A Darkly Beating Heart

by Lindsay Smith

  “You’re lying,” he said.

  I shrugged. “You can ask them yourself.”

  He grabbed me by the throat. “Liar. You’re a fucking liar.” His hand shook as he squeezed. “You didn’t. Admit it, you wouldn’t do that. I’ll—I’ll tell them about your ex-girlfriend—I’ll tell them everything—”

  “What do I care?” I asked. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “They can’t own me.” His gaze narrowed. “You can’t own me. No one can.”

  “You keep telling yourself that.”

  I locked the door to my guest bedroom and slept wonderfully. At long last, I was not the problem child. But when I got up in the night to use the restroom, I found him with potassium cyanide—homemade; he knew his organic chemistry—trying to burn a hole through his trachea.

  Isn’t it wonderful, revenge? Miyu asks. The crowds part for us as we approach the square. Retribution will set you free. Your tormentors deserve it, as do mine.

  I want to agree—to feel the sword plunge into resistant flesh, to see the look on Akiko’s face when I put an end to her selfish cruelty once and for all. But when I try to picture it, all I see is Hideki, plugged with all those tubes. I feel his hand around my wrist once more. He tried to speak to me, but the plastic down his throat made it impossible (to say nothing of the partial hole there). So he wrote it down.

  We’ve always been two snakes, biting each other’s tails. Isn’t it time we called a truce?

  Truce. Hah. I’m just as angry now as I was then. But the image nags at me; I hadn’t stopped, at the time, to wonder what he meant. Biting each other’s tails—no beginning or end. No knowledge of who started it. No way to make it end without destroying us both.

  My arm starts to sag; the sword is so heavy. I guess I’ve always known we would destroy ourselves. I guess this is the natural path toward our destruction.

  We must vanquish our tormentors. My fellow villagers and the samurai who betrayed me. Your friends and family.

  Yes, I think, with an eager sigh. Yes. She’s right—of course she is. Why did I question it? The perfect end to our journey.

  And you, Reiko … my cruelest tormentor of all.

  I hesitate. What does she mean? I thought we were a team. I try to slow down, but my muscles are no longer my own. Miyu keeps us moving forward.

  You didn’t think you were blameless in this, did you? Her laughter scrapes through me like a rusted spoon. Yes, Reiko. Of course you’re at fault. You found my magatama in the woods—the home of my spirit. You thought you could claim my life without consequence.

  But—but she wanted me to find her. Didn’t she? That’s why I’m here. United by our rage. Destined to seek vengeance together. My stomach twists. Miyu’s my kindred spirit, helping me achieve what I’ve only dreamed about. We’re meant to do this together. Aren’t we?

  Oh, we are. But one of us must be destroyed by our act of vengeance.

  Miyu laughs.

  And it’s certainly not going to be me.

  I try to let go of the sword, but my fingers are locked into place around its grip. No. I’m supposed to be in charge, getting my revenge. (Is it revenge? Or am I the one who started it?) I want to scream, but my throat has melted away; my jaw is caked in blood. We are two snakes, biting each other’s tails. Where does one payback end and another begin?

  It ends here, with me trapped inside Miyu—or her trapped inside me—and I’m helpless to watch as she makes her way toward the festival stage, sword blade glinting in the afternoon light.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  One of the festival workers chases after us, clattering along in her wooden sandals. “Miss, please come back here. You are not permitted into the crowd with any decorative weapons! Miss! Miss!” But there’s no stopping us. She is a spirit of vengeance and I am her vessel. The woman snags me by the dangling sleeves of my kimono, but Miyu shoves her off of us easily, snarling, raising the sword in warning.

  Franco’s number is winding down on stage—Akiko is next, starting with a joint duet. Miyu’s going to use me to kill her. Kill as many people as I can. I thought it’s what I wanted, too. Revenge. But she’s right about one thing—revenge is a cycle, and it’s impossible to know where it begins. Now I’m helpless to watch as Miyu continues our own circle of violence. I wanted this. Oh, God, I let this happen.

  Distantly, I hear the shuffle and shout of the historian from the honjin and of Mr. Onagi. “Stop her! Miyu is back!”

  I try to scream, but my own throat shuts me down. My hands betray me, clammy and sure on the sword’s hilt. Whatever they’re shouting now is lost in the rainstorm of applause for Franco as his number concludes. All I can do is watch.

  No. Wait.

  The moment I stop trying to fight Miyu, to take control of my body, the streets twist and the light shifts. It’s like I’ve varnished away a painting to find an older version hidden underneath. The colors of everyone’s clothing are softer, and the buildings, fresher. The tang of horse manure lurks beneath the heady mix of sake and fish stew.

  When I let go of the struggle, I fall back into Miyu’s life.

  I relax—and Miyu’s father and his co-conspirators are lined up on the dais before me.

  I test my hand—and find it obeying me. I drum my fingers forward, then backward against the katana’s hilt. Yes. Miyu may have control of my body, but I can control hers.

  If I can’t stop her in my world, then maybe I can in hers.

  Soldiers in tightly woven vests of plated armor surge through the crowd toward me; heads whip my way as everyone begins to talk at once. I only catch snippets, but they’re enough to spark my anger again—whore, liar, thief, ingrate. Let them hate me. Let them think what they will. Whether Miyu deserves it or not, it matters little to me.

  Yes, Miyu: I don’t care anymore about your suffering.

  The soldiers reach for me, but I keep my chin high and meet Goemon’s gaze. He’s scrutinizing me with those slimy lizard eyes of his, pursing his thick froggish lips noticing Jiro’s blood, still slick and not on my kimonu. Then he nods, ever so slightly, and lifts his hand.

  “Stand down,” he calls. The soldiers cease, only feet away from me. “Let us hear what the wench has to say for herself.”

  I close my eyes, briefly, just long enough to glimpse Miyu’s memories. I know how this scene played out for her: the rivers of blood. The wink of the sword as it slashed through the village, striking again and again. Tears mingling with red on her cheeks, sizzling against her hatred-hot skin. She carved through them indiscriminately, through children and women and men, and plunged her sword into her father’s chest.

  “All of you must pay,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “The shogunate. The daimyo. My family. Everyone is to blame.”

  She killed as many as she could before the samurai brought her down.

  I won’t let her do it again.

  Jiro’s katana clanks against the cobblestones as I let it slip from my hand.

  “What has become of our affirmations, the ones we swear before the kami?” I gesture toward Miyu’s father; he tugs against the soldier’s firm grip on his shoulder. “You have not honored me as a family member should. You never loved me. I’ve only been a burden in your mind—you blame me for my mother’s death. You let your resentment of me fester like scum in a stagnant pond.”

  The buzzing builds inside of me—Miyu is checking in. Stop it! Silence, you fool! she cries. Pick up your sword and give them what we deserve!

  But as she chastises me, I can see a glimpse of my world. So long as I distract her here, she can do nothing there.

  “The rest of you have shown me nothing but cruelty, and I have done my damnedest to repay you in kind. There is no reverence in Kuramagi, no respect for our fellow person. We show no honor here. No virtue.”

  But they made it that way, Miyu whines. It’s their doing. I was only returning the suffering they brought upon me!

  “And you, samurai, alleged servants of the shogun—
what of your code? What would the samurai of old think of your ways?” I snort. “You resent your station—errand boys for a clueless, ill-prepared young shogun who you freely acknowledge doesn’t deserve his post. You serve the shogun only when it suits you. You lie and you cheat.”

  “Mind your tongue,” Goemon shouts, but I mark how he takes a step back.

  “Would I be justified in seeking revenge against you all? Perhaps. And perhaps you’d be justified in cutting me down in return.”

  I’m shaking now; the buzzing presses against my mind like a ravenous horde. Miyu’s howls have turned wordless as she tries to force my hand. But I’m here now. This is for me to choose.

  “My hatred is … a physical thing. I’ve made it manifest, calcified it, condensed it like a stone.” I reach into my pocket. The stone is burning against my hand as I pull it out. “I wanted to make a weapon of it. A cursed instrument that would find revenge across the centuries.”

  NO! Miyu screams, a thousand voices echoing her own. We must fight them! They have to pay!

  “But it must end somewhere.” I raise the stone overhead with both hands. “I must have the courage to end it.”

  Once more, I glimpse into my world—I see Aki on stage, watching me with undisguised fear. But she is singing, struggling on as I climb the dais stairs. Back in Miyu’s body, I climb those same stairs and place the stone upon the altar, keeping one finger pressed against its edge.

  I lift one of the heavy gray altar stones and smash it against the black curved one as hard as I can.

  The stone cracks into three main chunks and a dusting of others. Miyu’s screams surge forth in a crackling black cloud, buzzing, swarming, spreading like wasps over the village square. The villagers scream and throw their hands over their heads to shield themselves. But I bask in it. The useless hissing Miyu makes, fades away, eroding into nothingness.

  As Miyu’s presence dims, so too does the scene before me. The villagers’ screams turn into Akiko’s pounding pop song, shaking the planks beneath my feet; their robes transfigure into hunchbacked retirees in quilt jackets, or stiletto-wearing trendsetters, or slouchy salarymen looking ill at ease in their off-duty jeans. The smells are shot through with frying oil and diesel and sweat as everyone screams and writhes. I stand in the wings of the dais, still clutching the sword.

  As the stage light I rigged begins to fall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Move!” I scream. “Get off the stage!”

  Aki shoots a death glare my way, but Kenji charges forward and pushes her out of the way. The light crashes to the stage with a fearful crack. Sparks, fire, all the kindling I’d placed—

  “The fire extinguishers,” I shout. “Behind the drum kit.”

  Kenji and Mariko find the extinguishers and start to douse the blaze. People are shoving back from the stage, still startled, unsure if the pyrotechnics are part of the show. But they manage to tamp it out. Aki is unharmed. Pissed, but alive.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Before I can answer, though, Mr. Onagi, the historian, and Sierra are surrounding me, seizing me by the shoulders and trying to pry my fingers from the sword hilt. “We are sorry, Miyu, but it is time for your fun to end. Lock her up. I’ll make the call.” The historian purses her lips. “She can’t walk freely.”

  “Wait. I’m not Miyu,” I cry. Not anymore. “I stopped her.”

  The historian’s grasp on my arm starts to falter. “That isn’t possible,” she says.

  Mr. Onagi nods, and they begin to haul me down the stairs. “I’m afraid we can’t take your word.”

  “She’s gone, I swear! It’s me! It’s over!”

  Mr. Onagi loosens his grip on me, but his anger is pulsating as he speaks. “You found that monster’s altar. You brought her back.”

  “You could have killed us all,” the historian adds. “We can’t let Miyu kill again.”

  “But I didn’t kill you all. I stopped her. For good.” I yank my arm free of her grip with a glower and dig in the pocket of my robe. “See?”

  I produce the fractured chunks of the black stone. It’s a medium shade of gray now, and cold to the touch; no buzzing. No whispers. No link to Miyu’s world. Only a rock.

  They look the rock over. “Her magatama,” the historian whispers. “Where did you find this?”

  “It was in the makeshift temple buried off of the path to the lovers’ shrine. I think the earthquake exposed it again,” I say.

  The historian and Mr. Onagi exchange looks. “We’ll have to verify it with the priests,” he says.

  The historian looks from the shattered rock toward me. “What did she do to you?”

  “She … she wanted me to repeat the cycle.” My voice falters.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to forget the way the buzzing felt, pulsing through my veins. I remember the feel of my dark and sickly heart. But I feel it no longer.

  I’m free. Kuramagi is free.

  * * *

  “I owe you an apology,” I say to Kenji, over our dinner of shabu-shabu at the ryokan. Mr. Onagi was none too pleased serving me, but apparently he and the rest of the village’s secret-keepers have decided to let the whole matter of Miyu drop, seeing as how I managed to destroy the stone so they will not be threatened by her again. So he can get the chopstick out of his ass.

  “For what?” Kenji asks, turning his head toward me so the others can’t hear.

  “I came to Japan to work out my personal demons.” Swish, swish goes my slice of raw beef in the hot broth. Shabu-shabu. “But I just ended up finding more.”

  Kenji’s brow furrows. “You worked them out in the end, didn’t you?”

  I’d explained what happened to Kenji. I owed the truth to him, at least—but I’m not certain he believed me. “Yeah.” I smile weakly. “I suppose I did.”

  Across the table Aki squeals, clutching her phone. “Suzuki wants me to do a photo shoot with her!” She has her arms around Tadashi’s neck. “Reiko, you let me down today, but I’m sure you can make it up to me.”

  I smirk. “I’m so glad you’ve picked a suitable punishment.”

  I’m expecting another epic rant from her, but she just smiles. “You’re weird, Reiko. But it works for you. You know, it’s kind of funny.” One corner of her mouth twitches up. “All my life, it was Reiko this, Reiko that. I was always intimidated by you.”

  “What, me? Not Hideki?”

  Akiko laughs. “My father has a lot more respect for the artistic types than your parents.” I’m stunned, but she adds, “But now I just know you’re weird.” Kenji raises his eyebrows at me as he picks up the sake bottle and tops off everyone’s glasses. My plate, I realize, is empty; it feels good to have the slightest hint of tightness in my belly from eating just enough food.

  Sierra brings dessert around—green tea ice cream—and offers me a scoop. “You doing okay?” she asks me in a low tone.

  I turn my face toward hers. She’s unafraid of me now. I no longer feel the buzz, the haze. I smile back at her, light as a breeze.

  “I think I’m ready to go home,” I say.

  * * *

  Back in Tokyo, I do a few more photo shoots for Akiko to earn the last bit of cash I need before returning to the States for the spring semester at RISD. Kenji and I spend our last few lunches together brainstorming on his comic book. “You really should try to get this published,” I tell him. “Unless you want to keep drawing cartoon collies slurping ramen for the rest of your career.”

  He shrugs. “I’d love to go to art school, get some discipline. The Japanese style is really rigid, though. No one wants to feature characters like this—they don’t fit the manga conventions.”

  “You could always go to RISD,” I say with a grin.

  “Right. Like I could afford that.” His cheeks are turning a deep, bruised shade; he stares down into his sushi plate.

  “There are plenty of scholarships. Probably some great ones for international students.” I tilt my hea
d as I flip through his sketchbook. “Or—or anywhere, really, in the States. Something to consider.”

  On the morning I leave, Akiko is supposed to accompany us to Narita Airport, but she and Tadashi get into a fight after she lands a spot on a Tokyo fashion program, and we never say a proper farewell. Live and let live, I suppose.

  On the plane, waiting to take off, I finally open the email from Hideki. Why did we do it, Reiko? he asked me. Why were we always at each other’s throats?

  There was always some score to settle, I reply at last. Revenge for revenge … the tally just kept climbing.

  His answer is waiting for me by the time we land.

  Let’s wipe it clean.

  I reach for my own wrist, to press that painful chord against my skin. But then I stop. Let my hands hang limp. Time to break the cycle.

  I head to RISD the very next week. At first, I’m angry that I don’t get a single room in the dormitories, and they stick me with a snotty ceramist who looks down on all modern Asian styles as overly consumerist and imperial, but she ends up spending most her time at her boyfriend’s apartment anyway, so I don’t mind so much. I can lose myself in my design work—a seamless blend of photography, digital design, and illustration, when I can work with talented illustrators in class projects.

  Hideki emails me every Friday morning, tells me how physical therapy is going. I send a drawing back. I feel safer with him this way.

  Sierra emails me toward the end of the spring semester to say she’s coming back to Connecticut to visit her family for a few weeks, and would love to catch up, though both our lives are probably way more boring now. Boring is good, I tell her. And we set a date to meet for coffee.

  I get another email, too, from an address I don’t recognize. The attachments contain a series of illustrated comics panels. A bony slip of a girl, her face fierce, her feet planted, her chin lifted to stare ahead. Kenji’s drawings—the character he based off of me.

  Your background art is shit, I tell him, in my email back.