a little fist pump. Tadokoro smiled so wide his cheeks flushed red.

  “That many, huh?” the manager said. “That’s a relief. It means all of Mima’s hard work has paid off.”

  Tadokoro glanced at the monitor bay where Mima was finishing the second chorus. Then he looked back at Rumi and gestured her closer. “Rumi-chan,” he said, “let’s give Mima a little surprise. I want you to put together a party, but don’t tell her a word about it. It’ll be you and me—and let’s invite Yuji, too. We’ll celebrate Mima’s new image.”

  Rumi’s eyes sparkled. “That’s a great idea! I’m sure Mima-san will be thrilled.” She couldn’t have been more excited than if the party had been for her.

  Gentle admiration in his eyes, Tadokoro instructed, “Go to Mima’s apartment and get everything ready. You can buy anything you need at the convenience store down the street. The agency can write off the expense.”

  He pulled a few ten-thousand yen notes from his pocket and handed them to Rumi, who bobbed her head in thanks before going back out of the room.

  Tadokoro popped his head out from the door and shouted after her, “I’ll take care of Mima and Yuji. You just make sure everything is ready for us!”

  Rumi, who was already jogging down the hall, glanced over her shoulder and called back cheerfully, “Got it!”

  Tadokoro waved at her and went back into the control room. Mima had just finished her song.

  IX

  Talking to himself, the man said, “This is the hard part,” and then he pushed the knife-edge into the incision.

  With his other hand holding Eri’s bangs up out of the way, he slid the knife in between her skin and the flesh underneath. He wielded the blade carefully, like a chef skinning a prize fish.

  Between the loss of blood and the psychological shock, the bloody-faced idol had no more energy to resist. But she still kept throwing off his concentration. Every once in a while, her body jolted as if she had touched a high voltage wire, and she kept on mumbling curses and vows of revenge.

  He thought about stabbing her right in the heart to stop her for good, but he wanted the skin of a live subject, and so he preserved in the face of temptation, patiently continuing his work. As he slid his knife into the cut, he slowly and gradually severed the connection between her outer skin and the dermis beneath.

  If he went too deep, the skin would be too thick and fleshy. But if his cuts went too shallow, he would destroy the precious outer layer. Finding and keeping that balance was incredibly difficult and had him working with great caution.

  Because of this, it took several minutes just to peel the skin from her forehead alone. As he carefully inspected the drooping strip of skin, he muttered, “This is going to be tougher than I thought.”

  Some time later, the VCR’s recording timer went off. Its spools whirred to life, and light came to the TV’s tube.

  “Oh!” the man exclaimed, reflexively turning to the screen.

  Nighttime Hit Parade was on.

  That’s right, the man remembered, Kirigoe Mima’s live performance is tonight. The man had set the timer three days before. She’s supposed to perform at the top of the show.

  The man set the bloody knife—which he was still clutching, though his bloody work was through—down on the table and sat in front of the TV.

  Shortly after, the opening of “Sexy Valley” came over the speakers. Mima appeared, center screen.

  When he saw her appearance, the man swallowed thickly. The large ribbon in her hair, the lively eyes, those still felt like Mima, but the rest of her was an entirely different person—seductive cleavage, a waist tightly bound, a skirt short enough to reveal the plumpness of her thighs.

  The man had seen her in costume on Music Town, and now, as then, the shock of it came like a hammer blow to his head. Only this time, the shock felt good, for no longer did he have to sit and watch her change into someone she wasn’t.

  Through his painstaking efforts, he had tested out his means of sav
ing her, and the results had been most favorable. The man glanced to the kitchenette, where the skin from Eri’s face clung to a countertop of stainless steel.

  The forehead area had been hard work, but once he got the hang of it, he was able to let go of his excess caution and make bolder movements with the knife. The part from the cheek to the chin especially had gone easier than expected.

  He felt ready.

  The man switched off the VCR and got to his feet. He picked up the knife and wiped off the sticky mixture of blood and oil with a tissue. On the kitchen counter lay a small whetstone made for sharpening cooking knives. He brought the weapon over to it and began passing its edge across the stone. When he was satisfied, he wrapped the knife in a cloth and deposited the bundle in a paper shopping bag. Then he took down the life-sized poster of Mima from the time of her debut, rolled it up, and dropped it into the bag with the knife. Finally, he took a fresh T-shirt and a pair of jeans from their hangers in his closet and changed into them.

  This was it. He was ready now. All that remained was the execution of his plan.

  He would finish this today.

  He believed he knew where Mima would go after her live performance—her apartment, almost assuredly. And it was late enough in the evening that her manager and assistant were unlikely to come by.

  The man would catch her alone and take her to the place he had in mind. There, he would perform the ritual—the ritual of transformation, the ritual to make Mima herself again.

  He felt an indescribable power swelling up from the innermost part of him. A sublime and noble power, he felt, born from purity of will and his selfless conviction to sacrifice himself for Mima.

  The man turned his gaze to Eri, who was still strapped to the support column. Her body had gone slack and remained completely still. The blood that had dripped from her face formed a pool around her on the kitchen floor.

  Originally, the man had planned on flaying her completely. But he didn’t have the time for so extensive a test anymore.

  It’ll be fine, the man told himself, brimming with optimism. The rest of the body should skin easier than the face. He didn’t need practice to succeed at the real thing. All that worried him was how long he would be able to remain alive after his own skin was off. Judging by the motionless idol in his kitchen, it wouldn’t be that long.

  But I’m not Ochiai Eri, the man thought. I’m stronger. Through willpower alone, I’ll stay alive for at least a few hours.

  He couldn’t die until Mima was truly saved.

  No matter what happened, he needed to live that long.

  Feeling the weight of his responsibility, the man trembled with the excitement of a warrior anticipating battle. He put on his leather shoes and gave his room one last look over his shoulder. He gazed upon the mounds of video tapes and seared the image of the place into his memory.

  Then a question came to him. What should I do about Eri?

  If he left her here, the police would eventually come and bother him.

  But then the man laughed out loud. What am I thinking? Everything will be over by the end of the day. Who cares about the police?

  He opened his apartment door and stepped out toward the destiny he had made for himself. A deep, emotional exhilaration rushed from his heels to the top of his head.

  Soon, he and Mima would be one.

  Chapter 7

  OMEN

  I

  Mima faced the camera and nailed her final pose, leg raised high. When the assistant director gave her the okay sign, she took in deep, shoulder-raising breaths.

  Her head felt heavy. She slumped over, her arms resting on her thighs and her back arched. She held that position for a while. The nervousness and exhilaration had evaporated in an instant, and now she felt that if she moved another muscle she might collapse on the spot.

  Then, with conscious effort, she pushed strength into the muscles at her core and stood up straight. She felt better immediately.

  With slow footsteps, the idol headed for her green room. She left the recording studio and was proceeding down the narrow hallway when Tadokoro came to meet her. Her manager wore a secretive smile. Maybe he saw strong CD sales on the way.

  “What a show!” he said, draping a pink cardigan over her shoulders. Keeping his arm around her, he walked her to the green room.

  When she didn’t see her assistant inside, Mima asked, “Where’s Rumi-chan?”

  Still grinning, Tadokoro said, “She went home already.”

  “Oh, she did?” Mima’s shoulders drooped in disappointment. “I’d hoped we could go out for some tea or something on our way home.”

  “That wasn’t very nice of her, then,” Tadokoro said matter-of-factly. He produced a taxi voucher from his pocket and handed it to Mima. “Go on home. Get some rest tonight.”

  Then he gave her a wave goodbye and left.

  Suddenly alone in the green room, Mima felt suddenly overcome by loneliness.

  “What’s with them?” she said to no one. “How could they leave me by myself at a time like this? I don’t know what Rumi has going on, but it can’t be so important she had to just run off like that.” Mima puffed out her cheeks. “This is so lame.”

  She threw off her costume and unceremoniously stuffed it into her bag, before quickly changing back into street clothes.

  When she exited the TV station’s rear doors, a cluster of passionate fans—all men—were waiting for her, heedless of the late-night hour. When they saw the idol, they waved at her and broke out into cheers. She gave the men a smile and a little wave before climbing into her waiting taxi.

  As she looked at her fans from the rear passenger window, a pang of anxiety bloomed inside her, an almost physical pain in her chest. The feeling confused her—where could it come from? She put both hands to her breast as the anxiety deepened into relentless dread.

  She asked herself, What am I worrying about? The sales of my single? Where my life goes from here? No. It wasn’t either of those things. It was something more urgent—something far, far more urgent.

  Suddenly, she heard the voice speaking inside her.

  Mi-Mima-san…

  And then she knew what it was she feared.

  She was worried about that stalker. In all the excitement over the debut of her new song, she had nearly forgotten about that creep. But now his specter had begun reasserting its dominance over her thoughts.

  But why now? Why was he causing her all this distress all of a sudden?

  Mima shook her head forcefully, trying to banish his shadow from her mind. Rather than vanish, the phantom’s presence loomed larger still.

  Mima’s sixth sense knew.

  Step by inexorable step, that dreadful stalker was coming for her, a vicious beast, fangs bared.

  II

  Short of breath, her arms filled with bags, Rumi climbed the stairs to Mima’s apartment. She had to hurry if she wanted to be ready before Mima came home.

  Once she reached the apartment door, she fumbled for the key and opened the lock. She scurried to the kitchen and placed the plastic convenience store bags on the counter. Various canned goods and fresh fruit spilled out from the bags. She set the ingredients out efficiently, thinking through the menu in her head—hors d’oeuvres, salad, and then a creamy vegetable soup for the main dish.

  I’m so glad Mima-san’s new song is going to be a hit! she thought with a little smile.

  Perhaps even more than the singer herself, Rumi had been worried about what would happen if Mima’s fans rejected her new direction. When Rumi’s dreams of becoming an idol were broken, Mima had become her emotional bedrock. By projecting her dreams onto Mima, Rumi had found a new purpose in life.

  Rumi didn’t know how Mima saw their relationship, but to Rumi—at least in a sense—the two of them were one unit. Mima’s happiness was Rumi’s happiness; Mima’s sadness was Rumi’s sadness.

  From the bottom of her heart, she hoped Mima would become Japan’s top musical artist, and the assist
ant had pinned much of those hopes on this new song. After all, it was the first step for the singer to grow from a mere pop idol into a true artist.

  To Rumi’s delight, the new single was on its way to becoming a huge hit. She couldn’t wait for Mima to come home so she could congratulate her.

  She looked at her watch. It was just past eleven. Any time now, she thought.

  Redoubling her speed, she began peeling the onions when there was a knock at the door. Rumi looked up from her work with some confusion. Who could it be at this hour?

  Not Mima-san, Rumi thought, her body stiffening. Mima-san would have used her key to unlock the door.

  The assistant cautiously approached the door. Oh, that’s right, she thought, relaxing. It must be Tadokoro-san.

  Letting out a breath of relief, she unlocked the door. Maybe that Murano Yuji would be with him. She thought of his carefree smile and blushed.

  She turned the knob and opened the door, revealing the dim glow of the hallway’s nighttime lights. Standing in their illumination was a lone man.

  Rumi gasped.

  It wasn’t the manager. It certainly wasn’t Murano Yuji.

  Who was it, then?

  She stared at the man’s face. A warm bead of sweat ran down her spine.

  She had seen this man before, somewhere. But where?

  Suddenly, it came to her. She recoiled and moved to shut the door. This was the last person in the entire world she ever wanted to see again. It was the man who had stood in the hall outside the K-TV green room, hidden in the shadows of the steel emergency exit door.

  When she had faced him then, she’d been too scared to look upon his face. Even now, the murky hallway light left most of his features obscured by darkness. But she had no doubt that this man and the one she had faced before were one and the same.

  It was his smell that did it—a dreadful smell she had never encountered before that day—or since.

  Faster than Rumi could close the door, the man’s hand was on the knob. With incredible strength, he forced the door back open, sending her tumbling to the entrance floor.