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The gun was not a difficult thing to procure.
That was the funny thing about America. There were guns in the hands of men, and guns in the hands of boys, and none of that mattered because they would still make more guns, guns to sell after all the boys have died, guns to replace the guns that were never lost.
They didn’t have this in Japan.
There, it was not so easy to die.
It only took Eiji a couple of months to get through all the paperwork for the permits, and the license. He had to sit through a test, had to be interviewed, had to be fingerprinted.
Then he was done.
The next day, he took the subway up to a pawn shop on 14th and 7th, asked to see the two pistols in the case, wrapped his hands around both of them, then purchased the Ruger.
The shop owner asked to see his license, before shrugging and packing everything up.
“You want to ask me if it’s killed someone before?” he asked, staring Eiji down.
“Not really.”
“Most people do.”
“Oh.”
The guy kept watching him, waiting for Eiji to press him on it. When Eiji remained silent, he just sighed and defeatedly handed over the bag. “Thanks for comin’ in.”
“Thank you,” Eiji answered.
***
Click.
Eiji pulled the camera away from his face and studied the screen for just a second before raising it again.
Click.
The lapping of the Hudson underneath the pier was lulling him to sleep and he was starting to lose focus. He frowned, looking back at the screen again. The sun was just setting on the horizon and all he was trying to do was catch the river cruise in the thick of those buttery yellows and soft pinks.
Instead he kept framing it off by just a hair.
“Shit,” he muttered, then kneeled down and started packing up his gear. The project paid, but it was stupid capitalist marketing bullshit and he was past the point of caring. He shouldered on his pack and had barely jumped out of the way of a cyclist who whizzed by as his phone started to buzz in his pocket.
“Hi,” Eiji answered, tilting his head to hold the phone against his shoulder as he redistributed the weight of his camera bag and backpack.
“You want dinner?”
Sing’s voice on the other end of the line was calm and friendly, so there was no reason for Eiji to take any offense, but Sing’s voice on the other end of the line was also predictable.
“Fine,” Eiji said, then winced at how rough he sounded.
“You alright?”
“I am fine.”
“You don’t sound alright.”
Another cyclist whizzed past, and then a woman jogged by, tugging the leash of a golden retriever. The dog barked at him, then kept running, glossy coat shining in the last remaining beams of sunlight.
“I am annoyed,” Eiji amended. “I couldn’t get the shot.”
“I thought this was a quick and easy project?”
“I mean that I got a shot, I just did not get the shot that I wanted.”
“Oh.” Sing laughed, but it sounded just a bit too forced. “Well, it’s just an advertisement, right? It’s not going in a gallery or anything! I’m sure they’ll love it.”
It was exactly the sort of supportive comment Eiji knew that Sing would make, and it was exactly the sort of supportive comment he didn’t want to hear. It was just an advertisement and it wasn’t going in a gallery because it wasn’t art.
Nothing he did was art, anymore.
“Just an advertisement,” Eiji echoed. His eyes scanned the intersection of the park before jogging quickly across the bike trail and towards the entrance. “I will still be an hour or so. If you want to get dinner, that would be nice, I will just need a little more time.”
“Oh! Sure thing, thought you were heading home already.”
“I need to stop at the grocery store,” Eiji said. The lie was easy, but they always were these days.
“Okay, then I’ll pick up what...hmm...Thai? Chinese? Pizza?”
“Does not matter.”
“Surprise then.”
“Surprise.”
“See you soon!”
“Yes, see you soon.” Eiji hung up, then pushed the phone back down into his pocket again. It only took him another couple of minutes before he was out of the park and into the roaring sounds of the city just coming to life. He looked up into the sky to the very tips of the buildings that looked like nothing more than silhouettes against the fading daylight. For years he’d smiled. For years he’d worked and laughed and joked and spoke in words that held more meaning than apathy.
For years he’d pretended to live.
Eiji let out a long sigh as he came to a busy intersection and waited for the crossing light to change. There were people bustled up all around him–a few business types in suits and tight skirts clutching briefcases, a group of women in tight sheath dresses and tall, tall heels, and another woman with another dog who also looked at him and barked.
The light turned, and Eiji crossed the street with everyone else. When they got to the other side, some walked faster, some walked slower. Some turned right, some turned left.
All of them had a destination.
Eiji walked straight, not too slow, not too fast. Apathetic like everything else.
For years he’d pretended to be whole.
Now, he was starting to crumble.
***
At night, The New York Public Library was lit up by tiny little well lights all around the building. They highlighted giant banners down the sides of the wall that advertised whatever program might be happening.
The steps were still crowded by tourists, the sound of the honking cars in the street never faded, and the twin lions looked just as deadly cloaked in shadow as they did baking in sunlight.
Eiji settled himself all the way to the side of the lowest step, shouldering off his bags and looping the straps around his feet. It was a silly practice–one his mother had told him over and over to practice when he’d first come to New York all those years ago. If someone tried to rob him, he’d feel the tug of it first.
To his left, a man and a woman were in some sort of argument about what takeout they were getting. It mirrored the conversation he’d had with Sing thirty minutes ago, but both seemed to care a lot more than Eiji had.
He leaned his head against the stone mount of the lion, cool seeping through the marble even though the day had been hot. His fingers traced along the edge of it, seeking tiny imperfections in the porous stone and lingering over each one.
Eiji tried to swallow but his throat was closing up, his chest felt too tight.
A woman stopped right next to him and bent down. For a horrifying moment, he thought she was going to speak to him, to ask if he was alright.
Instead, she worried at the back heel of her shoe, then stood and kept climbing the stairs.
A long time ago, there had been a hot dog stand across the street.
He’d walked there with…
He’d eaten there with…
He’d laughed there with…
His phone buzzed in his pocket again and Eiji reached for it, blinking fuzzy memories from his eyes.
“Eiji?”
“Hi Sing. I am sorry–”
“Hey can you pick up beer? While you’re at the store?”
Eiji closed his eyes. “Sure. Yes. I can do that.”
“Cool! Thanks!”
Pushing off the staircase, Eiji grabbed his bags again.
There was a little bodega across the street from his apartment that had the requisite beer but also had an orange and black cat with a smushed face who liked to rub against legs and purr louder than any cat Eiji had ever seen.
Tonight was no exception–the cat was twining in and out of his legs so often, Eiji almost tripped while trying to get the beer to the counter.
The man at the register didn’t look at him once, just kept his eyes on the small box television that sat at the other end of the counter.
“$8.64,” he said, bored and uninterested.
Eiji pulled out a ten and pushed it across to the guy before realizing that he’d told Sing he had to stop at the store on the way home so he should have at least attempted to buy more than just beer.
Sighing in resignation, he leaned down to pet the cat. “What is his name?”
“Huh?” the guy tapped at the register one handed, eyes still on the screen.
“His name? The cat.”
“Pumpkin.”
“Oh…” Eiji swallowed hard. He’d been in this shop hundreds of times since moving into the little apartment down the street and he’d never thought to ask the name of the cat, but now that he knew…
Everything felt just a little bit tighter again.
“Hey. You good?”
Eiji looked up into the eyes of the clerk who was now watching him with concern instead of watching the tv. He held the change out to Eiji, the beer was on the counter, and Eiji knew he’d lost time again, had just...stopped being.
“Sorry,” he murmured, quickly taking the money and grabbing the beer off the counter. “Thank you.”
He hurried out, camera bag hitting the backs of his legs, cheeks reddening in embarrassment, and eyes fixed on the ground.
***
Sing was waiting for him back at the apartment, standing from the couch as soon as Eiji pushed open the door.
“Long day?” he asked, moving to grab the case of beer from Eiji’s hands.
“I guess so.” Eiji watched as Sing walked confidently towards the kitchen. He tore into the box, cracked open a can, then looked at Eiji expectantly.
Eiji just shook his head no, and Sing shrugged, opening the fridge and pushing the box inside.
“Thai should be here in about twenty minutes,” Sing announced. He walked back over and pulled Eiji into a stiff hug before throwing himself down on the couch.
Eiji had always admired the ease and confidence with which Sing inserted himself into situations. He’d grown so much from the tiny kid Eiji remembered, and now, instead of that harsh exterior, he had this wild eyed puppy like ferocity and loyalty Eiji felt lucky to have.
He swallowed hard, sitting down on the couch next to Sing. It was a loyalty that he was going to betray, and more than anything, Sing didn’t deserve that.
“Thai?” Eiji questioned, trying to feign interest.
“Yeah, same place from last time. You liked it, right?”
Eiji nodded again. There was something lodged in his throat, something swollen and wrong.
“Eiji? You okay?”
“Do you ever think about how it is impossible to stop breathing?”
Sing looked at him, confusion wrinkling his brow.
Shaking his head, Eiji looked down at the fluffy blue carpet beneath his feet. Color, Sing had said when they bought the rug. The apartment needs color! You can’t just live there with white walls and brown floors. Come on! Color! “I like this rug,” he murmured, sock feet wriggling into it further. He was too hot, his cheeks were flushing, and it felt like he couldn’t get enough air.
“Eiji, what...you’re scaring me. What do you mean? Breathing?”
“Oh.” Eiji blinked, then pushed his glasses back up his nose. “I just mean that...I suppose even if you wanted to, you could not. Your body wants to live. It will not let go that easily.”
“Right...but...fuck, Eiji? What happened today? You don’t sound right.”
I sound exactly like I should, Eiji wanted to say, but he just sighed. “It is nothing. It is a silly thought.”
“It doesn’t sound like a–”
“There is a very famous poet in Japan,” Eiji interrupted. “I do not know if you would know him. Matsuo Bashô?”
Eiji looked up to see Sing shaking his head, but still staring at him with concern. Another flush of warmth spread through Eiji’s body and he rubbed his palms against the fabric of his pants as they began to sweat.
“He is from the Edo period. And he wrote a haiku. Well, he wrote many. But the one I am thinking of translates to...hmm. Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests that they are about to die. I think that is correct. It is beautiful.” He was babbling, he could tell he was babbling, and yet it was impossible to stop. The choking clog in his throat was dissolving and Eiji was terrified he was about to cry. He took a deep breath in instead, fisting his hands against his thighs. “It is beautiful,” he repeated.
“It sounds...very sad?” Sing asked.
His voice was full of concern, and when Eiji looked up, he saw it echoed in Sing’s eyes. Concern, and sadness, and pity.
Oh how he hated pity.
“Do not look at me like that,” Eiji snapped, suddenly angry and horribly, horribly sad.
“I’m not looking at you like that, or like anything,” Sing murmured. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I am fine.”
“You just recited an impressively dramatic haiku about death.”
I am the cicada, Eiji almost said, but it stuck at the tip of his tongue before being swallowed back down.
Sing continued to look at him warily, and so Eiji stretched, stood up, went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer, popped the top as though he were even going to drink it.
It worked. Sing talked about business associates, and secretaries with short, short skirts, and about a meeting he’d been called in for that was a waste of time.
Eiji nodded, and smiled, and thought about the library, and thought about the lions, and thought about Ash, and thought about the gun hidden underneath the frame of his bed.
The Thai was delivered.
The Pad See Ew tasted of dust, just like the last time they’d ordered it, just every meal Eiji had eaten for six years.
Sing stood to leave.
Sing hugged him.
Sing asked him if he was okay.
And Eiji nodded yes.
***
In the dream, there is nothing but hazy blue, and grey, and green, and all the colors of the sea. The water is heavy, and every inch he sinks that weight grows until it’s crushing him, grinding his bones into nothingness.
He can’t breathe, but he doesn’t want to.
Eiji, the ocean calls out, soft and sweet, and innocent. Eiji, Eiji, Eiji…
He forces his eyes open.
He forces himself to wait.
He sinks lower and lower and lower, until a shape appears above his body, a hand clasps his own, it is cold, and dead, and smells of nothing, but Eiji would know the curve of those fingers anywhere.
I am home, he tries to say, but only bubbles escape.
The weight of the water has taken every breath he has, but the hand closes tighter, and then they swim so deep there is only black, there is only nothing, there is only them.
***
The gun sat underneath his bed, tucked into its leather pouch, contained within a shoebox.
Sometimes, as the sun rose and the birds began to sing, Eiji would take it out and hold it. Sometimes he would load it, and then unload it, and then press the barrel against the side of his temple and let the cold of the metal burn into his skin.
He’d written a note once, but it seemed so dramatic, seeing everything etched into the page with the hard ink of a ballpoint pen.
Still, he tucked it into the second shoebox underneath his bed–the one filled with images of New York when it meant something to him, the one filled with images of his heart.
He wrote another note now, filled with apologies. He carefully penned the haiku that he’d read to Sing two nights prior at the bottom.
In that second shoebox, underneath all of the pictures and the first note, there was another letter–one that was limp with age, one that held the tears of a boy who died too soon. He carefully took it out and tucked it into an envelope, nestled against the note with the haiku. He wrote Sing’s name and address in looping, beautiful penmanship.
The next morning, he dropped it in the mailbox outside of his building.
***
In the quiet of night, as the moon scattered beams across the bedspread and the stars sparkled in the hazy New York sky, Eiji would cry.
There was something about the silence around him that filled him with a dread he could never shake. He tried turning on the bathroom fan for white noise, he tried keeping the window open to hear the sounds of the city below. “You should get a cat!” Sing said once, voice bright, eyes glowing in excitement as they always did when an idea struck. “Seriously! Let’s go. Let’s go, there’s a great shelter down on Centre street, my buddy at work just got a puppy, it’s the cutest fucking thing. Come on! Let’s go!”
Sing was still wearing his business suit, was still looking impossibly important, and Eiji tried to give him as much of a smile as he could.
He didn’t want a cat.
He didn’t want a dog.
He wanted Ash back.
The sort of loneliness that ate at his bones was an all-encompassing thing, and he had no plans to be around long enough to care for an animal.
He couldn’t tell Sing that, though. “Maybe,” Eiji had said, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “That might be nice.”
In the quiet of night, as the moon scattered beams across the bedspread and the stars sparkled in the hazy New York sky, Eiji would reach a hand across the bed and trace his fingers around a silhouette that a cat could never fill.
***
The phone rang five times before his mom picked up, so many that Eiji almost hung up again.
“Eiji!”
“Hi Mom,” Eiji said, brushing the hair back from his eyes. “How are you?”
“You never call me.”
“I know, I am sorry–”
“You never call, you live so far away, you never visit, how do you think that makes me feel? Your sister misses you.”
“I am sorry–”
“Your father is sick. You know that he is sick, it would make him so happy if you would visit but you stay in that city instead. There is nothing there! Why do you stay there when you could be home?”
“What is home?” The words tumbled from his mouth before he realized that he’d spoken them, and Eiji bit his lower lip hard. “I mean–”
“What is home?” his mother interrupted again. “What does that mean, what is home? What has gotten–”
“Mom.”
She stopped talking, and the silence was overwhelming. Eiji swallowed hard, closing his eyes tight. “I do not mean that. I am sorry. I just wanted to talk–”
“You sound sad,” his mom continued, not listening any longer. “You sound too sad, you sound too lonely, you have been there too long. Come home. Your sister is engaged! She told you this, I know. You will come home and there are many, many beautiful girls here, Eiji. You will be so happy.”
She went on and on, and Eiji rubbed his fingers against the marble countertops of the kitchenette of an apartment that was too big, and cost too much money, and was paid for by the blood of a boy he loved.
“I love you, Mom,” he finally said, cutting into her diatribe. “I love you. And I am sorry that I am not there.”
“You sound so sad, Eiji,” she said, repeating herself. “Please come home!”
“I love you, Mom,” he said again, then hung up.
***
The gun that lay tucked in a leather case that sat nestled in a shoebox that was pushed under the frame of Eiji’s bed was heavier in his hands than Eiji remembered.
There was a plan.
He’d packed up the apartment as best as he could, sending a small package out to Japan, sending another small package to Sing, and relegating the rest to a storage space that he’d paid for long enough that no one else would have to deal with it.
Sing knew nothing of it because Eiji kept showing up at his apartment for dinner instead of the other way around–preemptively cutting off the daily check ups.
He turned the shower on, standing for a long while and watching the way the steam fogged up the mirror, turning the sharp edges of himself into nothing more than a blur.
Eiji’s phone buzzed against the counter.
Do not answer, do not answer, do not answer–
He picked up, because it was Sing, and because nothing really mattered anymore.
“Eiji, what the fuck, I got your letter, what the fuck is going on, Eiji–”
“Oh,” Eiji said, reaching out and pressing his finger against the mirror. “It should not have gotten there that fast.”
“Eiji, fuck, Eiji listen to me. It’s not that bad, we’ll figure it out, fuck, fuck, I’m on my way over there, okay? Are you listening?”
“You do not need to come.”
“Eiji! Oh my god, fuck, can you…” Sing’s voice quieted as he talked to whoever he was with. “Call 911, oh my god, just call, I need to stay on the phone–”
“Sing, it is okay,” Eiji said, squeezing his eyes closed tight as his finger traced the looping scrawl of a name. “I am okay.”
“No, you...fuck Eiji, stay on the phone, okay? Stay–”
“I am okay,” Eiji repeated, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. He hung up, thumbed the phone to silent, then looked back at the mirror.
Ash, it said.
Ash, Ash, Ash.
He toed off his shoes and stepped into the shower.
The barrel of the gun was wet as he held it against his temple.
It was so hard to pull the trigger when Ash had lived, but now his finger slid easily into the curve of the metal.
Eiji closed his eyes, listened to the sound of the water against the fancy granite tile at his feet.
Bang
***
In the dream, there is nothing but hazy blue, and grey, and green, and all the colors of the sea. The water is heavy, and every inch he sinks that weight grows until it’s crushing him, grinding his bones into nothingness.
He can’t breathe, but he doesn’t want to.
Eiji, the ocean calls out, soft and sweet, and innocent. Eiji, Eiji, Eiji…
He forces his eyes open.
He forces himself to wait.
He sinks lower and lower and lower, waiting for that shape to appear, waiting for that hand, waiting for those fingers that curve around his wrist.
They don’t come.
I am home, he tries to say, but only bubbles escape. I came for you.
The weight of the water has taken every breath he has, and he reaches up as far as he can, but there is nothing there, nothing, nothing, nothing but the pull of the dark.