Bloodless voice

It shouldn't have rained that hard in spring, nor should it have been that cold.

Yota knew he should've have been outside either.

The temperature had been bearable in his apartment, despite him being on the top floor, so he hadn't thrown on his woollen cardigan on the way out. Even though he couldn't remember the last time he had felt warm. Although the steps leading up to the front doors were fairly dry, the ground beneath his sandals grew slipperier with each step and his stomach tensed every time they lost their grip.

A barely noticeable breeze dragged at the thin hair on his nape, carrying the sickeningly raw scent of wet earth with traces of someone's aromatic home-made dinner, too faint to identify any specific ingredients. He paused halfway between the flats and the convenience store. Goosebumps sprung up along his bare arms and he wondered if the journey was worth completing as he rubbed them wearily.

“Hello, Mr Shiratori,” said Mrs Takeda, the kind widow who had been the first to welcome him when he moved into his apartment six years ago. “Are you going to the store now?”

“That's right,” he replied, bowing stiffly with his hands crossed in front of him and wobbling as he straightened up again. “I don't have any more tea. How are you today?”

“Tea? But you don't –?” she murmured. He gripped his left wrist and the conversation switched lanes. “The weather's not helping my poor old bones but someone's got to pick up the laundry, don't they?”

She laughed sadly.

“I'm – I'm sorry.” He bowed again, lower this time, and his spine protested with a sharp ache. “I should've gone instead.”

“Oh no, you don't need to apologise,” she said at once, patting his right upper arm with a wrinkly dry hand. “You've both helped me more than enough. All you need to do is take care of yourself now, okay? I only saw you a week ago and you look like you've lost even more weight since then.”

That had been a week ago? He could have sworn it was yesterday, when his mobile phone went missing in action and he had had no choice but to leave the comfort of his bed to seek out the building manager, Mr Haraguchi, and request an air conditioner check up. There was no need to correct her though. Hikari, his best friend, told him that Mrs Takeda was already well into her seventies and it didn't matter any way.

“I will.” He tried to bow for the third time but his muscles wouldn't let him. “Thank you.”

“Do you want me to –?” Her hand tightened briefly around his arm like a warning but her initial question remained unfinished. “Don't stay out too late, okay? It's already getting dark.”

Wasn't it too early for the day to darken? Yota blinked under the threat of more rain and hugged himself as she let go.

“I'll see you later then,” he murmured, waiting until the nearly imperceptible squelch of her footsteps faded behind him before he started walking again.

The store was less than ten minutes away by foot. If he sped up a little, he might be able to avoid being soaked on the way back. He brushed a hand against a familiar wooden house, the one that had several flower pots hanging from its walls and nestled beneath its window sills, but couldn't remember the name of the family that lived there. Was it Yamamoto? Ishikawa? How many of them lived there? Absolutely nothing came to mind and he tried to remember the last time he had heard from any of them. Possibly three months ago when –

His right foot slid on the path and he might have been able to keep his balance if his left big toe hadn't collided with one of the aforementioned clay pots half a second later. He pitched forward with a panicked cry and his left leg shot out to stabilise him at an awkward angle. Throwing his hands out to either side offered him nothing to grab onto and he fell backwards instead. Something hard and pointed slammed against the back of his head.

A white blaze cut off his gasp and he crumpled, rolling onto his side right before the darkness billowed up to consume him.

A minute might have passed.

Maybe even ten.

He couldn't tell, opening and closing his eyes several times before he attempted to rise from his embarrassing position on the pathway. Something clinked against the pavement beside his left hand. His skull didn't hurt as much as he expected it to but that didn't stop him from wincing as he probed the back of it carefully with his fingertips. It wasn't safe to go to the store like this. Not with the houses vibrating all around him and his legs feeling weaker than before.

Wrapping himself up carefully in his own arms, he made his way back to the apartment block, his heart lurching with every unstable step. The street was clean but he didn't enjoy its imprint being etched into his body. Yet the idea of trying to shower in his current state seemed even more impossible than usual. When the sky opened up above him, he was almost grateful despite the risk of illness.

At last he reached the steps leading up to the front doors, one of which was currently being held open by Tomo, the foreigner who had left America less than a year ago in order to live out his fantasy life in Japan. Hikari had once casually mentioned that he was cute but Yota still couldn't see it at all.

“Yota, you good?” His accent somehow blended well with the language he had studied religiously as he stepped to the side but kept his grip on the door.

The other young man rolled his shoulders under the sensation of his analytical stare and mumbled something he hoped was reassuring as he walked past, trying to mask his dragging feet. The journey back to his bed had been difficult enough already. A conversation, even with someone as engaging as Tomo, would do nothing but weigh him down more.

Once he was inside, he passed by the stairwell that led all the way to the top floor and headed for the elevator that would take him to the fourth. Its doors slid opened quickly and he kept his back to them even after they had closed completely, watching water drip from the ends of his blond hair and form an asymmetric pattern between his feet.

Tomo might have meant well but he could be overconfident and downright nosey at times. He was sure to have questions about the state of Yota's clothes, especially the dirt stains that must now cover the back of them, and the blood that might have been trickling down to his neck. Most of the lower floor residents were elderly or disabled people which, according to Hikari, was by design in case of any emergencies such as a fire or gas leak.

Those who were in charge of designing the building had split the lift journey into two to reduce waiting times for the elderly and encourage everyone else to remain fit apparently. Yota cursed them under his breath as he staggered down the corridor towards the second lift on the other side of the building, which carried him up to the ninth floor.

Trembling, he barely made it to his apartment at the opposite end and searched frantically for his key before he remembered he had a passcode instead. The bumps beneath his fingers were only slightly worn down but he traced them easily enough, zero-four-zero-four, eliciting a soft buzz before he pushed open the door and closed it behind him.

However even the familiar thud of the wooden barrier falling into place didn't relieve the odd tightness in his chest and his head started to pound. He fought with his white T-shirt and umber trousers until both landed on the bathroom floor. But the bathroom light was too bright and he ended up landing on his bed with a khaki green towel around his head, curling up into a foetal position.

The pressure of the material against the back of his skull reminded him of how he had nearly split it in two against the wall of the house less than twenty minutes ago and he squeezed his eyes shut, cradling his head with both hands as if extra pressure would confuse the pain.

The darkness behind his eyelids pulsed like an unearthly creature, reaching down to slowly curl around his throat. He opened his mouth, the flow of air erratic both on its way in and out, but the grip around his lungs didn't loosen at all. He should have called an ambulance. No, perhaps that was too drastic. He could have asked Tomo to have a look, maybe even stayed with him until he was sure he was okay, but his entire being balked at the idea.

He probably just needed to sleep. For a long time. With the hope that things would be better – or at least not any worse, when he woke up from –

Something slammed against his front door.

Yota flinched and sat up, still clutching his head as the walls wavered around him. It couldn't have been a delivery unless the courier had thrown his package at the door. He wasn't expecting anyone to visit but perhaps Tomo's nosiness had been stronger than whatever had drawn him out of his home.

Someone knocked on the door again, sharply, insistently.

But the sound had been far too low for a normal knock, unless the person outside were a child. Were there any children living on the same floor as him? If that were the case, it was unlikely their parents would have let them bang on a stranger's door more than once. He swallowed hard and slid one leg off the bed.

The next knock was higher, closer to the top of the door frame, and his hair stood on end. Why would someone try to get his attention so strangely? Were they trying to get in? Or trying to make him come out? Suddenly the inside of his apartment matched the temperature outside and he fumbled around in the dark room until he found his grey silk dressing gown, pulling it on and concealing his goosebumps.

“Who is it?” he called out as loudly as his throbbing head allowed him.

Silence. He stood up, encased in his own arms, and moved closer to the door, listening carefully. He cleared his throat quietly, then opened his mouth to try again. A thin, bloodless voice reached for him through the wood before he could.

“Missssteeeer Shiiiiiraaaatooooriiiii?”