Those Who Became Invisible

No other guests arrived through the entirety of Masaru’s shift. Exhaustion, confusion, rising terror, hunger pains, and the incessant itching of pestilence-ridden skin were all competing to undo Masaru’s mind first. Time ticked by with delayed chimes. Breaths from the building seemed to arrive and release before the clock’s second hand could complete a single shift in location.

Occasionally, he’d swear he heard the screams return from down the hall.

They would drift around the corner like fog, whispering wails and wretching screams that shouldn’t have been audible. Every time Masaru heard them, he could feel the tug on his shirt again. Something would shift, and suddenly his shirt fabric would be touching him in a slightly different manner, sending alerts of annoyance into his already frayed mind.

Heels tapped. Lips pulled to the side with nervous grunts rattling from behind their veil of pink. Exhales through nostrils were fleeting and swift. He hated this place.

Eventually, enough eternities had fallen away, and the clock gave him his approval to leave. There were no instructions on what to do. There were no indications of what should be shut down and what should be left on. Masaru didn’t want to get in trouble, or worse, fired. He couldn’t afford to be interrupted by the drain of unemployment in a stagnant economy. So he wanted to do everything as well as he could.

Supplies were restocked from available reserves. He didn’t know what to do about the payment from the one set of guests he knew of, but the system was digital, and he assumed someone with more clarity and secrecy would be handling money. All that was left was confirming that the doors of the rooms were closed and locked.

When he entered the hallway for his final signoff, the building’s breathing slowed as the air conditioning switched to idling. A soft, low-toned hum was all that could be heard as he made his way from room to room, checking each lock. He reached the corner to turn to the second half, and the teeth chattering returned.

pick

Room 109’s door was slightly ajar.

Another soft grunt of concern slipped from Masaru’s mouth.

The hum of the air conditioning deepened.

His feet froze, but he knew he needed to finish so he could flee this place.

Cold numbness bit at his fingertips again as a tremble softly shook his hands.

Single steps shifted soles across soggy carpet. Bit by bit, he approached, checking the other handles but never taking his focus from 109.

The air conditioning’s hum went deeper still, until it eventually sounded like the single sustained note of a groaning, growling chant.

pick

Every other door was locked. Only 109 remained. When Masaru reached the door, he could see the room’s deep red light shining out from the partial crack. Ccccchhhhhikkkkkkttt.

chccccckhittcccchkccccchikkkktttttt

the droning was becoming static

her screams returned, buried in the layering sound but very much there

now it felt like the tug was pulling him into the room

memories of the children running away from him were all he could see

he didn’t want to be alone

but he was

CCCCCCCHHHHIKTTTTTTT

Masaru’s hand flung forward onto the handle and yanked the door closed with a slam. Silence returned. He didn’t care about the other doors, certainly not 110. It was time to go. He hated this place. He hated this place.

He hatde this plaec.

eH tahed sith pacle.

ehaedhthtsicleap

Steps became strides as Masaru rushed to the doorway, twitching his head as his shaking hands ripped his tie from his neck and forced the top button open so that the cursed fabric would not scrape against his skin as severely. The doorway was there. Light was breaking through. It was morning. The rest of the world was heading to their isolation and day labor while he was fleeing for home. The doorway parted, and summer humidity struck him like a welcome rag.

He was outside.

The door closed behind him, and Masaru fumbled as he turned to lock it and leave without looking back. There may have been some lights on that should have been turned off, but he did not care anymore. Teeth lined with grooves and the lock was clicked into place.

With that, Masaru left his first shift at Warm Embraces.

Hurried strides propelled him down the steps as tears welled in his eyes. This place was cruel. Something was very wrong here, but he had no idea how to explain it to anyone, or who would even listen.

Down the road he went, towards the nearest station.

Turning a corner allowed the buildings to envelope him and block Warm Embraces from being able to see him anymore, and Masaru felt a slight lightness move into his spirit. It wasn’t following him.

Alleys hid bodies that huddled under tarps and tents. A child cried from a nearby balcony.

There was a thud against glass, and Masaru flinched as he looked up just in time to see the pigeon falling from the grimy balcony. Morning sunlight was reflecting the clear sky against the windowpanes of the apartment complex he was standing beneath, and the poor bird must have thought its flight path was safe. But as it fell onto the ground before Masaru with a slap, he stopped to watch its struggle.

Wings flapped in interrupted confusion as the bird’s mind turned to shattered loss. Tiny, clawed feet kicked uneven scrapes of desperation. Unblinking, yellow eyes looked up towards him, but not at him. Small, alarmed chirps whispered out before turning silent. The fluttering wings slowed. Feet turned still, and claws turned inward.

Masaru found himself wanting to cry, but no tears escaped. All he could do was look from the dying creature up towards the window that had sealed its fate. That’s when he saw the elderly woman.

Just behind a smudged impact mark where the bird had collided with the glass, a tiny, white-haired woman with a sorrowful demeanor was there. She was standing alone in the window frame, eyes ahead. Not at Masaru or the scene below, but towards the path he had come from. Towards Warm Embraces. When Masaru observed her face, something in his spirit knew beyond a doubt that she was looking at that exact building. Then she looked down, directly at him.

It wasn’t sudden or unnerving. Her head tilted with intention, as though following a scripted trajectory until it reached its completion mark and allowed her eyes to meet his.

Masaru couldn’t look away. There was something very tragic in her features as she looked at him with raised brows and softly downturned lips. Poverty’s heaviness hung from her small shoulders, along with some unknown cruelty that seemed to be pulling her into herself.

Frail fingers raised, and she gave Masaru a faint, kind wave. Then two hands that belonged to an unseen body appeared from her and gently pulled her away from the window. The curtains closed, and Masaru was alone once again.

When he looked down, the bird was dead.

He couldn’t fathom the idea of any more pestilence or disease touching his skin, so he decided to leave the bird there. City officials could deal with its disposal. So he stepped beside it with a bow, then continued to the train station.

Dozens of commuters entered the train with him, and he felt their disgust at his presence and demeanor. Days without bathing had no doubt left him sweat-soaked and rank. His teeth hadn’t been brushed in over eighty hours. Stubble was turning to the early stages of a patchwork beard. His eye was once again fully rolled back into its socket, exposing only white and yellow sclera that was streaked with strained red vessels. And his skin was riddled with bumps that were now fully swollen.

No one dared look at him. No one engaged.

Even as the train filled with half-asleep workers heading to their offices and stations, none seemed willing to get close to him. A ring of separation seemed to emanate from his body, keeping every soul nearby distanced from him by at least a meter.

It was strange. A lifetime of stares and swift glances had made Masaru expect attention for his otherness. But now, he was being wholly ignored. This new sensation was frightening in its empty solitude. Without even beholding him in his wretched state, it was like all the world knew to look away. As he stood there, disgusting and exhausted, he felt a new phenomenon overtaking his existence. It wasn’t just from these people. It was from the hotel. It was from the unanswered calls. It was from the buildup of a lifetime of never connecting with anyone.

He was becoming one of the invisible.

They existed on the edges of society across the country. Destitute, forgotten, unfortunate truths that were merely viewed as burdens by the powers that be and even by those around them. The ones who needed care to the point of inconvenience. The elderly wasting away in rural villages that time’s onslaught would soon consume. The homeless, addicts, and mentally unwell that wandered streets talking to themselves while the world did its best to look away. Somehow, Masaru felt as though he was careening into their company, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The tear finally tore itself from its containment and fell from his face onto the scuffed flooring of the train car. Only one. He didn’t sniffle or draw attention to himself. He didn’t feel a need to wipe his eye because no others were coming. That solitary drop of grieving was enough of a summation of his sorrow that had been building for decades. Once, he’d dared to hope that things might be different. But one shift at Warm Embraces had finally ripped that hope away and murdered it in the shadows.

He reached his station and exited by himself. The crowd had preemptively parted for him, so he didn’t even need to say ‘excuse me’ or ‘pardon me’ to anyone. Instead, he exited without a word and made his way to the familiar sanctuary of his small apartment. Modest attempts at decoration and comfort were still there. His favorite coffee stood pre-ground in a ceramic container. His life was still there.

When he entered his home, he immediately began to undress. He wanted to burn these clothes. He wanted to soak himself in ointments and sleep for a year. This was his best suit, but not his only one. Its infested fabric would never be clean again in his mind, so he accepted the cost loss of throwing away decently maintained clothes would be better than trying to ever dress in them again. Into the trash bin they went, and soon Masaru was naked in his kitchen.

Chores needed to be done. Laundry was waiting. Standing there exposed reminded him that he had little left that was clean, so he needed to head back downstairs to the laundromat across the street.

Minutes later, Masaru was in sweats and a stretched shirt, trashbag in one hand and clothes hamper in the other. His rest and safe space would have to wait. With that, he opened the door to exit.

Just as he did, the door beside him also opened, and his neighbor stepped out, led by her white cane.

“That you, Ishikawa-sama-senpai?” she asked in an exhausted smile.

There was a gash on her lip that was fresh and still red around its split.

“Sayane-sa- Sayane…” he replied as she stepped fully into the hallway beside him.