For Her

Her once planted feet are forcefully dragged off the wooden floor beneath her, and she is pulled into the night wind by her father’s unyielding grip. The cold air greeting her body hugged Junko like a mother cradling her own infant for the first time. Her father’s burning, contrasting clutch scorns her skin and yanks her from the confines of the apartment.

She resists, she pulls and she pries, but to no avail. Her father’s intentful hold shackles her in as Mamoru signs her death wish - while the flying shards of glass pierce the air behind him. Drawing her face and exposing her bubbling fear, Junko’s head whips around to the room she is leaving behind.

“Jiro!” Junko shouts, her voice at its peak. His feet collide against the bullet-hole tainted floorboards as he already finds himself sprinting towards the girl beyond him. Not training his eyes off of his best friend, Jiro notices Daku taking off for Junko as well - his face already contorted into an expression of pure terror and panic.

“I’m dragging you down to hell with me, Junko! I’m setting you free!” Mamoru shouts as he tries to convince his daughter of the reasons behind his actions, “Face it! Your death was inevitable, so die with me! Here, and now!”

“Junko!” Jiro shouts again, his legs not carrying himself nearly quick enough. The harder he pushes forward, the faster it seems that Junko plummets into the open air, “Junko, wait!” Branching out his weak arm in a faithful last resort, Jiro’s fingertips brush against the cotton fabric of Junko’s rippling t-shirt. Daku’s own hand reaches out - genuine hope and determination radiating off of his skin.

Their efforts are not enough, and Junko’s body pulls downwards alongside her father. Jiro clenches his bared teeth, while his anxiety digs deep lines across the surface of his forehead. Not giving up, Jiro falls to his stomach on the glass-shattered floor, and his arm continues to reach out towards the sinking girl.

“Junko!” Jiro’s voice hurls out of the broken window, as his hand swings out of the apartment and against the brisk wind. It is too little, too late, for Junko’s plummeting figure falls out of reach of the desperate boy above her.

The city lights below welcome the father and the daughter with open sincerity, as the lively traffic does not cease for even a moment. Jiro’s eyebrows draw together in confusion, observing the newfound police cars that line up at the front entrance of Mamoru’s apartment building.

On the street, a surplus of police officers look up to the sky, as they witness Case 202 and his daughter falling from the building before them. Amongst the officers stands Nao Watanabe, and his brawny fists are placed firmly upon his wide set hips. As his eyes spear the two individuals in the sky, Nao’s gaze swims in a tidal pool of pride.

Beside him stands a professionally dressed Daitan Hagimoto, and her own arms are crossed proudly against her bosom. A saddened smirk laced with sympathy washes upon her face as her eyes dance upon the falling individuals above. The blue and red lights cast bright shadows across her and her superior’s faces, and the consistent blaring of the sirens echo in their eardrums.

“Captain Aoki was right all along, wasn’t he?” Daitan comments as the pair stares up towards the night sky, watching the people above fall to their imminent deaths, “Case 202 and the Tokyo Pistols ended up being intertwined. He killed two birds with one stone.” Nao’s mind travels back to his office, and the day he briefed Daku about the uprising of the Tokyo Pistols.

“Who knows, maybe the two cases are connected somehow, and I’ll have Case 202 back in my jurisdiction.”

A knowing, yet despondent smirk plays at his lips, and his eyes twinkle against the flashing police lights. “That brain of his… it’s always moving,” Nao inputs, his voice reminiscent and light, “I never really know what the hell he’s thinking about.”

Those same red and blue lights reach the two falling entities, and brightens the distinct expressions plastered upon their faces. Junko, shackled by her wrists by her father’s own grip, stares down at the man below her with utter terror and despair covering her features. While Mamoru, still positioned in the wooden chair, holds a soft face filled with pride and recollection as he stares up at his little girl.

With his untied hands holding Junko, the image of his daughter above him causes an old memory stored in the back of his mind to resurface - in these last few moments of his life. Before him, Mamoru sees Junko as a little girl once again, being held by her torso above his head.

Her arms stretched out wide, and her feet kicked upwards in the air. There were pink and white flowers stuck in her pristine, pure white hair. The names of the flowers, Mamoru was unsure of, but the beauty they held was something he would always remember. Junko’s beautiful, young innocence shone alongside the sun behind her, and Junko imagined that she was soaring through the sky - like a majestic, winged superhero.

But, the most noticeable feature of all… was his daughter’s glistening, sinless white smile. The overwhelming joy that exuded off the young Junko poured into the man’s shriveling heart, and filled him with an exuberance of warmth. A small, toothy smile of his own appears on the father’s exhausted features, which causes a furious rage to boil inside of his daughter.

“How could you be smiling right now?!” Junko screams at her father, still attempting to free herself from the tight grip he holds on her, “You’re killing me! You’re dragging me down to my own death, and you’re smiling at me! You’re sick!” Junko’s eyes begin throwing tears out of her ducts, and the salty drops whip into the air behind her, succumbing to the fierce momentum of her fall.

Mamoru’s lips gather, and a tight-lipped smile prances upon his face. Blinking slowly against the piercing wind, he places his brown eyes upon Junko’s petrified face. “You’ll always be my little girl, Junko. Forever. I love you so much,” Mamoru says genuinely, his voice carrying through the rapid air before it reaches his daughter.

“And… And I’m sorry.”

The glass that once raced the father and daughter to the impending ground below finally reaches the city street, and the awaiting police officers shield their heads with their arms. The crystalline sound crashes against the cement and asphalt, while low groans and moans grunt from some officers struck by the larger shards.

Junko stares at Mamoru, a hopeless, distant, and unbelieving expression paints on her face. At this moment, there is absolutely nothing she could do now to save herself. No amount of resisting, no amount of screaming, nothing would prevent her from colliding into the solid Earth waiting for her.

So, instead of crying and yelling more than she already has, Junko closes her eyes, and feels the thick, liquidy air stream past her face. She smells the faint body odor from her father that is carried by the wind, and reaches her nose. Junko tastes the remnants of the salty, wretched tears on her lips. The overbearing wind suffocates the sound of traffic and the wailing police sirens below.

It’s as if the life she is leaving behind had no meaning, because the sweet release of death readily welcomes Junko so earnestly. Her lungs breathe clear, and her body floats weightless. And, in those mere seconds before her inevitable death, she had never felt more alive.

Junko opens her eyes once more, and the fateful ground she has been encroaching on finally appears before her eyes. Her heart drops into her empty stomach one last time, and the last thing she feels is an immense anguish and regret wash over her body, before she feels nothing at all.

The taunting, sickening, and inescapable sound of the bodies smashing onto the pavement below reaches the broken window of Mamoru’s apartment a few seconds after the sound is created. Jiro remains lying on his stomach, while his eyes soak in all that he has just witnessed. Now, laying a building below him, Junko and Mamoru rest flat against the cement.

Jiro’s eyes peel open, and a look of sheer disbelief takes over his features. He can no longer feel his pulse, nor any other feeling swimming through his body. All he feels is a hollowness, swelling within his stomach. A pure emptiness that is slowly swallowing the entirety of his being.

Slowly, Jiro stands up from his spot on the floor. His t-shirt is ripped from the residual glass shards left on the hardwood floors, but the boy pays no mind to this nuisance. Jiro’s heavy eyes meekly trace the silhouettes of the looming buildings before him, and his weak knees buckle from the unsupported weight of his body.

Takashi was a filthy, dishonorable liar after all this time, as was Miyu, and as was Mamoru. The brute took him in, trained him to grow into a despicable man just like himself, then left without another word. What good is Jiro, if all he’s ever done was fight to avenge someone, whose death was somewhat just? Where do his morals lie now, now that all he’s ever known has vanished into thin air?

Jiro takes a wobbly step forward, placing the tips of his sneakers off of the ledge before him. The sirens stab his ears, and the sour ambiance of the medics and policemen below him stir an uneasy feeling within his stomach. Jiro’s lips part from one another, as a numbness overtakes the nerves in his mouth.

He closes his eyes, and steps further into the night - preparing himself to take that same fall his best friend was forced to take. The cold, bitter wind bites his cheekbones, and the tightness of his chapped lips burns under the moonlight. Pulling his lips to a close, Jiro drags one last fateful step forward - the step that will send him over the ledge, to meet Junko down below.

“Jiro!”

Suddenly, a hand firmly grips the back of Jiro’s denim jacket, and yanks him back into the safety of the apartment. Stumbling backwards, Jiro slides onto his rear, and his legs sprawl out in front of him. He creases his brow, and glares up at the objection. Before him stands Daku, with an equally frustrated and distant look on his face.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you idiot?!” Daku asks exasperatedly, “You’re not going to do what I think you were about to do. Not on my watch, asshole.” Jiro scowls at the officer before him, and believes Daku wishes to end Jiro’s life for himself.

“You’re the idiot here if you think I’m gonna let you kill me,” Jiro spits, brushing the dust from his hands onto his bent knees. Daku is taken aback, and shakes his head for a split second in confusion, “I never had any intent to kill any of you… aside from Mamoru. But he’s a different story. You all… well, in my eyes, not in the eyes of the law… you are all innocent, to me.”

Jiro stares up at Daku, his lips parted and his eyebrows drawn. His incredulousness gives Daku reason to explain himself, “Chief Watanabe gave me jurisdiction on whether or not I kill you all. It’s up to me, not Mamoru. Not Chief Watanabe. Not even you get to choose. And you are not dying tonight, Jiro.”

Daku steps up to Jiro’s seated position, and throws out a hand towards his figure. Raising his eyebrows, Daku sends a tight-lipped smile down to the broken, despairing boy. Jiro hesitantly eyes the hand, and reluctantly takes it in his own grasp. Hoisting himself up, Jiro eyes Daku skeptically, brushing off the dust accumulated on his jeans.

Jiro follows Daku’s gaze to the near-ruined television display in the living room. There, Akira handled the screen in her hands, attempting to fix the fuzzy, broken feedback. “Hello?!” She asks irritatedly, “Officer Kiyama! Do you read me?! Report back to Chief Watanabe, immediately! The assignment is over, so get the hell out of there. Officer Kiyama?! Can you…”

“Run,” Daku commands in a low tone, his voice drowning out his sister’s, “Get out of here. Go to Kagome, and leave Tokyo. I’ll… I’ll tell Nao that I… killed you. The department won’t chase after you or her anymore, I’ll make sure of it. You just need to get out of here, Jiro.”

Jiro’s eyes peel confusedly at Daku’s sudden proposal, and the officer steps in front of the taller boy. Placing a hand on top of Jiro’s shoulder, Daku continues with his declaration, “Jiro, you can’t… you can’t just kill yourself, do you relaize that?! What the hell is Kagome going to do? She needs you, and you need her. Keep living for each other, and keep living for those who can’t.”

Daku’s wet lips pull inward, and he tightens his fingers into a fist. Pushing his hand against Jiro’s shoulder, Daku ushers him out of the apartment. “Go!” He orders again, bringing his eyebrows together, “Get the hell out of here, Jiro!”

Blinking one last time, Jiro begins running for the door ahead of him. The soles of his shoes collide with the wood beneath him as his long legs stride over the floorboards. Reaching the entryway, his hand clasps the handle. Tugging it open, he hears his name being called once more.

“Shit, wait! Jiro!” Daku’s voice sounds out from his previous position.

Jiro turns his questioning gaze towards the officer, and awaits his next words. Daku throws a stern, and serious look towards Jiro before speaking, “Make sure that you live out her dream, okay? Go to Hokkaido, open a flower shop… all in her name. Do it for her, okay Jiro? Promise me you’ll do it! You better fucking do it, after everything we’ve been through tonight-”

“I promise,” Jiro confirms, his voice low and steady, but it reaches Daku with ease, “I was already planning on it, anyway.” At that, Jiro throws himself through the door. Daku watches it slowly close, and the clicking sound confirms Jiro’s leave. He sighs a great, heavy sigh, and turns on his heels.

Hanging his head, Daku makes way for the broken window before him. The night breeze greets his approaching figure, and the flashing lights from below shine against his perplexed and sullen expression. He brings himself lower, and sits upon the ledge of the apartment. Throwing his legs over, Daku sits upon that glass-covered floor, and breathes in the bloody, dense air.

From his chest, he starts humming a tune. The vibration is carried by a dark and harrowing melancholy - vibrating against the city of Tokyo beyond him. Soon, a singular tear wells up in Daku’s eye. As his bottom lip quivers, the tear falls from his duct and collapses under his jaw. His tune drowns out from the sound of his sobs, and he hangs his head in a regretful, mournful shame.

“Please forgive them, Dad.”

THE END