Akirame 1 - 諦め(resignation/acceptance)
short sketch
Wet Bandits - Goldfish
Claire
I
I can’t recall her face now——her voice, maybe, but only a vague trace. She crippled me——took away my ability to feel anything. And now life is like a boring movie that I want to turn off.
The Pacific Ocean separates us now. I’ll never see her ever again. Probably a good thing. To her, seeing me would be like seeing a ghost. To me, seeing her would be like seeing God.
I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to see God.
You just live in fear of God's gaze.
That’s how it’s supposed to be.
I made her my God without her consent. “Would she love me if I did this?” I questioned myself before every action——knowing well the futility of it all.
She’s not looking, and she never did.
Yes, I am a ghost. No one sees me. No one hears me. I haunt an old house in a certain northern province of Thailand and have spent years reading old books——James Joyces, Nathanael West, Ryunosuke Akutagawa, stuff nobody cares about these days.
I read them because, before I left that country, she told me to write a classic novel.
Maybe it was a joke. But then again, nobody could pick apart truths from lies when it came to her.
Maybe that request was a metaphor for something.
Who knows, maybe she's a metaphor——one I’m too stupid to understand.
II
I was biking to church with her. She was the one pedaling, and I was in the backseat. The sun was setting over the mountains, and we talked and laughed in that last golden glow of the evening. When twilight fell, I decided to pedal instead.
But, as a matter of course, she was gone when I woke up.
I followed the noise of the morning news downstairs.
No one spoke a word at the table. Only the strangers on TV went on with their endless nonsense. The nation's stupid numbers were plunging again. A celebrity I didn’t know was having an ordination ceremony to become a monk. More fat old men with receding hairlines were getting exposed for embezzlement. The news reporter gave an eerie imitation of a smile while reporting a mass shooting abroad.
I stopped eating my morning porridge, washed my dishes and utensils in the kitchen, then went upstairs.
III
On one cloudy evening, I went out to have dinner with an old friend who was studying law at a local university. We met up at a cheap noodle restaurant because that was all I could afford.
“So, what have you been up to these days, Mr. Writer?” Nicha asked.
“Well, I’ve just been… rotting away, I guess?” I said.
“You’re fermenting yourself? Like wine?”
“It’s nothing nice like that. I haven’t been able to get anything done for months now. Can’t tolerate reading anything. Can’t write anything. I’m like an empty, dried up well that refuses to be filled up.”
“Empty? When you’re so full of hate?”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
“Maybe you’ve passed your expiration date as a fiction writer.”
“I was never suited to write in the first place. Not that it matters. Anyway, care to explain why you called me out here?”
“Do I need a reason to bother you?”
“Not really. But do get to the point.”
“Alright. Alright. I’ve got a writing job for you. A nonfiction piece.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“How about a trip to that promised land of yours?”
Author’s Note
I just realized that my writing is super edgy and uses anime logic.
Maybe I’m actually a chuunibyou.
Anyway, more parts coming soon.