Chapter 7:

San'ya Blues

Moritomo High Communist Club


I took the train home that night. Rush hour. Workers packed like sardines into the carriage, avoiding eye contact, making themselves small. Crumpled, glum. I jostled against their suits and ties. Bag close, head down.

Our carriage shouldered the heavy burden of mourning. By now, everyone had heard. Text raced across digital screens, reminding us of an unfathomable tragedy.

A shooting, it said. And said and said and said. It just kept coming: a rush of information that didn't sound real, because honestly, when was the last time something like this had happened? Certainly not recently. Maybe not in my lifetime. Maybe not in any of these people's lifetimes. I snuck glances at nearby faces—all so mute and shattered that I felt their obvious melancholy worming through my eyeballs. Was this because of the news? Or did they always look this way after a long day?

When we slid into Minowa Station, I was eager to take my leave. I stepped onto the platform and took a deep, healing breath, exhaling a funeral pyre.

Then I burped. Loudly. (You'll have to excuse my rudeness. It's just, I had a stomach full of really tasty rice balls, and… anyway. This is meant to be a moody chapter. Forget the burp.)

I made my way through the dull, sodden streets, damp and reflective from a brief sob of rain. San'ya area. Aggregate of lost souls. I walked along the river, twice crossing the street to avoid the elderly men and their big plastic bags. They hobbled around, scooping discarded aluminium cans off the ground. These men lived under the screaming overhead motorway—tucked underneath the bridge in a community of piecemeal cardboard shacks.

Better to keep my eyes on the sky, instead of having to look. Images of a soaring metropolis: tangles of power lines, blinking fluorescent lights; the gleaming, piercing precipice that is the Tokyo Skytree.

We can only go up from here.

Eventually, I arrived at a certain alleyway and pushed inside. I located our narrow, awry staircase and teetered my way up, hugging the chipped concrete wall for balance. I made it to the third floor and gripped a doorknob.

Not locked. But even if it were, the door was so flimsy that anyone could rip it from its hinges. That always worried me a little, but our landlord never did anything about it. He never did very much of anything.

I pushed the door open. "I'm home."

"Shin-chan, welcome back!" A scantily-clad woman sat cross-legged inside, her ink-black hair spilling out over the floor. She faced our box-like television, watching with unblinking eyes.

"Hey, ma," I said, moving inside. I tossed my bag down and moved into the bathroom—just two steps.

My mother continued speaking. "How was school, huh?"

"Fine."

"Learn anything interesting?"

"Not really."

"Did you hear the news?"

"No way I couldn't have. It's everywhere." I finished my business and stepped back into the living room. If you could call it that. Just a television and a low table. A minuscule kitchen shared the space, containing a sink, a stovetop, and an old rice cooker. Our shoebox residence also contained two bedrooms.

"How'd your anime club go, by the way?" My mother finally looked away from the television. Her lips curved upwards, cautiously optimistic. "You did join, right? Did you make any friends?"

"...Yeah. Quite a few friends. It was nice to meet others who are into… anime."

"Oh, I'm so glad! Will you be going back tomorrow?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"Aww, you should! I worry you get lonely, Shin-chan. I know you have Ryota-kun, but he's such a busy boy…"

"I'm fine, ma."

"Okay, if you're absolutely sure… Anyway, for dinner, I was thinking—"

"Oh, I've actually already eaten."

"You have?"

"Yeah." Seeing that needed some explanation, I recounted our dinner to my mother, leaving out the long periods of time wherein Asako had ranted about proto-communism in palaeolithic society (with her mouth full, I should note, meaning she was totally spitting all over us).

"That's incredible!" my mother cried, clasping her hands. "What nice people… and who did you say prepared the food?"

"I think her name was Yachi."

"Wow… You have to go back, Shin-chan! Promise me you will!"

"Okay, okay." I sighed. "Promise."

"Good boy." She turned her head back to the television, which was jabbering away with news of the assassination. "Still, what a shock this all is… For it to happen here."

"Yeah, a big shock." A took a quick step towards her, noticing something. There. The back of her arm, just above the elbow. A splotch of sickly, brown-purple colour, expanding like a swamp. I blinked to make sure it really existed. Then, as if she knew, my mother gathered her hands in her lap, tucking her arms behind her long hair. She continued talking about the news, eyes on the screen.

I turned to her bedroom door. It was just slightly open, allowing me to see the unruly bed. I zeroed in on a flash of light: a shimmering silver necktie, draped over her bedside lamp.

So he'd been over again.

The thought filled me with a rage so strong it made me gag. I stumbled into my room and shut the door, mumbling about homework.

"You're already going, Shin-chan?"

"Yeah, sorry. Just got some important stuff to do."

"Sure you don't need dinner?"

"I’m full.”

She left me alone after that. It was more of an act, because even with the door closed, we were only metres apart. I was almost glad when she went outside for a smoke, leaving me in quasi-solitude.

I took another deep breath. Exhaled more fumes. Told myself it did no good to dwell on him. Sat down, hands balled in rage. I flicked on my bedside lamp—same as my mother's, which we'd bought in the same budget set—and opened my school-issued laptop.

I wasn't lying when I said I had work to do. I was a third-year, after all. I was in that same academic war as everyone else. There was a lot to catch up on if I wanted to succeed. And I did… But I was thoroughly discombobulated, and focusing was impossible. I found myself surfing the internet instead. Click, click, click…

I paused on a social media tribute. It was that face again. Orange, blonde, grinning—only this time, it was the real guy. He was shaking hands with our now-assassinated longest-serving Prime Minister. They were friends, apparently. Maybe. You couldn't tell with politicians.

A kept clicking around, but that face stuck in my mind. Asako's face. It really was a sticky thing, physically and cognitively. Hard to get rid of. I kind of embraced the feeling then, so desperate for a lasting distraction.

I wondered again why she wore it. What was she trying to say? Was she serious with this world revolution talk? Serious about destroying capitalism? And then, a more important question, which had been nagging at me for a while now...

"Wait, what actually is communism?"

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