There is something thrilling about running in the dark, full of adrenaline and anxiety, scanning frantically with your eyes, yet unable to see more than the next step ahead—if your eyes permit—or the thought that maybe, just maybe, something watches beyond your cloud of vision.
I'm no athlete, but the downhill leading towards Alison's neighborhood had me breaking my own physical capabilities. My strides were long, threatening to stumble—collapse onto the pavement, likely tarnishing my sketch of Alison.
I'm being irresponsible, no doubt, but I feel that I need this—
To shake off the unease that infests the back of my mind, like honey being poured over my brain, slow—heavy—difficult to absorb.
In the distance I can see her street; it's the only one with lights instead of lamps, for they can afford such luxuries here.
When I reach the bottom, now a walking distance from her street, I ease my stride into a light jog; sweat trickles down my neck—reminding me not to overdo it.
The streetlights welcome me into the neighborhood, their designs resembling that of the Western world, simpler, clean, and silver, and yet highly modernized.
Alison's mansion lies at the end of the street; beyond that is her back garden, which stretches until the verdant forest of Chichibu Valley.
I slow my jogging down to a leisurely walk, though nothing about this is relaxing. I had hoped that maybe the run might have quelled my nerves, but my heart swells—still, I can't have second thoughts.
Two houses down, I notice a gentle gray smoke escaping into the air by the mansion's gate. I strain my eyes toward the source—near the walking entrance stands a man I could recognize in a crowd.
He drops his cigarette as I approach the gate, stepping on it on the ground before picking it up and placing it in a glass dish on top of a round steel table—those for décor and birds to gossip on.
He walks to the gate, having full authority to open it for me, which he does—extending his hand and a polite, pristine smile.
"Mister Taka Yoshi, this is a pleasant surprise—what can I do for you?"
I accept his hand, though I can't confirm his grip due to the sleek black gloves he wears—though whether it's out of professionalism or fashion, I can't tell.
"Walter, sir, I'm glad to see you are well. I'm here to deliver a drawing to Alison. Is she asleep?"
He lifts his chin, giving me better lighting of his features—his eyes inquire with his wristwatch, though he has to pull back the sleeves of his black suit to have a clear view.
"The young lass is up and energetic as ever; with her new semester tomorrow, she's rather enthusiastic—in fact, I just finished revising Japanese literature with her just to silence her nerves," he says, rotating his view back to the mansion. Inside, there is evidence of much activity—with shadows moving behind the blinds of lit rooms.
I nod at this. It sounds like Alison—I can't imagine when she's not restless; even in class she has a fidget that she's attached to.
"She has a great tutor; her Japanese has improved greatly, and I no longer can compete with her in Mathematics, though I've never been decent to begin with." I chuckle to myself, trying to ease the deprivation gesture.
"Taka Yoshi, you flatter. Everyone has their own gifts; in fact, yours is tucked underneath that arm. Mind if I take a look?"
I nod, handing my sketch through the bars of the gate, though part of me is agitated—I hadn't wanted Hiroshi to see it—yet I'm dishonoring my own skepticism. Maybe it's Mr. Walter's accent weaved in with our local tongue; it leaves a foreign ring when he speaks—or maybe the honey within my mind dampens my reactions.
Walter was hired by Alison's mother when the Weddings lived in South Africa.
He shifts towards the light, both hands holding the paper with care—his eyes moving around the page before stopping dead in its tracks.
We stand there for some time, seconds going by—I use the time trying to find the thoughts withheld by his sunken eyes. His lips are hidden by a black mustache that refuses to show if he is smiling or just neutral.
Finally, he lifts up a hand—rubbing it against his cheek, the gloves shining slightly within the light hanging above the entrance gate door.
"Taka Yoshi, this is a fine portrait you've drawn here. It's not every day I come across such expressive…"
He stops, walks back over to the gate, and places his spare keys into the lock—within a few motions, he opens it and steps out.
I walk over; he gestures for me to enter—handing over the sketch when I'm inside the premises.
"I won't get ahead of myself. Give the lass that portrait you've drawn, but ensure she doesn't stay up too late—it's back to school for the both of you, and I expect responsibility from the both of you."
I nod reverently; his authority is striking, but I still muster some courage.
"Thank you, sir, I will do my part," I say, bowing slightly.
He nods approvingly. "Come, I'll walk inside with you. I'll see if I can help with Charlotte's things."
He begins to walk towards the front door, though it's some distance as we navigate the illustrious garden, which refuses to sleep despite the night and clouds gathering above.
"Is Miss Charlotte home?" I say, suddenly unsure if I should enter. She and I are on good terms—I've managed some conversations with her before, still I wouldn't want to overstep my ground.
"Don't get cold feet now, Taka Yoshi. Charlotte is fairly fond of you; I've seen it—she'd likely open her doors for you at any time."
He wipes his feet on the doormat; I decide to do the same, but I realize irritably that I've left my shoes over at the temple.
"Also…"
He says, turning the knob on the gigantic door,
"It's fairly rowdy at the moment."
To say that I felt out of place doesn't do it any justice. I've never gone indoors of the mansion; my occasional visits have always been outside.
There were staff running about in every which way, I'd look into one room and find three ladies busy with their duties, and in the lounge room, I'd see five busy replacing dirty covers and sheets.
Despite being the middle of the night, the house was busier than ever.
Walter notices my bewilderment.
"When Charlotte goes on her trips she becomes quite..."
His sentence is interrupted from behind us.
"Difficult," a tall stern man, silver all over, I recognize him instantly—for he is the tail of Alison during the school semester.
"Jovi, could you help locate Alison? Taka Yoshi over here has drawn an impressive portrait for the young lass," Walter says, maintaining his Japanese. I wonder if it's out of respect to me.
The butler remains with a sturdy and straight face. He glances in my direction—lifting his circular glasses with his hand—I note that he is also wearing gloves, though his are white.
"He is her classmate, yes? Couldn't he have waited for tomorrow?"
He asks, eyebrows raised. He drops his hand next to his waist, though he somehow manages to straighten his already perfect posture.
"The youth are energetic; it's a good sign for our future," Sir Walter says with a tugged smile. He remains positive for my sake, though it's clear that the head butler is intimidating him as well.
"It's a school night, Mr. Walter; I'd expect better professionalism from you—"
"Taka Yoshi!~"
The head butler's accusation is cut short by a wild blossoming cherry tree, who, with much excitement, runs over and grabs me into a hug—something she does when it's just us reuniting.
She holds me tightly for a second before letting go. I manage to gasp for air, and she giggles at my struggle.
Behind her, I see a replica, though she has had more seasons to flourish. I quickly bow my respects to her—Alison sulks at my formality.
"Come now, Jovi, the semester only starts tomorrow. Let the youth be young tonight," she says in a tone of leisure mixed with authority.
Alison gives her mother a smile before tugging my arm to go.
"My room's a mess, can we go outside?" she asks with wide-open eyes, every second contained inside the mansion making her more excited.
I nod her way, grateful for her proposal—despite how massive the indoors of her establishment is, I felt quite claustrophobic, my anxiety growing like roots threatening to hold me down.
"Miss Charlotte, thank you—I hope for your safe return," I say with a slight bow.
She nods my way; her gentle smile cuts away the roots of my anxiety.
"Thank you, Yoshi Taka—though I hope I can borrow Alison for a few more seconds."
I watch as the staff carry suitcases to the front door, designs of modern and refined textures patterned with scales and fur, yet more artificial than natural.
I nod quickly. "Take all the time you need, Ma'am."
We all make our way to the driveway, the staff placing her luggage inside a fairly small car like blocks of a puzzle—it's rather impressive how they manage it.
I learn, as I help move a heavy red polka-dot bag to the front passenger seat, that Mr. Walter has offered to take Miss Charlotte to the airport.
"All right, that seems to be it, Charlotte," he says, his accent thick this time, using his elbow to press the trunk down.
She nods before looking over at Alison, her eyes expressing that she already misses her daughter. It was only then that I realized Palmer was nowhere to be seen.
"You'll give the new semester all that you've got, okay, dear?"
She says with confidence mixed with a mother's worry.
"I'll give it 250%, Mother!"
Alison says with a huge smile before bursting into tears and racing towards her mother's arms for a final hug.
Charlotte consoles her daughter, stroking her hair gently in a slight hug, though she looks at Jovi—who returns their silent conversation with a nod.
With that, Charlotte gathers herself—and enters the car.
Alison opts for the park away from her residence down the street. Although I would have preferred we stayed closer to the house, I was just grateful that she amused this time.
"Yoshi Taka, tell me honestly—was I that breathtaking on the bridge?"
She says with a giddy expression, lifting her chin, intertwining her hands, and playing with her thumbs like a schoolgirl would, though she is a few hours early for that role.
"Well, I wouldn't say that exactly…"
"Huh!?"
She exclaims, placing her hands on each side of her waist respectfully, her expression dignified.
"Now now, Yoshi Taka, you don't have to be shy in front of me!"
She says it, but more to herself.
"It's not that!"
I say with more expression than intended.
"Then what is it, Yoshi Taka? What could you possibly have for a girl at this time?"
She says with a grin, closing the gap and leaning in closer—
I sigh under my breath; her mischief knows no bounds!
"I'll show you at the park," I say with a mumble. Maybe I should have waited for tomorrow.
She looks at the sketch tucked firmly under my arm.
"Now you really have me curious," she says, lamenting.
"Fine, be like that, but I won't look at you until I've seen it!"
She looks away from me and across the street from us.
"The park is still a distance away. You really want to be stiff all the way?" I say in slight disbelief. This girl is impossible when she doesn't have her way.
She doesn't react; there is no sign of giving up on her guilt-tripping.
"Alison…"
Still nothing.
"Alison, please."
She stiffens her arms, crossing them together.
"Hmph," she murmurs.
It had been rather unpleasant, the walk to the park—still, if she was going to be hard-headed, then so was I.
"You really didn't say anything to me?!" she says with tears trickling down her eyes.
"Yoshi Taka, you're so unfair!~"
Honestly, this girl—you'd think she had matured during the holiday!
We sit down by a bench, made of wood, though I can't tell which kind, for the streetlight could only shine so bright.
I take the sketch from under my arm, but before I can place it down gently, Alison grabs it away, holding it in front of her face with intensity.
I had wanted to see her reaction, but with how she held it, all I could do was wait.
And wait I did. My ears begin to ring from the silence; in fact, I feel as if the dark has begun to close in slightly.
I am tired of the waiting game. I reach out my hand, grabbing the top left corner of the sketch, and begin gently pulling it down onto the table, but what is revealed to me makes my heart ache.
Alison has tears streaming down her eyes. How I hadn't noticed before is unfathomable—her tears roll down her cheeks but refuse to break off at her chin, instead parting down her neck.
She has been holding her breath—or maybe it had been shallow.
Now that she can see me, she begins sobbing openly, wiping at her eyes frantically. I'll admit I don't know how to console her.
She continues sobbing within her shirt, pulling it up to her eyes as if it were a tissue.
My own breath hitched—I can't understand what is happening.
I just sit there, useless and unsure.
What should I do?
Nothing.
I wait for her—and in time, her breathing steadies.
"I'm sorry, Yoshi Taka," she chokes, her voice shaking, her voice a struggling breath, her eyes buried within her shirt.
I place my hand on the wooden table, my palm open—showing support, though I'm not sure if that's what she needs.
She drops her shirt, her eyes red from the struggle.
She looks at my hand and reaches out for it, squeezing it.
Her pain flows through me not because it hurts but because I suddenly feel like I'm understanding her—none of this makes sense to me.
We sit there in silence for a few seconds, my own throat closing slightly—my emotions finally registering. However, I remain in control but with much strain.
"You never cease to impress me, Yoshi Taka."
She says it with much meaning—forcing her words to be steadier, trying to look me in the eyes, but her brows reveal the struggle.
"I'm going to have that portrait framed—" she vows, her hands squeezing tighter as assurance.
"I've never seen myself in such a way, but now that I have, it's like…"
She stops, her eyes looking towards the clouded sky as if searching for clearance.
"It's like I was able to see myself, past, present, and future—it was so nostalgic that it hurts, Yoshi Taka."
"How do you do it? How do you see such beauty, such tragedy in the world?"
Her eyes begin trickling again, though I wonder if it's just her coping with all these emotions.
"How did you do it?"
She repeats, looking back down at me.
I shift on the bench, moving closer to the table.
I thought having to explain would be difficult—how I drew her—but my mind is clear.
"I remembered the sparrow and all the times you were there for me. When I drew you, it all felt…"
I look at my other hand as if holding the word—yet I can't believe that I'm being honest about what I saw when I drew her.
"I was being honest."
I'll admit it felt corny; it really did—but Alison didn't view it that way.
Her quivering lips turn into a smile.
She wipes another tear that threatened to escape the corner of her eye.
She looks at the drawing again, though I can't help but feel that she is collecting herself.
A smile surfaces, her posture straightens, and her hand returns to her lap.
"I wish I had her hair."
She says, though her tone is lighter than before.
"Well, it's possible. I mean, she is you."
She giggles at this, her hand tracing her own blonde hair.
Then silence, as if the air promises something important.
"~Yoshi Taka…"
Her wild nature is returning, her tone reshifting back into the one I had heard earlier in the mansion when she greeted me.
"Let's open our own club tomorrow in the new semester."
I was surprised at her sudden vision; however, I couldn't doubt her sincerity—her eyes painted with red-pink still shone with that sparkle, which now has been engraved on paper.
"It will be a club for art—an art club!"
"I thought our school already had one."
I wasn't trying to diminish her idea, but I wasn't following her sudden shift in mood.
"Yes, because we're going to run it. It will have a new club room—I'll buy all the equipment and…"
Her eyes are full of energy, full of excitement.
"Alison…"
I say calmly.
I look straight in her eyes—drawing her attention back to the bench.
I try to approach this gently.
"If you are doing this for me, then stop—"
"You dummy, I'm doing it for myself."
Tears begin streaming down her face again—and yes, I feel terrible.
"I've never done something that I didn't want to do. I want to have a place where I can go to and just—be me, and you said you wanted an artistic realm, remember!?"
She points at the drawing on the bench, the sketch of her.
"I want you to be able to find more of this. I want the whole of Japan to see it, and I want to be there every step of the way! —and."
She stands up from her chair.
"You can't convince me otherwise!"
She says it with a serious, watery face—her face painted with a pinkish-red that is only radiant by the streetlight, finally doing the night justice.
I realize for a brief moment that I too am glowing red—yet,
It's not embarrassment; I'm touched.
"Then I won't. Instead, I'll support this dream—for it is now my dream! Starting tomorrow—no, starting now—my dream is to start a new art club, one where you can be your honest self."
I hadn't raised it yet, but I was standing now too.
Alison grins at my sudden passion—at my sincerity.
She reaches out her hand again, though it floats in the air; her pinky extends—it honestly looks so silly, but she does it with such fierce belief.
"Pinky promise that you won't back out—that you'll see this through to the end."
I look at her hand with little contemplation.
I reach out my good hand, my left hand, and I seal our pact.
Her grin turns into a gentle smile.
"Yoshi Taka, thank you—I'm so glad to have a friend like you."
My heart trembles.
It's a miracle how I'm holding myself together.
Will I ever know another genuine and pure person in my lifetime?
Though I'm shameful, unable to return her honesty, I can only hope that she understands I'm grateful for her as well, that she has brought so many sunrises into my bland life.
We decided to end it there, parting ways with a gentle but meaningful hug.
It wasn't embarrassing—I think it has to do with the emotional connection we just shared, but whatever it is, it has now fueled me with a renewed ambition, one that can be described as fire on a mountain.
Alison insisted that she'd walk herself back, saying she wanted to calm herself down for Jovi's sake and that if I were with her, she'd probably get all emotional again—whatever that logic is.
"A lady needs a breather; can't have it all exciting," she recites from something foreign as she waves me goodbye.
I wave back with a grin—nothing special; it just felt the most natural to me in the moment.
~*~
The clouds promised rain—but they failed to deliver.
I remembered a time when the clouds delivered—I had already placed my foot on the mark down on the track.
I had looked to the stands and saw my sister watching—her raincoat wet from the downpour, but she didn't care, for she knew that today was important, that if I could give it my all—our lives would change for the better.
When the gun clicked despite the heavy crashing of rain—I could hear it as I had for hundreds of times.
My legs tensed, my breathing shaky.
My sister looked me in the eyes; no matter how fast I ran, she would be there for me at the finish line.
My name is Syouma Shioya.
I currently reside in the village of Nagatoro in the Chichibu district.
I moved here five years ago from my original home in Osaka.
I had detested moving here, but without a degree, expenses in the main city were just a little unbearable, and with an injured ACL, it was difficult to make my living on the track.
My dream of reaching nationals is behind me—in a book that was never finished, or maybe it was never written.
I hated Nagatoro.
I viewed it as my failure—a thought of what could have been had I driven responsibly—had my eyes been on the road, both hands on the steering wheel instead of answering my manager's excited calls about my future, my success.
Drawing back to present reality, I stop by a tall tree near a meadow of tall green grass, surprisingly waist-high.
Behind this green land that hides its end is a river.
I take a sip of water; the thought of a morning swim quickly reenergizes my legs.
I'm not as fast as I used to be; in fact, I don't think I'll ever reach the level that I had back then—but my time here in Nagatoro has helped me realize that I'm glad that I still have legs to run, to be able to enjoy the mountains, thousands of species of flowers, and the beauty of nature, which can be understood on a morning such as this one—I wonder, would I have enjoyed cross country more?
I finish the water in my bottle and place it back in my sack, noticing my shoes are loose.
I decide to retie them; can't have loose feet—traction is everything.
I bend down and begin doing the procedure, the one that I've mindlessly done thousands of times before, though something keeps me from being totally mindless.
I look at the very end of the road, about two steps ahead of me.
I see trickles of red, a mixture of dry and wet.
I stop tying my shoelace, letting it drop to the sides undone.
I step over to investigate the color—though I feel I know what it is—
"Blood…" I murmur.
I see a light trail as if footprints revealing a path of their own, though I'm not sure.
I've seen blood before—and I see it every time that nightmare returns, haunting me of the crash—how she could have had a fulfilled life had I just been careful.
Every fiber says run away, but if there is blood, there is death—and I've grasped a trace of it.
I follow the path of red away from the road and into the field.
I step over something, causing my ankle to twist slightly; the pain is heavy, striking me from my foot to my head.
My vision blurs slightly, but I brush it aside, wrapping a hand around the pain—rubbing it.
My eyes clear enough for me to see shoes, female shoes—this has me breathless, cold, and a mixture of despair.
It was small, but a kid's size; though its stickers were youthful—it was a canvas sneaker, something I'd expect from Osaka or maybe a foreigner, but here?
The pain in my ankle subsides, and I get up slowly, my head feeling heavy, my stomach unhappy.
I urge rationality to head back to the road, but my human instincts are driven for the truth.
I brush the grass apart, stepping slowly, treading carefully.
The adrenaline becomes more and more vile within my body, yet it's the only thing keeping me rational.
The blood is becoming more dense, the trickle becoming traces, and the stench becoming iron—rough and protruding, it's almost enough for me to head back onto the road, but I know that whatever the path of blood leads me to, it's here on the next step.
Slowly, I peel the grass apart, and my eyes go loose, my stomach convulses heavily, pouring out my breakfast and some more.
I'm on my knees begging for control, but my eyes are tearing, my brain is screaming in pain, and my body is aching.
All for a lifeless body.