I Wonder What Human Flesh Tastes Like

by Isis, Justin

  She looked up at the walls, saw the photographs pasted on the large whiteboard. Some were from their childhood, others were recent. She wondered when they’d been taken. In them Momo posed with strangers, smiling. Tiny names and messages decorated the edges.

  Miyabi looked at the board for a long time. She couldn’t recognize any of the faces, but she knew Momo — knew the modulations of her voice, how she carried herself under stress, a thousand possible desires and reactions. What could anyone think of Momo, she thought... what would anyone think? She pictured meeting her for the first time, imagined the distance, the restraint. It was a quiet feeling. She thought of Momo now with love and pity, as if she were already dead.

  Miyabi loved this feeling, and it had been a great thrill for her as a child to imagine her parents struck down by cars and planes and tumors. When she was seven a heart attack had put her father in the hospital. Visiting him with her mother and Momo, who insisted on bringing a school book, Miyabi found her attention drawn to the enormous television above her father’s bed, fixed to the wall by a set of struts. He was watching a drama, but the reception sparkled with static and his eyes struggled to trace movement. She followed Momo to his side. Under the white hospital gown her father’s sagging flesh presented itself with the purest immediacy. A calm radiance paled everything. She had wanted nothing more than to linger in the shadow of the bed, holding her father’s limp hand and watching the interference patterns play on the slanted square of the television screen.

  She left the room and lay down on her bed. Staring at the ceiling, the taste of peanut butter filled her mouth. She wanted to brush her teeth, but there was nothing to be done now. She closed her eyes and rolled onto her side.

  In Miyabi’s dream the stars broke. She was still in bed; the light through the window shimmered a cold pearl and the stars were broken. She reached for the blinds; a patch of violet light struck her hand.

  The breeze rustled her hair. She sat up naked and went to the window. A haze of purple clung to the screen.

  She switched on the lights, tossed on nightclothes, ran downstairs. Scarlet shadows darkened the ground. The street stretched before her like a peacock feather.

  Outside others were gathering, standing dazed in robes and nightgowns, movements slow as sleepwalkers. The stars flooded their faces with banana yellow and beetle-shell green, russeted beards and returned color to greying heads, reflected in eyes a palette to match the night sky’s wild circus colors.

  The refractions were down. A kaleidoscope turned in the ruin of the heavens.

  The moths orbiting the streetlamps became fantastic, impossible butterflies. The trees replayed the seasons in moments, a flicker from summer-green sheen to the brown of a light-wrought autumn. The moon caught madness from the sun; its face reddened in shame, whitened with fear, sickened with green. A woman was crying somewhere; Miyabi turned and saw her smiling. Rivers of yellow and green trickled from her eyes as the broken starlight silvered her hair. She read subtle blues and pinks in the line of her lips; a vein in her breast lit up with a cool fire before fading to burnished gold.

  All around her crickets chirped in the twilight. She saw a fox dart from a pole and then stop, dazed by an orange flare from the moon.

  The refractions were down. In the streets children played with mirrors, flashing fresh-caught starbeams onto darkened windows, streaking neon rainbows over the midnight pavement, turning pools of rain to emerald mines and blood-soaked trenches.

  Then the moon began to fade. Blurry face of the crying woman, plain pools of rain.

  She looked ahead. One by one the street lamps flickered and died. Above, the constellations were disconnecting, lazing out of place, dwindling to pinpricks. Below, children groped for lost parents; somewhere further off the barking of a dog ceased. She walked on, into the distance.

  •

  Taku had always had beautiful shoulders. Even now, mottled by streaks of sunburn into shades that ranged from scab to peach, they stood out arched and even.

  —Your sister calls me all the time, he said. She says you never come out of your room. And you steal peanut butter.

  Miyabi pulled a strip of dead skin from Taku’s arm. Beneath, a new layer of lightly tanned flesh had formed. She tapped it.

  —Ow. Sensitive.

  —Did she tell you to come here?

  Taku looked away and lifted the mug of tea to his lips.

  —She wanted me to talk to you.

  —So that’s the only reason you’re here.

  —I wanted to come see you. I haven’t seen you in...

  Miyabi turned up her lip.

  —Yeah. You don’t care about me anymore.

  —I didn’t see you around, Taku said. I mean... most people don’t stay in their room for six months.

  —Well, they don’t have any ambition, then.

  Taku started again as Miyabi tore off a strip in a single sharp motion.

  —What are you doing, it’s still healing!

  —I like the sound it makes. It sounds just the same as when you open a pack of chocolate pudding.

  Miyabi pulled his sleeve further up and felt a bicep tense. Taku’s arms were long and thin.

  —I’d go out if there was anything worth trying out for, she said.

  —What?

  —I tried to act, I used to go to these tryouts...

  Taku placed his mug back on the desk.

  —Yeah?

  —They didn’t think I was tall enough.

  —You’re pretty short...

  —That doesn’t have anything to do with it.

  —You’re just... you were the shortest girl in our class.

  —That’s so stupid, Miyabi said. She tore a tiny strip from his shoulder. What does that have to do with how well I can act?

  —What if you have to work with a really tall guy?

  —Taku... you’re stupid.

  He pulled his arm away and rubbed it.

  —Look at this... it’s going to get infected now.

  —I was just trying to help you. No one appreciates me.

  —Momoko told me the same thing on the phone.

  —What?

  —She said ‘Miyabi takes me for granted, my dad loves her more even though she’s lazy, no one appreciates me...’

  —I know... she can be a bitch sometimes, Miyabi said. Taku, your voice is awesome. Let’s get married now.

  —What about Manami?

  —Hey, do you remember we promised we’d marry each other if we hadn’t met anyone by the time we were 21?

  —Yeah, but...

  —What?

  —We were like, ten. And I’m going out with Manami.

  —So? Leave her.

  Taku’s eyes took on a furious cast of concentration. He looked, Miyabi thought, as if she’d just presented him with an insoluble equation.

  —I’m just joking, Takumi.

  The strips of dead skin lay on the table between them. Miyabi picked one up and examined the tiny striations on its surface.

  —What percent of the day do you spend thinking about me? she asked.

  —I don’t know... five, maybe?

  —Only five! What else do you think about?

  Taku looked away.

  —I don’t know. Just whatever’s happening to me at the moment.

  —Do you think about having sex with Manami?

  —How am I supposed to answer that?

  —Just yes or no.

  —Yes.

  —What percentage?

  —What is this what percentage thing?

  —Is it more than the five percent when you’re thinking about me?

  Taku stared at her for a moment and opened his mouth, slightly, as if he was about to say something. Miyabi got to her feet and picked up the mug from where he’d placed it on the sill.

  —I’m just joking, Taku. I don’t know why you get so uptight. Do you want any more tea?

  Later, when he had left, Miyabi pulled off her pants and examined he
r thigh. The red circle was covered in tiny scabs from scratching. She ran her finger over it gently before lying back on the bed. She was tired from talking so much.

  As she felt her eyes closing there was a sharp rush of sound. After a few moments it came again.

  She walked to the window. A fly was caught in the wire screen, and in its frantic buzz, she could hear the scrambled voice of a child, a toddler perhaps, broadcast by a far off station. She pressed it through the screen with her finger and saw it drop to the railing below.

  Next to her on the table was the dead skin she’d torn from Taku. Miyabi began to pull it apart, piece by piece, until it lay in shredded scraps.

  •

  Momoko handed her a newspaper on which she’d drawn red circles.

  —There’s lots of part-time stuff open, she said. I’ve circled everything I think you could get.

  —All right. I’ll take a look at it.

  —No, see... I want you to do it now. I want you to go through it with me.

  Momoko had walked in without knocking and was sitting across from her at the table. She flipped through the paper and landed on another page, its boxes circled in red. Her movements were brisk and precise.

  —What are you talking about? Miyabi said.

  —I’m not putting up with this anymore, Miyabi. I’ve gone out of my way to... indulge you, but I can’t, I can’t do it anymore.

  Momo was looking down at the table now, her lips curling.

  —No, Miyabi said. I mean, what are you really talking about? What’s wrong? Is this about Yutaka?

  —No. It’s about, I can’t afford to keep both of us here like this. I can’t afford to pay for your food, your clothes...

  Miyabi took one of the newspaper sections and stared down at it.

  —Look. I’ll go through it with you, just, will you tell me what’s wrong?

  —What’s the point? You wouldn’t listen anyway.

  —I always listen to you.

  Momoko made a pathetic sound.

  —Hey... come on, just tell me.

  —It’s Yasu.

  —Yeah?

  Momoko was covering her face with her hands.

  —What is it?

  —I already told you about it. I could tell you weren’t listening. And I’m sick of having to go out all the time. I want to know that I can bring friends here without having to worry... without having to worry about you!

  She watched Miyabi through her fingers. An aura of fantastic persecution surrounded her. Momoko is a dramatic person, Miyabi realized. Why hadn’t she noticed it before?

  —If you want to fuck someone, I’m not going to bother you, Miyabi said.

  And Momoko was crying — peremptory tears, Miyabi thought, remembering their childhood fights. Whoever cried first claimed the immediate sympathy.

  Momo got to her feet and left the room. Alone, Miyabi considered the thoughtless beauty of her sister’s problems. The thought that Momo was a better actress, that she could veil her talents and, worse, use them, was intolerable.

  She waited until she was sure Momo was downstairs, then took out her phone and dialled Taku’s number. He picked up after three rings.

  —Can I come live with you? she said.

  —What?

  Taku’s voice was muffled. She could hear something in the background — a television, perhaps.

  —Momo doesn’t want me here anymore.

  —Did you have a fight with her or something?

  —She said she doesn’t want me living here anymore and I have to be out by tomorrow.

  A pause.

  —I just don’t see what you want me to do. Hold on—

  Miyabi waited.

  —Yeah, back.

  Miyabi walked over to the window.

  —Do you love me? she asked.

  Taku stopped again.

  —I’m in love with Manami.

  —Well, can you pretend?

  —I don’t think that would be what you want...

  —Why? What’s the difference if you pretend to love someone or not? Can you really tell the difference?

  There was a click. The background noise was growing louder.

  —What is that? Can you turn that down?

  I’m sorry, Taku said. I was kind of busy just now — but yeah, I’m not sure what to tell you...

  Miyabi listened to the silence on the line.

  —So, I don’t know where I can go then. I guess no one cares about me, so I’ll just die, then.

  —Come on, what are you talking about... you’re blowing this way out of proportion...

  —I’ll probably never see you again. Unless you come over here now.

  —What are you—

  Miyabi hung up.

  She’d left the heater on, she remembered. She could feel it by the bed, numbing her foot. Flicking off the switch, she rubbed her toes with her other hand, feeling the uneven points of her nails. How long had it been since she’d last painted them?

  She locked the door and turned off the lights. There was darkness then, except for the window: the shapes of her table, bed, and dresser stood out in the faint glow from the screen. She went to the window and opened it, feeling the rush of the night wind. It should be snowing, she thought, but it wasn’t the season. All she saw were lights, distant buildings — a haze in place of the sky. She stood for a long time with her eyes closed, feeling the wind against her face and the curtains brushing her shoulders. There was no rain, but she could smell a dampness somewhere. Further on there were cars; their headlights lit up like flares in the dark at the edge of her lashes.

  As she stepped over the sill, past the railing and onto the ledge, her bare feet were the first to feel the cold. They landed on the ledge ahead of her, and she realized the source of the dampness. A puddle had collected at the base of the ledge. From what? she wondered. It hadn’t been raining.

  She heard a telephone inside — not hers though, it had to be downstairs. After a few rings it stopped and she closed the window behind her. There was enough space on the ledge for her feet, little more. She pressed her back to the window and waited, imagining herself falling asleep on the ledge.

  After a while she thought she heard someone calling out to her, but the distant traffic swallowed the sound.

  She looked down. Momoko was standing next to Taku on the street looking up at her. There was another girl with her in a black winter coat. Miyabi caught her eyes and looked into them. It was the first time she’d seen Manami. She was tall. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, her expectation was confused and marvelous. Her long hair drifted behind her.

  Miyabi shivered. She’d stepped out of the puddle but could still feel the dampness numbing her feet. There was no need to move now; they’d come to her. She blinked and tried not to smile.

  Manami’s hair spread out in the night wind, its edges drifting into the circle of light cast by the streetlamp. From her angle, Miyabi could see it rising and falling, dropping straight until the wind caught it again. Only a ghost’s hair could be that light, she thought. But then it would fall down again, thickening, until hidden colors seemed to rise to the surface. Miyabi wondered if it had been dyed, but as it rose again, it shifted back to black. It was only when it fell that she saw it change, saw the faint shimmer of purple. She watched it trailing out as Momo and Taku called to her.

  Depending on the angle, it could change from purple to silver.

  The Garden of Sleep

  My father once told me the reason he has no friends is that he’s never met anyone as interesting as himself. Not that he’s ever done anything interesting, but I suppose that’s beside the point. If you have a garden inside yourself to tend, he told me, then it’s not necessary to concern yourself with other people. None of this prevented him from having children, but it’s no use crying over spilt seed.

  If there’s a garden inside me, it’s filled with weeds. I’m thirty years old but I feel like a child, a useless person who has never done anything. Not that I sho
uld complain — there are plenty of people like me. I could start a support group for us, if I had Makiko’s initiative. But I don’t. And anyway, I usually can’t stand other people. Maybe I’m not so different from my father after all.

  All I have is you, Ayumu — my girlfriend, or boyfriend, we haven’t decided which, although I know you don’t care about categories. The money has been sent, so there’s no need to read any further, if that’s all you care about. But I hope you’ll read to the end, and I hope you can forgive my self-pity — I’ve always been too sensitive, as I’m sure you know by now.

  I should start at the beginning, before we met. Let me build up to that moment, so I can save my best memories for last. I promise this won’t take long.

  My family: there’s very little worth saying that I haven’t already told you. I said before that I was useless. This isn’t strictly true. I have a use, which is to remind Makiko of her own generosity. I exist as an extension of her, and so my desires can only be shadows of her desires. You are an only child, and so you can’t understand what it was like growing up in the shadow — as the shadow — of this sister. It sometimes happens that an entire family becomes a train behind one of its members. My father loved Makiko more than he loved me, and it was perfectly reasonable for him to do so. Compared with her I have no special talents, no special intelligence. I was born too late, an accident really, and my father, against his best instincts, allowed my birth as a kind of gift. My mother, you see, had always wanted a boy, and so I became something to keep her occupied, a kind of toy, no different, really, from one of those loathsome little dogs of which you’re so fond. Most of my early memories are of following her around department stores and shopping centers while she tried on items she couldn’t afford. The sales assistants, always scrupulously attentive, doubtless recognized her kind: the perpetual underfunded browser. Instead of buying anything for herself, she wasted my father’s savings on designer clothes for me. Already a middle-aged woman, she was recapturing her youth by dressing me as if I belonged in a magazine, expressing herself through her child’s wardrobe — a really terrible kind of vanity.

  Since Makiko had already proven herself as the intellectual head of the family, the one who would be sent to cram schools and supplementary classes, I was left to my mother’s devices. Somehow she decided I would do something refined, and so I was put through violin and piano lessons and taken to auditions for commercials and small television spots. None of this nonsense amounted to anything. I am a hopeless violinist, a technically skilled but unexciting pianist, and I lack something essential to all actors, which is a center, a sense of certainty — perhaps poise is the word — which allows viewers to be moved by lines which would bore or appal if read on paper. A thoroughly untalented boy, I struggled to adapt myself to my mother’s image of me. Most of my childhood was wasted in this fashion.