by Anthology
Ayame still performs, sings, dances. But these days, they don’t even wait for dinner. They take her when they want to, wherever they please. You can taste the climbing anxiety and anticipation—the bloodlust with it, musk and iron, the taint one can’t be rid of. You fear for the women in the approaching village. Ayame’s wrists are often bruised. If you could see her hips, you are certain they would be too, but she just smiles and shakes her head. Doesn’t hurt me. You think your stupid human brutality can hurt me?
“Are you incapable of being hurt?”
“I wouldn’t give that away so easily, would I?” she says, amusement like a curling green leaf beneath her words.
***
One night, she has finished just her first two songs when Kenjirou asks her to stop. There is a pause while people wait for Taichou’s reaction, but he says nothing: arms crossed, mouth set. Kenjirou grabs the shamisen out of her hands. Her eyes widen, but she remains silent. He plays for a few seconds; someone else beats a rhythm with the bottom of his cup. After being spoiled by her music, the noise he makes is discordant—ugly.
“You know this game, don’t you?” Kenjirou slurs.
The tang of alcohol is suddenly alive in your mouth—but the pain in your chest is not due to poison. So this isn’t the method she uses. (Not enough blood, you think. Not enough pain.) Ayame slowly stands, and nods.
He plays, and she begins to sway—the movement can hardly be called a dance. Back and forth, her hands folding out, drawing in—then he stops, abruptly. She is caught in mid-step, and judders to a halt. Kenjirou laughs, and everyone laughs with him. Expressionless, she unties the sash from her obi, and drops it to the ground. The music begins again. This time she freezes perfectly when it stops; but when Kenjirou says “Hey!” she obligingly sheds her kimono.
Soon everyone is pounding out the beat with their hands or cups. Kenjirou yodels a tune as he strums her instrument. There is no paint on her body to match her face, but there is something unnatural about the paleness of her breasts, her limbs. You are only sure it is her bare skin because of the way she shivers, and how painful it looks where the blues and blacks are stippled red.
“Akira! More sake,” Taichou says. The game continues, and with it, the jeering and panting, growing more animal-like.
“You should join her,” Gengoro mutters. He has come up behind you; one hand seizes your hip so that you freeze. “This game isn’t supposed to have only one player. Or would that ruin it?” For the first time in years you feel the sharp edge of danger again—the bottomless shame, your powerlessness, the desire to damn survival and recover some of your pride. I’m angry all the time, she said—but there are no traces of it on her face now, eyes patiently distant while someone throws a cup at her and misses.
You turn to face Gengoro and let him crush his lips against yours, drag you against his body. This doesn’t hurt me, you think—but you aren’t like her. Even as the catcalls behind you grow louder, as Taichou bellows out a terrible laugh, as the sound of cloth tearing makes you grit your teeth—you are aware of the trembling in your hands, how you have no blades or claws. How you long for this story to close at the end of winter. How the first touches of spring are still not showing through; how they may never show for you.
***
The following night, she tugs on your robe and puts her hands against your chest, saying, “It’s cold, cold, cold, it’s so cold.” It’s the most desperate you’ve ever seen her, eyes huge and wide as a child’s. And she’s only a child, really—though how many times has she been a child, you don’t know. You’re only a child. You’re like two rabbits sitting terrified in the midst of everything. But she’s no rabbit, she’s a wolf, she’s biting off your long ears and you let her because she looks so much like you, and it’s freezing. You wrap your arms around her and tell her to go to sleep. She makes this sound, a nothing-whisper, and huddles against you like she might understand your heart. You’ve done this before. You were here before: someone’s arms around you, and you couldn’t protect him, and he was waiting inexorably for death to claim you both, because the fire didn’t that first time.
“What was his name,” she whispers.
“Kaoru,” you whisper back. “He was never really the strong type. We couldn’t save each other.”
Only when he held you. Only when they’d brought the cane across your hands too many times, and you thought maybe this is what all older brothers do: stand by, do nothing, just kneel by you when it’s all over, hold your head and weep.
Ayame shifts to face you. “Would you save someone now, if you could?”
There is an alien note of pleading in her voice. You can’t bear it. “Of course.”
“Then destroy me,” she says. “That’s all I ask. I’ve been searching many years for someone who can. It hurts just as much for me, only there is no end in sight.”
Sorrow pierces like a knife through your chest. Slowly, you close your hands around her neck. Your heart beats slow and steady. You push your thumbs down, feeling her pulse, the movement of her throat as she swallows.
“I can’t,” you say, ice inside you, everywhere. “I’m sorry. I’m not strong enough.”
Her hands rest over yours, carefully. “It’s all right,” she says, disappointment mingling with resignation. “Death wouldn’t keep me long, anyway.” She rests her head on your chest. Next to her warm body, you feel frozen. “You’re kind, Akira-kun. I won’t ask it of you again.”
***
The village is already burning when you enter. When will you stop being broken by the sight, the sound, the sorrow of war? You are twelve again, being embraced by Kaoru and he doesn’t tell you to be happy, he doesn’t even tell you goodbye. He just tells you to live. It is the sweetest parting message in the world. Or this, perhaps: crackling fire, orange against the snow.
Taichou tells everyone to grab what they can, no need for niceties here. Spot the enemy, find those bastards. Again, Ayame is forgotten. It’s strange how she leaves their minds when they aren’t hurting her, but not strange enough. Not wrong enough. You’re tried of trying to reconcile the halves of your heart; you can no longer lie to yourself. So you don’t stop her, you don’t do anything, when she emerges from where she was asked to stay put, brings out her instrument, and starts to play.
The next few scenes do not make sense. They do not happen in order. They perhaps do not happen and your eyes, witnessing, are traitors.
A little girl stumbles out of her house, blood streaming down her face, crying, and sees the oiran.
Someone, unseen, opens fire. Gengoro next to you falls on his knees, blood erupting from his chest.
You hear yourself shout—the same time Taichou does—for everyone to get down, hit the ground.
The little girl runs for Ayame—anything that is female, human, mother, mother, you almost hear her think—and Ayame lets herself be hugged, hugs the girl back, bending forward, her sleeves billowing out.
You leap over Gengoro’s body, duck behind the façade of a house, sight along your rifle. You don’t see any attackers. You realize it might not be bullets, flying through the air.
In the oiran’s arms, the little girl flops backwards. Her eyes are glassy, her mouth slack.
This is it, you think, this is when I know for sure—
Ayame pulls out her koto and Taichou points his rifle at her, shouts at her to fall back, what the hell is she doing, and she yanks off the strings. You remember the strange gash on Kazushige’s throat and everything slowly, beautifully, clicks into place. That can’t be the only thing. As if to prove your point she reaches into her sleeve and, with the practiced grace of swans, draws out her fan. (You never wondered whether it might be steel.) The sharp edge she launches goes straight for Taichou’s throat, and instinctively you make a move to run for him, knock him out of the way.
You don’t make it. You weren’t expecting to. His eyes, in that final moment, are luminous with hate, betrayal.
“Cursed,” he manages to
spit. His gaze lingers on you as he dies.
Your body doesn’t know which direction to move toward. Are oni pouring out of the mountains, or is it just her, the little girl now fallen from her grasp, all the other men turning with bewilderment and terror to witness Taichou bleeding out on the snow?
“Akira-kun,” she calls. She doesn’t need to shout. Her voice carries over the snow—her voice, your home. “Akira-kun, run away!”
(Kaoru said: There is no leaving this place.)
(Ayame said: I was told not to let anyone live.)
You could run. You could leave her. You can’t save her, after all.
You can’t save anyone.
Kenjirou appears from the other direction, takes in the scene, aims as she turns. Her chest explodes: crimson blooms on her navy robes, spatters the ground, spills out of her mouth. She falls on her knees, gasping.
The gunshot echoes endlessly in your ears; shatters something inside you.
Kaoru’s distorted breathing. Tamakoto’s eyes flicking away. Your hands against Ayame’s throat. It hurts, she said. How she must suffer, alone and filled with hate, swallowed by blood and oaths and the fact of an existence that doesn’t end. You’re the only one who understands, who knows—and you can’t leave her now.
You will lend her your blades, your hands, your hate—however weak and blunted.
A cry of fury escapes her lips, blending with their cries of terror, as she stands. You raise your rifle and shoot Kenjirou in the head.
***
“Do you remember mother’s favorite song?” you ask Kaoru. You are lying on his lap, looking up at his face. It is a summer afternoon like the one so many years ago, when you bought a demon’s mask. A dragonfly darts in and out of the window. Across the street, the faint banter of oiran and their kamuro can be heard.
“Of course,” Kaoru says. “How could I forget?” and he opens his mouth—
***
This dance is one you’re familiar with, but it’s still far too much like a dream. How a body falls, stiff and awkward. How the world sounds when you are moving too quickly through it, pulling the trigger again and again. You like the way she kills better. There are spinning stars in her sleeves that can gouge out a man’s eyes. She has pulled off her oiran robes and is now clothed like a kunoichi, and moves as one too. She doesn’t let herself get shot again; your bullets are too slow for that.
She was born in a village, but much longer ago her father was born on these mountains. The oni don’t need to reveal themselves to be seen; they are drifting out now, as a bullet punctures your stomach, and another smashes into your shoulder. Out of the corner of your eye, Tennosuke’s blade flashes. You dimly register the pain in your side as you thrust your own sword through him.
It’s almost like the snow has covered the world just for this purpose: to be stained red, red against orange fire, against the somber blue of a uniform that marches for no one.
You were going to establish the new era. You were going to kill in the name of unity. You were going to walk on and buy the freedom of your brother, hold the demon in your arms, because that’s all you want, and together you will listen to her song, and talk about what it’s like to live and die in a floating city. Tea the taste of salt. The smell of sex permeating everything, layered over with incense. Lips pressed tight: a collective of broken promises.
Ayame shouts your name as you slip onto one knee. The sudden silence is strange and sweet. In its melody your own heartbeat sounds too loud.
She comes before you and lays her hands on your head, like a blessing. The ghosts of all things, flowing back. She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smile. (You don’t know why you thought she’d enjoy it.) Her hands cover your eyes, cover your mouth, and you kiss her palm. When would this be all right? If the world stopped being so white, for just a moment. If the snow didn’t fall. Then would you still be here, distended? Would you still be kneeling, alone with a demon you can’t bear to leave, a demon who wanted you to live?
“I can’t bear it,” you say, into her hand. “Is this what it’s like?”
She sighs, and when you look in her eyes, they are cracked like glass. This is the human in her. The woman screaming as she gave birth. The snow-covered mountains. A song about wooden clog marks.
“Why didn’t you run?” she asks.
“You will live forever and I won’t.”
She doesn’t move. The grief on her face is a living thing. The steel in your body is heavy, but you feel weightless. You watch her face, waiting. Waiting.
Your eyes close when she leans forward. Her lips are snow; red snow. They taste like singing. Like blood. They are soft like the folds of Kaoru’s robes, where you nestled your head, wondering when the world would stop spinning. Burning. Everything white.
Winter will always remind you of that longing, recursive, in your chest. The last of your strength gives; she catches you as you slump, and pulls your head onto her knees. You lift a ragged hand and gently cup her face. You don’t ask if she’s satisfied. That’s a stupid question.
“Tell Kaoru, if you ever find him—I’m sorry. Tell him—this story closed at the end of winter.”
She nods. There are icicle-tears in the corners of her eyes that don’t fall. Your hand slips. She catches it and grips, hard, whispering: “I wish I could be reborn into a world with you in it.”
Do you love me, you think, but you can already hear her reply: I wouldn’t give that away so easily.
Instead you ask, “What was that song?”
Her fingers brush your hair. Something wet lands on your cheek—demon tears, or melted snow. The dark encroaches as she starts to sing: “Yuki no asa, ni no ji…”
Good Girls(Short story)
by Isabel Yap
Originally published by Shimmer Magazine
This story contains scenes dealing with suicide and violence relating to infants, which some readers may find upsetting.
You’ve denied the hunger for so long that when you transform tonight, it hurts more than usual. You twist all the way round, feel your insides slosh and snap as you detach. Your wings pierce your skin as you leave your lower half completely. A sharp pain rips through your guts, compounding the hunger. Drifting toward the open window, you carefully unfurl your wings. It’s an effort not to make a sound.
You’re a small girl, but it’s a small room, and though your boyfriend is snoring you can’t risk being caught. You look back at him, remembering how he’d breathed your name a few hours ago, pouring sweat as you arched beneath him—Kaye, baby, please. You wonder if he’ll say it that way when you eventually leave.
The half you’ve left behind is tucked in shadow: gray, muted pink where your intestines show through. The oversized shirt you’re wearing hides the worst of the guts that hang from your torso as you glide into the sticky night air. You suck in a deep breath as the living bodies of your housing complex flood your senses. A girl sobs in her bedroom while her father hammers at the door. A pair of elderly foreigners lie in each other’s arms. A stray dog licks its balls outside the iron gates while a security guard dozes in his cramped sitting room.
Manila is a city that sleeps only fitfully, and you love it and hate it for that reason.
***
The first thing taught at the Bakersfield Good Girl Reformation Retreat is the pledge: “I’m a good girl. A good girl for a good world. And while I know it is not always easy to be good, I promise to at least try.” The girls are made to repeat this three times at orientation, and one girl seems moved enough to shout “Amen!” at the end. Or she could be mocking it; Sara can’t tell. The girls on either side of her are listless, mouthing the pledge without care or conviction. One scratches her knee then digs underneath her fingernails, puckering and unpuckering her mouth like a goldfish. Sara suspects she’s wearing a similar expression. She frowns and squints at the clear blue California sky, the same one from the home she was just forced to leave.
Afterward they’re herded onto the field for phy
sical exercises and split into groups. Sara’s group starts running. She quits on the second lap out of five, short of breath and thinking nope, not worth it. She jogs off the field and is trying to disappear someplace when Captain Suzy, who is in charge of PE, catches sight of her. Captain Suzy frowns and starts heading for her, except the flag football team erupts in a hair-snatching free-for-all. Captain Suzy surges into the brawl and flings girls away from each other, so that by the end mud and grass is strewn everywhere and more than one girl has fainted from the heat.
Later, Sara learns the fight was because of a butterfly knife that someone had snuck in and stupidly showed off. Lots of girls wanted it.
They’re given Exploration time after lunch, with the stern reminder that they have to be prepared for Group Sharing (4:30 PM), followed by Journals (6 PM) in their respective rooms before Dinner (7 PM). After leaving the dining hall, Sara surveys the abandoned schoolhouse where all Good Girls are forced to stay. It’s mostly dusty classrooms with chalkboards. Tiny white bugs swirl in every sunbeam. Most chairs and tables are child-sized, and colored mats cover the floor. A mesh-wire fence circles the entire yard, and past it, a tall rusted gate. Beyond them lie endless fields, roasting under the sun. The fence is too tall to climb, and Sara is neither agile nor motivated. She heads back to her room and decides to Explore her bed.
***
There are meals all over the Metro, so many routes to explore. You’ve mapped them out over years and months of nightly travels: countless delicacies, different treats for different moods. The only difference is your start point, your end point. You never last more than a few months in the same place. You always need to find someone new to take you in—to believe you’re human, just like them.
Tonight your hunger is confusing. You don’t know what you want, what will satiate you. You decide to start upscale and work your way down, so you veer toward the part of the city with its lights still on.