by Nathan Evans
Rain shimmered against the window, reflecting the light of the city, distorting it, making it beautiful. Akio watched the refractions of color, dazzled by them, allowing them to lull him into a state of pleasant numbness. The stress of the past couple of days had manifested itself in his shoulders; it finally began to drain away. It was the best he’d felt in days and he knew who he could thank for it.
With that thought in mind, he closed his eyes, hoping to find something other than reams of useless information. This time he was met with a different memory; a much more pleasant one: Yuki and her strappy heels.
Guilt mingled with gratitude as he thought of her. No one had shown him the type of kindness that Yuki had. She’d taken him in when he’d hit rock bottom and within the course of a day she’d set him back on his feet. Despite the advance pay she’d already worked into his bank account, she’d even paid for the cab ride home.
Unfortunately, the swelling in his groin undercut his appreciation. Despite her acts of kindness, the only thing he seemed able to focus on was the sight of her silk feet; the curve of her breast as she’d reached down to unhook the shoe; the crimson flash of her soft lips over her shoulder. She’d unintentionally given him access to a private moment, and here he was abusing it, obsessing over it instead of appreciating her actions.
Then there was the matter of the other. The one he loved. The one consumed by darkness.
Pain coursed through his brow, he massaged it with the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. How many times had it happened? How many times had he begun to think of the Girl in the Garden as if she were real? He imagined it occurred more often than not; that the few times he’d even noticed he was doing it represented only a fraction of the whole.
His eyes opened wide. He stared down at his crisp dress pants and was suddenly aware of the chafing from his tie. He wore the attire of a stranger. This wasn’t him. He’d come from an honest day’s work at major corporation that, until now, had allowed him entrance only to serve.
An instinct, an ancient urge, whispered hollowly deep in his thoughts. It urged him to strip himself of his tie; to run back to his dark corner of the city—to Haven—and never come back. He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t good enough for the job, for Yuki.
The narrow street opened up into a familiar hub and drew his attention. Akio’s body tensed and he sat up straight. The streets were nearly empty; unusually so for the hour. Alleyway after alleyway slipped past as the taxi continued unabated by traffic. He focused on the swaths of pitch, his heart beating faster with each one they passed, knowing they would soon happen upon the one that belonged to him.
His fingers bit into his seat as they drew closer, threatening to puncture the moment they came upon what he was looking for. Before he knew he was doing it, he gripped the driver’s shoulder with a force that matched his grip on his chair. “Stop the car.”
The taxi came to an abrupt, screeching halt before Akio even finished his sentence. The driver’s stubby, wrinkled hand shot to his shoulder and peeled Akio’s away, tossing it back at him. “Hey—hands off, pal!”
But Akio was free from the car. His focus was on the alleyway; on the single light bulb that illuminated the simple steel door.
The rain picked up, soaking through his already damp jacket, cutting him to the bone. He didn’t care. His feet flew up the steps leading to the Haven Den; his knuckles cocked, ready to pound on the door.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t open his fist, nor did it ever connect, it found its way into his pocket where it lay impotent. Slowly, he turned back down the stoop, his other hand slicking against the railing. His boots connected with the street. “No,” he whispered, “never again.”
A knot drew taught in his stomach and he doubled over, clutching his gut. His eyes began to burn anew and a ringing filled his ears. His head felt as if it were pulsing. He opened his eyes. The cracked concrete of the alley was gone, replaced by impossibly green blades of grass that stretched on forever.
Vertigo took hold, the sea of vegetation warped and rippled. The knot pulsed and the ringing in his ears intensified before something broke through: the sound of fabric whipped by wind.
He attempted to stand, but his empty, churning stomach wouldn’t allow it. A foot, bronzed and bare amongst the grass, stepped into the edge of his vision. It was accompanied by the swish of a blue sundress.
Somewhere the Girl screamed.
All at once the pain stopped and the garden disappeared. Akio found himself face down, clawing at concrete. Bewildered, he pulled himself to his knees. The throbbing of his skull was the only thing that remained.
He looked to the door. It was no longer inviting, only imposing; an oppressive grey monolith towering above him. For the first time in that alleyway he was afraid.
He stood, his forehead buried in his palm; his eyes shut. The Girl’s screams continued to echo.
They followed him all the way home.
CHAPTER 9
Information—reams of green text in a sea of black—passed before his eyes at a constant clip. Akio was lashed to the screen, his back arching at a cruel angle. With an arm draped over the granite slab, his free hand passing millimeters above the surface, each wave introduced yet another volume of dull, lifeless text.
The anemic light felt like pin-needles on his corneas. He kept them open; afraid of what might happen if he dared to blink. When the strain became too much to bear and the sticky slick film began to leak, he’d look away.
The basement was silent; it was always silent. Though he didn’t dare lean back for fear the ancient camera would spot him, he would hazard the occasional glance at the coworkers stationed behind. Like him, they were strewn over their stations, the green glow from their computer monitors casting a ghoulish hue that absorbed their features. Everyone looked the same: slack jawed; their postures bent and crooked just like his; consumed by their monitors.
Akio tensed at the sight. It skirted the border of something inside; some deep fear that he knew was there but couldn’t pinpoint or reveal. He faced his own monitor, doing his best to focus on his work; to forget about the night before.
Text continued to cascade. He clicked on one of the bits of mail. As the first sprigs of comprehension began to sprout, the rest of the room faded away. There was only himself, the monitor, and the hum of the machine.
The further he read into the email, the louder the hum seemed to get. He leaned into it, allowing it to encircle him, to cushion his mind as he parsed through the complicated language. He barely noticed as it reached its peak… then eroded.
It was tinny at first—the scream—faint, buried somewhere deep within the ether of the machine’s rattle. Slowly, it increased in pitch. It wasn’t until the depth of the text began to shift as well that he noticed it was there.
The tinny noise seemed to lace itself in code as it got louder; to emerge from a plain of unseen ones and zeroes and coalesce into a corrupt, horrifying electronic warble. The text began to bleed. No longer were they individual characters. They blurred together, each figure becoming a piece of something larger.
Akio felt as if his mind had been pumped full of ice water. His pupils raced in every direction in a desperate, futile attempt to keep everything in its proper place.
He failed. Pushing out from a sea of black, through a web of letters and numbers, was the Girl. Her face filled his screen, contorting in agony. The numbers that filled the space between the partings of her lips compacted in such a way as to suggest a coarse bit of burlap had been sewn into them to stifle her lament.
The effort had been wasted. Her sweet, human voice, pierced the burlap cipher and filled his ears.
The implausibility of what was happening never entered his mind; it didn’t have time to. He clawed at the screen, his fingernails chipping ineffectually against the monitor. He was up from his chair, his head sweeping manically from side to side in an attempt to find something he could use to save her; to peel her away from whatever
it was that was causing her pain. “Please…” he muttered, pleading, “please…” his voice began to rise, “PL—”
A hand grabbed his forearm.
The scream ceased.
Akio recoiled, wresting his arm free, stumbling backwards from his chair, a stressed growl escaping his lips.
Yuki stood before him, her brow creased with worry; the offending hand pulled back in shock. He’d succeeded in capturing the attention of his coworkers. A line of blank, identical faces turned from their computers to stare at him. Simon stood at the end, up from his desk, concern marking his face.
Though the screams had ended, the sound of his own heart racing had taken its place. His head gesticulated as if on a swivel; from Yuki, to Simon, to the camera bolstered in the rafters. The device swept in his direction, its whir audible now that the room was silent. The lens swiveled from its base, extending, the red recording dot blinking steadily.
“Akio… are you okay?”
“Wha—what…” The headache from the night before returned. Pain emanated from the base of his skull and flamed the back of his eyeballs. His hand shot to his eyes and he rubbed them violently; the act offering no relief. With bleary eyes he looked back at the computer monitor. It was as it had been before: an e-mail, no more, no less, open on the screen.
“Akio, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
He snapped to attention, his face contorted in wild bewilderment. Yuki leaned back on her heel, ready to turn away from him should he snap.
The shock of what was happening began to degrade. His mind was slow to work. Like an alcoholic waking from a deep sleep, the details of where he was sluggishly filtered through.
He straightened; his posture and his tie, pulling back the savagery of his confusion. He massaged his temples. “Um, my—my head. I just… had this sharp pain. I—I have bad migraines sometimes and… sorry...”
Yuki’s guard dropped, at least, she no longer looked as if she wanted to run away from him screaming. The others continued to stare. Only when it was apparent nothing would happen, did they turn back to their screens with the same blissful ignorance of their surroundings as before.
Simon was the last to look away. Even as he did, he sunk back to his desk slowly.
“Um, it’s okay, I just…” Yuki looked to the floor, seeming to wonder if she herself could trust her own mind. “I could’ve sworn I heard you… begging someone.”
“Begging?” He affected his most genuine blank stare. “What do you mean,” feigning ignorance—hating himself for it.
“I just… nothing.” She said. “I must’ve misheard. Sorry.”
“No, no I’m sorry; about your arm, I mean. You just startled me.”
“Oh—um—no, it’s fine, really. Not a scratch.” She waved the hand, bending over backwards to let him off the hook; making him feel worse by doing so. “I, uh…” she seemed unable to look him in the eye. She paused, clearly trying to find what she’d come down here to say. “I just thought I’d come down here and check on you. See how everything’s going.”
“Well, aside from the occasional freak out,” they chuckled weakly. “It’s good. Fun.”
“Fun?”
“Well,” he said, “better than being unemployed.”
“Right,” Yuki grinned, allowing some of the tension to drain, “you’re welcome.”
Another nervous chuckle. Akio ventured a glance at Simon. The small talk must’ve reassured him. His focus was back on his datapad.
“So,” Yuki began. She wrung her hands together. The gesture an odd one. He’d never known Yuki to be anything less than assured. He felt another twang of guilt. Was she still rattled from before?
“I just wanted—you know—I just wanted to let you know that I’m here if you need me. I know it’s tough starting somewhere new and yeah… I’m here.
“Thanks, Yuki. I guess I just—you’ve done so much—I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Aki,” a nervous, inviting smile creased her lips, “it’s no bother.”
The scrap of charm that he’d produced earlier abandoned him. He felt lame; the forgotten throbbing of his skull returning. “Thanks, Yuki,” he said, “I’ll have to take you up on that.” He attempted to look away, resting his arm on the edge of his cubicle—ending the conversation.
Yuki seemed to deflate even as she drew herself up to her familiar, assured posture. “Right,” she said, “I’ll let you get back to it. See you, Aki.” She walked past.
He allowed her to.
Her heels clacked as she walked away, audible over the hum of the machines, becoming fainter the further she got. Self-loathing wasted no time settling in. Each footstep felt like a gut punch. Yet another wasted opportunity in a lifetime full of them.
She’d almost reached the elevator bank when his thoughts returned to the glance and strappy heels.
He bolted after her with an enthusiasm he figured he should probably have tempered by the time he reached her. “Yuki,” he said, near breathless. She turned to him as he fumbled with his tie; a desperate last ditch effort to look presentable.
“I was thinking: you’ve done so much for me these past couple of days. I thought, uh, I thought,” his hands began to shake, his palms sweaty, “maybe I could repay you… take—take you out to dinner.” He wished he could recall the words the moment he said them. Butterflies filled his stomach. His mouth was dry. He could feel his Adam’s apple grinding in his throat.
Yuki smirked. “You wanna take me to dinner, huh? You know I’d still expect you to pay me back for the clothes, right?” Her smile deepened, a sly glint in her eye.
Akio chuckled, his chest convulsing in anxious, ragged breaths. “Yeah,” he said, “of course. This is, uh, just extra. You know, if you want to.”
This time Yuki smiled; the expression genuine, lacking her usual bite. “I’d love to. There’s this place down the street from my apartment. Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
“Great.” She said. “Pick me up at eight.”
CHAPTER 10
Her hair was different. It was the first thing he noticed as they walked, huddled beneath the umbrella he’d purchased for the occasion. Her long auburn tangle had been smoothed, colored, and chopped; now a sleek, black cut that fell to her shoulders, making her seem like a different woman entirely.
She had said nothing about the change, nor had he asked.
Despite the umbrella and the warmth of her body, he felt colder walking the street now than he ever had before. The skies were threatening, more so than usual; the ambient light hitting the fog in such a way as to cast an inky black sheen over the roiling mass.
They reached the restaurant. The umbrella collapsed and folded. The doors parted of their own volition, and they stepped through.
There was no wait for their table.
A single candle burned hot at its center; its flame accentuated by the surrounding darkness. The soft flickering embers licked the surface of his retinas. Vivid orange halos accompanied a fresh throb in his temples. They obscured the table, as well as the woman's face.
She spoke; her voice unintelligible over the ringing of his headache.
Light stabbed at his eyes. He folded, gripping the table. His arms seizing, straining with pain; his knuckles flashing white. He couldn’t tell if the table was cracking or if his fingers were.
The wind gusted, sending the flame flickering towards him like a whip. The intensity of the heat seared the inside of his skull.
He screamed.
There was no result. She made no attempt to console him as he writhed in the chair.
His head felt as if it were pulling apart at the seams. More than anything he wanted the pain to stop, but like a wounded animal, he could do nothing but succumb to it. There was another gust of wind and the light died.
With the flame extinguished, all traces of warmth left with it. It was as cold inside as it had been outside. He relaxed his grip on the table, the realization that he was more comfortable in t
he darkness paining him in a way the light never could.
The chill of his breath formed wisps of silver in the air before him, creating a smokescreen that obscured her face in the same way the light had. He focused on the tufts of air, watching them curl and unfurl, letting it ease him; letting it get him past the ghost of the pain.
His breathing slowed, the fog slowing along with it. The air began to clear, revealing the woman’s face like a mask peeled away bit by bit.
The Girl in the Garden sat across from him. A mad glint filled her green eyes, her mouth compressed into a lipless slit. She contorted her face into a hideous grin; her beautiful features stretched into something cartoonish.
Akio regained his grip on the table. The chill of the room seeped into his bones.
He wept.
The tears that welled in his eyes rolled hot. His hands clasped his mouth and he choked, blinking away moisture that ran down his shaking fingers and formed sticky pools between the cracks. The sensation was wrong. Peeling his hands away, he found blood, thick and dark, snaking around his fingers. He looked to the Girl.
She wailed, her lips parting to reveal burlap. Her soft pink skin run through by stitches; stretched to the point of cracking; little rivers of red staining the brown cloth wedged in the parting of her mouth.
Akio accompanied her cries of anguish with his own.
The burlap tore, ink shooting from her mouth like a geyser and into his.
It consumed him as he consumed it.
CHAPTER 11
Akio’s body tensed violently as he sputtered awake. His throat felt like an impacted wound, full to the point of bursting. He jerked onto his right side, retching over the edge of his mattress, producing nothing.
The single sheet he lied on had been soaked through and bunched up in his right hand’s death grip. His dry, involuntary hacking did nothing to distract from his burning eyes. They’d been exposed to light too quickly, but he couldn’t shut them, the strength of his retching forcing them open.