July.
On the floor of a modern furnished apartment lay the salaryman; his white, fur rug gently tickling his nose. He clung tightly to one of the beige couch pillows, covering his face to block out the combination of ceiling lights and the sunlight beaming through from the sliding door leading to the balcony. His beautiful apartment floor was decorated with empty beer bottles and a bottle of fine sake lay sideways on his low table in the centre of the living room.
Suddenly, his cell phone’s alarm rang, tormenting him with loud bells begging for his attention and flooding his mind with the dread of having to spend the day at an office desk. He groaned, lamenting the night before and the day ahead.
“It wasn’t a dream.” A voice spoke.
“What wasn’t a dream?” The salaryman mumbled, still covering his face with the pillow.
“No matter how long you lie there, you cannot change reality.”
The salaryman threw the pillow at one end of the couch with as much effort as he could muster – which wasn’t much; the pillow just plopped lightly on the armrest, barely making a sound.
It took a second before he registered what had just happened.
He shot up, looking towards the couch; his stomach rumbled and he stumbled back, kicking an empty bottle in the process and sat on the low table, staring at the pillow laying on the armrest.
“Well, that sucked.” A voice mocked, causing the man’s head to whip towards the other end of the couch near the sliding door.
A figure sat there. He had one leg folded over the other, the back of his left knee resting on his other knee, with his gloved hands placed on his lap, fingers interlaced. He wore the common black Japanese schoolboy garments but modified with a white stripe on each side of the collar leading down along the shoulders then cutting off at the deltoids, then again on down the sides of the torso through to the sides of the black pants and cutting off at the ankles where polished dress shoes clothed the feet. A mask replaced the face of the figure; it was white, had two slight indents to suggest eyes, two small slits to suggest a nose and a strange symbol on the forehead – a pyramid with an eye at its centre. Behind the mask, straight black hair was tied in a way resembling the samurai topknot. This strange figure was tall and thin, even seated, the lanky limbs gave the impression of a freakishly tall creature one would find in a horror story.
“H-how did you get in my house?” The salaryman muttered to the figure with an oddly perfect posture.
“How long do you plan to pretend that it didn’t happen?”
“Wha-What are you-“
The figure slowly lifted his right hand, the white gloves wrinkling at the seams as his index finger rose and pointed to a large brown envelope just behind the man. The salaryman looked at the envelope, then back at the figure.
“I…that’s right…” the salaryman mumbled to himself, placing his head into his hands as flashes of the day before flooded his mind.
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It was just an average Thursday afternoon when the salaryman stood before his manager. It wasn’t like the salaryman to ask for favours from his boss, he was generally reliable, but today he had an urgent appointment. Begrudgingly; the short, stumpy manager let him off for his appointment and told him to take the rest of the day off – to make his dissatisfaction clear. The salaryman had planned on returning to the office as he left the cold grey hallway that lead him to the front desk and eventually out into the streets of Ōsaka, Japan.
On the train, he planned all kinds of ways he would earn the favour of his boss and regain some of the lost respect. He made sure to consider how to do so in a manner that wouldn’t cause any friction with his colleagues. He found it: when they were to visit the manager’s favourite izakaya, he would make sure to buy the most expensive bottle of sake for the whole table. With a sound plan and a determination to make up the hour and a half he would miss due to the appointment, he stepped off of the train and made his way to his destination.
Minutes later he sat in an office with a bespectacled, balding pale man with a short, grey beard. His white lab coat, covering a brown suit, and the stethoscope around his neck completed his ‘generic doctor’ style. He watched the computer monitor intently before looking at the salaryman, hesitating to find the right words to deliver his findings, finally he found them;
“I’m glad you came back so soon, I’m sure my secretary told you it was urgent. Yes, well, you see… In your last routine check up we caught something troubling. Well, perhaps it’s better if I show you.”
The old man slid papers across the table one by one as he spoke; “It was hidden deep within your brain and so we missed it before…
…But when we investigated further that patient…
…If we had caught it sooner then perhaps we…
…One year, if we’re lucky…”
“-Excuse me, what?” The salaryman interrupted. He glanced over at the clock on the wall behind the old man, realising that he had missed the last 20 minutes of the doctor’s long explanation. “One year?”
The doctor sat back, understanding the situation;
“I know it’s stressful, but I need to make sure you understand what I am saying; you’re dying.”
The annoying sounds of overbearing bells screamed from the salaryman’s mobile phone once again. He looked up at the couch – the figure was gone. He sat, stunned, attempting to grok the situation. He swivelled to his left then to his right before looking back at the empty space on the couch,
Where did he – wait, was I really speaking to someone? Could I be…no, I’m fine, I just…
The breeze from the balcony cooled his overheating, hung over body. He looked over at the open sliding door,
Was that always open? No, it was-
Before his mind could sink any deeper in thought, he was jolted by the loud bells once again, crying out for his attention.
He got up and attended to his phone before preparing himself for another long day at the office. He entered the bathroom and gazed into the mirror. His short black hair usually formed a fringe, but this morning, each individual strand of hair fought for its independence, pointing in every direction possible. His slanted brown eyes and light olive skin ensured that he would never stand out in Japanese society, a truth he had once disliked as a child. Even to this day, the only thing he enjoyed about his face was the small mole under his left eye that gave him a slight taste of uniquity.
The next 30 minutes were a master class in muscle memory. With his brain barely active; he brushed his teeth, washed his face, put on fresh clothes, combed his hair, scented himself with body spray, organised his files into his brown leather satchel and headed out of the door – blending into the sea of salarymen who flooded the streets of Ōsaka.