Somebody will cry for you
If you must give up,
Someone will stop for you
If you must lose your way,
And I will only hold on for so long,
If you must forget...
This is the underground. The "end", as those who live above ground would like to call it. In other words, a point where those who have sunk so low will hide their discreditable faces from the world. Where no one can possibly find happiness.
Or so they think. I float among the ethereal shadows, studying each visage that glides by in open wonder. No pity or pessimism is present in my soul as I mingle freely through the crowds. I am merely an innocent, free to tiptoe on the blurred lines of humanity.
And so passes each day, where I am referred to as "kumotta" - cloudy. Since I have no name anymore, I suppose that it's fitting. Nobody knows me well enough to say. Perhaps it is my presence? My appearance? My nature? I know for sure that it is not in reference to the sky, which is not by any means visible here. I have not even seen it in so many years, that it is difficult to remember.
But today is peculiar. I can smell an invigorating scent in the air, something foreign, something crisp. It is obvious that it has been kissed by the sun - not only to me, but to several of the shadows nearby. Although heavily fatigued, we perk up right away at the aroma, the small group dispersing through the darkened tunnel ways, in search of that hope, that infrequent spark of luck.
The only escorts I have are the echoes of my breathing and the shuffling of feet on the chilled cement. I have purposely wandered farther away than the rest at this position. This brilliant purity, standing as the prize, summons me - no, entices me. I am content, but I crave more. And the fragrance amplifies the more I hunger after it, taunting me with each step.
At last, I reach it. After what feels like an eternity of entranced wandering, I am finally here. I gaze up, a slight twinge of fear lingering in my throat, at the seemingly deserted stone steps before me. They lead up into the light, I know for certain. The only thing holding the illumination back is a dense door of cold metal. While I am curious to see if the outside world remains exactly as the day I left it, I shrink away. I cannot leave here. No one would want me there.
A smear of green skips up and down in my peripheral vision. Refusing to move out of distrust, I continue to observe the action out of the corner of my eye. Up. And down. Up. And down. The pattern follows the same basic movements. It remains unbroken, each toss and each catch in perfect synchronization. I feel mesmerized by the effortlessness it seems to exude.
Suddenly, the movement stops. Shoes make contact with the concrete. Shoes - someone is here who isn't supposed to. Maybe by accident, or for some specific issue to address with us, it doesn't matter. This is highly unusual.
"Hello?" The voice is deep, masculine, but cautious. It holds a slight hint of youth, almost hidden in the complete sound.
I refuse to answer. He is definitely here by mistake.
"Hello? What are you doing here?" He crosses in front of my face. His clothes are strange to me - a clash of casual and...something I can't describe. I don't believe I have been exposed to much of it before. The edges of his jeans are frayed, a collection of rings embellished with dark images like skulls are scattered among his fingers. Yet with his fusion of clarity and shade, like me, he clutches the green apple in his hand - not too tightly, but enough to ensure he will not drop it. It is not clear to me why this fruit is so significant to him. So I give in and ask.
"What...do you have that for?" I demand frailly, unused to using my voice. Lately, I haven't had much use for it.
He shrugs, holding it out to me. "Dunno. Do you want it?"
I eye the offering suspiciously, skeptical to his lax posture. The only part of his body not slumped is his arm - so confident, so blameless. After a few seconds of waiting, I snatch the apple, remembering its blissful aroma. A grin forms on his lips as I do.
"I'm Kiyoshi," he presents himself with a quick bow. "This is my first time in the area, really."
"Oh..." I comment helplessly, slowly realizing why he is down here. "I'm...uh..." Pausing, I struggle to come up with my previous name. Yet I cannot recall it at all. So I just use the next best thing. "Kumotta."
He does not reply immediately. Stillness hovers between us like an imperceptible fog, one that only I seem to be aware of. His posture is tranquil in this lack of sound, the faint resonance of his breath constant, smooth. But I tingle all over. I thrive off of unnoticed movement. If I cannot move, this silence has the right to asphyxiate me before I go insane.
Finally, he takes a step forward. My breath halts in my chest when I realize that he continues to approach me. Why does he advance, so fearlessly forward? Why is his stare magnetic, preventing me from hiding like I am meant to? Why is every thought running through my head merely a question?
I find myself staring at his outstretched hand. It is meant for me, but I refuse to believe that. All I can do is trace the faint lines of his palm with my eyes, wondering how soft they must be in real life. I want to feel for myself. Still, I know no more than this person's name - they know no more than what acts as mine. Where are the boundaries of "friend" and "stranger"?
"Come on, Kumotta - let's get out of here," he speaks in a low whisper, intently gazing at me. That same gaze dares me to accept his hand, an escape. To leave this "end" is what he offers. Could I truly do it?
Thunder sounds above in the distance, causing me to withdraw back. That is not the kind of world I want to return to. It doesn't matter if they banished me here. A storm can only mirror the conflicts I will find there.
"Kumotta...please?" His irises hold a distinctive depth of brown, while his countenance becomes more serious.
In that instant, the thunder seems less like it's directly above my head. The weather at the moment exists in the atmosphere beyond, too high up to be disastrous. Those paralyzing doubts I had before seep into the surrounding concrete as I inhale. My fingers are cool, longing for heat.
When I grasp his hand, I am no longer satisfied. I feel a new poison in disguise spread throughout my body. Starting with my hands.
- - -
Half-a-year has passed. Time blurs in fast-forward as I experience the events I was deprived of before. Discovery. Friendship. Impulse. Love. Anger. They all mesh together in a gray fusion that I cannot fully comprehend. The only constant is Kiyoshi, guiding me through this life. But I can tell he will not stay for long.
He sits at the cluttered kitchen table, holding a phone gingerly to his ear. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, his fingers playing absentmindedly with a couple of rings he has removed. A frustrated sigh escapes the room every so often. Though noticeable, that is not what I'm listening for.
I lean my head against the wall of the kitchen, trying to catch the conversation - yet there isn't much to catch. After six months, this is the single thing Kiyoshi will not tell me about. If it is that reserved, then I should be concerned. Our balance of openness is threatened, which is what keeps me alive.
"No...it's not a problem. Yes, yes, I understand."
The fragmented statements make little sense to me, but I can read the tone clearly: he must do something that he is reluctant to.
"Oh, please - it wasn't like that!" His harsh response makes me flinch, clinging to the wall to remain silent. "Fine, I will! Just leave me alone!"
And the phone is slammed against the table. Its reverberation is chilling, immobilizing me with anxiety. My legs shake uncontrollably, but I cannot order them to stop. A second later, I slide to the floor.
When he emerges from the kitchen of our apartment, I do not glance up. He takes a seat on the floor next to me, rubbing fatigue out of his eyes. The only exchange between us is air, nothing else. I can find no words to give him, no contact that will hide the modest amount of information I know along with my apprehension. He has no way to explain, no way to comfort me to soften the blow of his news.
I knew the thunder was the end, even more so than the "end".
Still, we remain in each other's presence, savoring the basic sensation of having someone with a steady heartbeat nearby. Tonight will not end with a "good night" or a kiss on the cheek, like the many nights before it. It will be hushed, devoid of any form of touch - the way it may have always been intended from the beginning.
We leave the house early, before the sun has a chance to rise. He checks to see if I have all of my coat buttons fastened, as if I am a child once more. I do not argue with him at all. Instead, I prepare for the worst with a vacant expression concealing my true dread.
Our walk is detached, space evident between us as we stroll down the sidewalk. Barely anyone is out yet, let alone awake. Unlike usual, I struggle to keep up with Kiyoshi's long strides. He will not wait for me; that is clear. This disconnection is growing vastly and he has no desire to repair it at all. I feel powerless to it all. There is nothing I can do. Nothing he will do. Is it inevitable to let go so abruptly?
Everything that I have passed is lost in my memory now. We have reached our ultimate destination: the underground. This is where he found me. Where I knew that there was more to my life. But why have we returned? What is waiting for us here?
"Kumotta," he begins, pacing around with his hands in his pockets. His eyes are locked on the ground beneath. "I...can't keep you by my side anymore."
"That's silly - don't joke around, Kiyoshi!" I blurt out, disbelieving his words. Anything that will keep him close to me for just a while longer, I will do. The situation is particularly desperate.
He pauses, taking a glimpse over at me. I can tell the truth will come out at any moment, probably when I'm not prepared to brace for impact. "I'm not. I have a life to go back to - a fiancée to finally meet."
His statement chills my being. I was a distraction? An inconvenience? The accusation burns away at me inside, deteriorating every warm recollection I have. He saved me, only to dump me here again.
"I see." I answer briskly, unsure of what the next few seconds hold for us now. Will he leave it at that? Do I want to follow him against his wishes? Do I wish to give one last plea? "So...I was never really of any substance to you?"
That hideous deficiency of sound comes back to my ears once more, never feeling as toxic. It lasts for a mere four seconds - then his footsteps become faint. And I am immobilized to force myself to follow.
All I wanted was to live. It was impossible to imagine that the same angel who directed me into the light sent me plummeting into the darkness again. There is an empty sensation, a bitter regret for falling for a savior. The kind that makes me beg to forget.