Mask of Lust

The days continued to pass and my Mizu-Hydro deprivation reached desperate levels. When my dad brought in the morning deliveries, I stayed in my room and asked them to leave it on the kitchen counter. Before leaving, I had to keep my eyes aimed at the door and blindly collect the bottle. I wore stylish cotton gloves, too, otherwise the bottle’s condensation and cold glass sent faintly pleasurable shivers through my whole body.

School provided no refuge. Free Mizu-Hydro dominated the vending machines and cafeteria fridges. I avoided the walkways with vending machines and ate my lunch in the classroom.

Avoidance wasn’t the only issue. My body rebelled. I itched, as if mites scurried between every hair follicle. I grinded my teeth. Plucked skin from my lips. Chewed my nails. If it weren’t for my pristine reputation, people definitely would’ve assumed I went through regular substance withdrawals.

Once a lesson, I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water onto my face. I kept my mouth squeezed shut, to avoid swallowing any. When I came back with damp shoulders, the teachers started to ask questions. I gave a variety of excuses: Menstruation, diarrhoea, and insomnia. I could’ve said lady troubles, stomach troubles, or sleeping troubles, but I found the upfront, too-much-information style of speech stunned the person into not asking follow-up questions. It was like the verbal equivalent of punching them in the throat.

Plus, the date for an interschool battle cycling competition drew near and the teachers didn’t want to risk interfering with me.

Still, this couldn’t continue.

That Friday, I pretended to sleep early. Then I crept out and met my friends. These friends didn’t go to my school. In fact, they didn’t go to any school. An important component of living multiple lives is to not let them intersect. My training partners didn’t study with me in the library. My school friends never met my parents. I forbade my parents from visiting me at the temple. The temple acolytes, well, obviously they never went clubbing.

Sometimes an associate from one life got too interested in associates from my other lives, so when that happened I did the only sensible thing: I cut them from my life. Call me a psycho if you wish. I’ve heard worse. Lots of people felt one real friend mattered more than a hundred fake ones, but I disagreed. If a hundred friends had a tiny bit of realness, amassing them resulted in roughly the equivalent of one “real” friend.

When I use the word “friends” henceforth, it’ll likely feel different in your mind. Good. As I was saying…

I crept out and met my friends. After a half-a-year, I still didn’t know their names. I called them guy, bro, dude, man, girl, gal, missy, shebat, catthorn, kisa, titsta, bibby, or a dozen other slang words imported by expats and foreign exchange students.

We caught a train to a club called Root Scum. The bouncer knew us and waved us through. The line of waiting people groaned and cursed. The club’s interior consisted of a dance floor, DJ, standing tables, private booths, extra private alcoves, a mezzanine, and a guarded doorway to place-you-should-pretend-doesn't-exist. Music pounded. Lights shone.

The name “Root Scum” manifested in the form of synthetic grassy turf on a bunch of surfaces. Around the tables, on shelves, wherever. The original owners used to be part of a grassroots political dissenter group, but movements like that were long dead.

My friends and I got vodka cocktails, danced for a while, and went to our usual standing table near the corner. You see, our table was near an alcove where crime syndicate members gathered. The syndicate was called the Sumiaka-kai. The members creeped me out. A bunch had mechanical limbs or eyes. I’d heard they even had computer brains.

My friends nodded greeting. A few in the alcove returned the gesture.

The Sumiaka-kai members liked to sit in their secluded corner and chat about global politics and elements of life, as if a new breed of philosopher. Really, they measured cerebral genitalia. Each of them arrived at the club equipped with new anecdotes, analogies, metaphors, similes, perspectives, contentions, creeds, and psychologically convenient quotations to make it seem like they understood reality better than the person adjacent.

I didn’t need their philosophy. Life was kind of shit, but sometimes it was kind of not shit. I gambled on the latter and fought tooth-and-nail against the former.

I fidgeted. Despite my aversion, I needed to speak with the Sumiaka-kai members. If anybody had information on my Mizu-Hydro withdrawals, it was them. Except, I couldn’t stroll up to their table; I valued my fingers.

I turned to my friends. ‘Have you guys ever talked to…’ I made a “cutting” gesture across my nose.

‘Yeah, all the time,’ one of them replied.

‘As if,’ another said. ‘You’d need new pants every second word.’

They devolved into a playful argument. I chewed my nail. How could I safely approach the Sumiaka-kai?

I lied, earlier, about not knowing any of my friends' names. One of the girls had the nickname Gecko. She had green eyes, green hair, and dyed her eyebrows with dots of red. Gecko seemed to know I was an inherent liar, but she didn’t ask questions. Unlike the rest of our group, I’d hung out with her in daylight, as we had a mutual interest in running.

Gecko leaned toward my ear. ‘I did once,’ she said. ‘They’re transactional.’

I cocked an eyebrow. She continued:

‘Dance a bit, catch their eye, and one of their goons will call you over. You’ll get to talk, but you’ll need to follow them into the VIP room.’

‘I need this.’

She clicked her tongue, nodded, and downed the rest of her drink. ‘Follow my lead.’ She took my hand and went to the dance floor. We kept within eyeshot of the Sumiaka-kai’s table.

We danced slowly, at first. The music tempo increased. We matched the intensity. Gecko unzipped my jacket, spun to my back, and worked it from my shoulders, as if part of choreography. She traced my body with her own. We moved in unison. I felt her breath on my neck. Her hands ran down my sides and rested on my hips. I glanced at the Sumiaka-kai. It wasn’t working. I relayed this to Gecko, who nodded and led us, still dancing, to another part of the floor.

No, no, I thought, sensing her intentions.

Gecko nimbly climbed onto a decorative garden bed. She pulled me up, before I had the chance to protest. Elevated above the crowd, Gecko danced with greater fervour. She swept me along, and I did my best to match. I checked the Sumiaka-kai and found a few pairs of eyes had found us.

‘It’s working,’ I said.

‘We need a bit more.’

‘I might be strong enough to carry you.’

‘I had another idea.’

Gecko angled our profiles to the Sumiaka-kai, placed a hand on my neck and back, and pushed her lips against mine. I took a moment to reciprocate. I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it, but the watching eyes of the Sumiaka-kai dampened the experience.

When we pulled away, a suited figure stood near. He told us to follow, and we did.

#

Gecko and I stood at the table of the Sumiaka-kai. The leader introduced himself as Samoa Samson, but he went by Samson.

Samson had flowing black hair and mechanical hands. A Dracula parrot sat on his shoulder. The black and red plumage blended into the club’s lighting. It ate figs. Samson claimed it wasn’t mechanical, but I had serious doubts.

‘Need a hit?’ He gestured at neat lines on the table.

‘I don’t use,’ I replied.

He smirked. ‘I know withdrawals like a horse knows hay.’

‘I don’t use.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He dislodged himself from the girl at his shoulder and leaned forward. ‘You two’re probably bored of this place, am I right?’

Gecko went to respond, but I stepped forward. ‘Do you know anything about Mizu-Hydro?’

He frowned and waited a moment. ‘About as much as anyone else.’

‘Is it addictive?’

‘Are you implying something?’ He looked more bemused than angry. I kept my expression firm. I wasn’t going to relent. ‘Look, I know what you mean. Our guys have done tests. But, it’s addictive in the sense breathing is addictive. If you don’t drink Mizu-Hydro, what’re you gonna drink? Water?’

Gecko nudged me aside. ‘Back to your question—’

‘What about shut-ins?’ I blurted. Hoshino Ren had rambled about Mizu-Hydro and salvation and strength. Her being a shut-in had to be related.

‘What about them?’

‘They’ve been disappearing.’

‘Are you a reporter?’

‘What makes you think I’d say yes?’

He laughed. His lower row of teeth were chrome. ‘Fair enough. Well, we’re not involved. Rumour is the government has been bringing shut-ins to rehab centres in the countryside. Pretty sure they’re aiming to replace the android workforce.’

Gecko gave me a look that said: Shut up.

But, I wasn’t done. ‘Does “salvation” mean anything to you?’

‘We don’t wax righteous here, Titsta.’ Samson fed his parrot another fig.

‘It’s not about religion.’ At least, I don’t think it is.

‘Ain’t none of our products are called salvation. Though, we should use the name for an angel dust spin-off.’ He nudged the girl next to him, whose nose was dusted with a certain salt-and-flour. ‘Write that down, write that down.’

The girl nodded like a bobble head, grabbed a notepad and crayon from the table, and scrawled kana at random.

‘I don’t chat like this with everyone,’ Samson said, visage dark and oily. ‘And if you two are this interested, I bet you’ll be interested in what’s back there.’ He jabbed a thumb at the guarded door. The other Sumiaka-kai members smiled, toasted their glasses, and downed their drinks.

The Sumiaka-kai group left their alcove and went through the guarded door into the VIP section. Gecko and I had no choice but to follow.

The VIP section was not unlike the club’s main room – but smaller. Music softer. Light dimmer. A pleasant citrus scent filled the air. The walls were frosted glass with doors at intervals. Red or green lights hung above. Vague figures moved within.

Our new group danced for a while. I tried to stay near Gecko, but a tall woman from the Sumiaka-kai led her into one of the glass rooms. Samson danced near me, his parrot bobbing on his shoulder. As the song ended, he snaked an arm around my side and started toward a room. He had reached the doorknob, when one of his lackeys came and offered a phone. Samson swore, took the phone, and strode away.

I was alone.

I wanted to get out. But, I didn’t want to leave Gecko. I went to the room she’d entered and peeked inside. I…decided Gecko wanted me to leave her.

As I turned to go, I bumped into someone. A girl. Her drink spilled onto my top.

‘Oh shit,’ she said.

I pulled away.

The girl had ink black hair parted at the middle and flowed past her shoulders, with a bleached streak on either side. She had sharp, elegant features that in equal parts intimidated and enchanted me. Three companions flanked her: A muscular man with close-cropped hair and a goatee, a man with flaming red hair and a scar above his left eye, and a woman with massive boobs.

‘Go ahead, I’ll catch up,’ she told her friends, and took me aside. ‘I am so, so sorry. How much was this?’ She pulled a stack of notes from her inner pocket. My eyes widened. There must’ve been a million yen or more.

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘No, no, really.’

‘…Thirty-thousand,’ I lied. It had barely cost ten-thousand. 

She extracted the amount and forced it into my hands. Should’ve claimed more. I wanted to leave, but she dabbed the stains with a handkerchief. Her hand started to drift. ‘This is lovely, though? Where’s you get it?’

I made up a shop name. Across the room, Samson had finished with his phone call. Get out!

‘My name is Kishimoto. What’s yours?’

‘I have to get home,’ I said, tracking Samson with my eyes.

‘I live nearby,’ she said. I jumped. Her hands had reached up my skirt. She giggled. ‘Tense?’

‘I-I really have to go.’

‘I’m here on Fridays, if you change your mind.’ She walked away, blowing a kiss over her shoulder. I sped away. Keeping low, I evaded Samson and reached the exit. Home, I thought. Home, home, home. Whatever that meant.

#

Five days had passed since I stopped drinking Mizu-Hydro. Still, nothing happened. I visited Hoshino Ren, who was in the middle of another workout. ‘Keep going,’ she said, when I complained about withdrawals. ‘You’re almost there.’

‘Almost where?’

‘The truth. When it happens, stay calm. Whatever you do, don’t let anyone know. I made that mistake. Got messy.’ Hoshino dropped her dumbbells and approached me. ‘I’ll teach you my mantra. I used to recite it before races to calm down.’

‘Does it work?’

‘If you believe it does.’

The mantra consisted of four lines: I am here. I am afraid. I must not hide. I will not be swayed.

I stayed with Hoshino until I’d memorised the lines. I wasn’t sure how effective it would be, but Hoshino assured me. Well, I’d have to wait for a stressful situation. Such a situation came sooner than expected…

More than a week passed. Thirteen days since I’d stopped drinking Mizu-Hydro. On the fourteenth morning, I woke up as usual, yawned, stretched, and went to open my curtains. My mind stopped working. I am here, I thought. I couldn’t get through the rest of the mantra. I gazed at the truth and the truth gazed back. I am here. I am afraid. I am afraid. I am afraid.

I couldn’t stop screaming.