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An intangible chill nips at your fingers. Extra force exerted just to press them against your phone screen. You cradle it against your ear when it starts to sing. You aren’t sure if it’s more canary or mourning dove. Will you be doomed by an answered prayer, or an ignored one? Which is worse? Which hell is more real?
Shoulders shaking, salt warms your face in waves. You wipe at the waterfalls. What a waste, you think. You can’t afford to cry.
...It’s not like you’ll be here much longer. The phone continues to sing it’s pathetic chiptune. You’d laugh, but there’s a coil around your neck pulling tight. Barbs digging into your throat with every breath you dare to take.
You glance around the room. Baren and disgusting, just like you. An empty sort of resignment. Rolled up posters and anime figurines crumpled and broken by the wastebin. Mold on the walls, you think. Dancing at the corners of your vision every time you blink.
She isn’t going to pick up. You know she isn’t. She said what she wanted to say when the killing game ended. Which is to say- nothing at all. You know she won’t pick up. She blocked Nagawa and Shigeki and Takeshi’s numbers.
You’re a bit excited to die, you think. It seems like something that would feel nice if you know it’s coming. The difference between a midday nap and getting drugged. You hope it feels like falling asleep, when it comes.
In your dreams, everyone you’ve ever known is happy. You talk to them, and they say nothing. You wave your hands at them, immaterial, but it doesn’t disturb them. They laugh loudly together, and you watch like a voyeur. Always the observer. All you’ve ever wanted is to be dead.
She’s not going to pick up. Hope surges within you. She isn’t going to pick up, and no one can blame you when you die. You’ve made your token effort. You get to be done, soon. You just have to wait for the pretty song to end. Canary, canary. What a pretty bird.
You wonder what it feels like to be the Canary. How is an avian meant to understand it’s being used? All it knows how to do is to sing. Who does it call for? A mate? Does it consider the humans to be its companions? Is it a song of longing, or shared joy? You don’t know, you don’t know. Maybe Hasegawa could’ve told you. Another lifetime. Another world away.
She’s not going to pick up. It shouldn’t make your insides twist, the way it does. That’s what you want, right? You were born wanting to die. You’ve chased it with every regrettable breath. And yet... It curdles a bit, the thought of it.
You don’t know why. What life is there for you to live? Holding the shadows of ghosts in your pockets? All you do is copy. All you do is shatter. All you do is reflect. None of your wishing will bring them back, and none of your musings will make you better. You can’t copy your way into a better person. You’ll be a mausoleum until the day you die.
So wouldn’t it be nice to just...?
Maybe it’s the abandonment. If she doesn’t pick up, then that’s it. The universe giving you the final sign. You ask it to lead you, and then you must follow. If you ask to be loved and it denies you, then you are not meant to be loved. If you ask to be rid of pain and it denies you, then you are meant to suffer. If you ask how to be free and it tells you, then you put the razor where it shows you.
Maybe it’s the abandonment. If she doesn’t pick up, then that’s it. That’s Ruiko giving up on you. That’s all of them, quietly, giving up on you. Without saying it. Yanagi gave up on you when he let you starve yourself. Ojima gave up on you after Okazaki. Hiroaki gave up on you when he apologized to Tamba, but never to you. And.
And Ruiko hasn’t abandoned you yet. This is her chance to.
Ice runs through your teeth as you suck in air, a part of you wishing you could breathe in something toxic. Something to make the choice for you.
Ruiko is making the choice for you. Or are you making a choice for Ruiko? It doesn’t matter, she’s not going to pick up.
It would’ve been nice, maybe. Maybe you would’ve liked saying goodbye. It could’ve, maybe, been nice to hug her one last time. You only did it once before. And you never talked about it after. But you remember. She was so strong, and she smelled like banana. It was such a specific scent, you nearly laughed. But you’d feel bad for laughing after hugging a girl. What a strange thing.
You’re such a dirty person.
No wonder she won’t pick up. Maybe she can sense it. If she can, she deserves a medal. A world with less you in it is a better one. If she’s helping that, then she’s a hero. Or something. Something. It hurts to think about. You don’t want to die. But you do, right? Isn’t that why you’re doing this?
You can’t keep track. Your whole body feels hurt. Chopped to bits and tied in wire. Wouldn’t that be nice, you think. No, no. You’re trying to escape the pain. The pain you deserve, so. Maybe you really are going to hell.
She’s not going to pick up. You have to make peace with that now, or you’re going to make things harder for yourself. Every note is an opportunity to reach nirvana. Give up these worldly things. You only have so many chances to do that. The grains of sand are limited for you. The ringtone only has so many notes. You can’t delay this forever, so you have to make peace now.
She’s not going to pick up. The ice spreads inside of you. Phone doing nothing to warm or soothe you. It’s starting to sound like execution music instead of a lullaby. Both dragging you to the end.
She’s not going to pick up. Your stomach is so tight. Squeezed and rolling and doing backflips, somehow. Lots of things organs aren’t supposed to do.
She’s not going to pick up. That has to be okay though, right? You have to be okay with that. You’re dying and you have to be okay with that.
She’s not going to pick up. You think you might choke on whatever this feeling is. It might suffocate you. What a horrible way to die. It must be what you deserve.
She’s not going to pick up. You entertain the idea, for a moment, that you don’t have to die. You imagine a life with sun peaking through the windows and warm food on the table. A skirt you can smooth down and mess with when nervous.
You imagine Ruiko, smiling at you from across the table. Teasing you for sleeping in. Hugging you, the two of you laughing when you smell her perfume.
The song stops. You suck in a breath.
It’s over, then.
Despite yourself, a wail bursts from you. Tears cascading down your cheeks in a flurry of movement. Snot dribbling down your chin, because of course it does. You’ve never been able to cry pretty.
You wanted. You wanted something more than dying. What a fool you are!
You wanted Ruiko. You wanted to hug her again. You wanted to talk to her again. You wanted to tell her she was pretty. You wanted, selfishly, for her to return the compliment. You wanted to get food with her. You wanted to be girls together. You wanted you wanted you wanted you-
“...Masa?” Ruiko’s voice comes to you, hesitant and awkward. You stop, choking.
“Ruiko?” Question for question. Name followed by name. A silly dance. Ruined by your awful voice.
“Are you- Um.” She sounds different than you remember. Maybe it’s the phone. Maybe it’s been too long. Has your brain already corrupted her face, you wonder? “What’s going on?”
“I don’t wanna die.” You say. As if that makes any sense. As if what you want matters.
“What-” She sounds horrified. You remember what that sounds like more clearly than you want to. Your brain is so horrible, clinging to the worst moments of the people you love. “Where are you, Masa?”
You think you hear movement. Putting on a coat? Keys jingling? You can’t be sure.
“I’m at my house.”
She swears, the bite in it reminding you of Kamimura. Your mouth twitches into a smile.
“Okay- Fuck, okay.”
You think she might be running, judging by the background noise.
“How long do you have?” She asks, a bit breathless.
You blink. How long do you have?
“I don’t know.” You admit, picking at a hole in your jeans. “I just- I...” You gulp, everything suddenly feeling so hard. “I stopped eating. Or-... I don’t know. Rui, I don’t know...” You devolve back into sobs, language impossible to wrangle.
She curses again, softer this time.
“That’s- I’m going to get there, okay? I just...” Ruiko laughs, slightly manic. “I’m gonna fucking get there!”
All you can do is nod your head, eyes half lidded, phone pressed as close as it can get. It’s a new song. You think if this one ends, it’s over for you.
“NISHIGORI!!!” Ruiko calls to someone in her world. “I need your car!”
You can’t catch the other person’s response, and Ruiko puts the phone somewhere that muffles her words, but after about three minutes of indistinct chatter- sound rushes back to you. She’s laughing again. Manic and proud of herself.
“I’m coming, Masa!” She shouts to you.
“...Okay.” What else can you say?
“I mean it, Masa. I’m coming. Wait for me.” You hear the car engine roar to life, and wonder how many laws she plans to break to get to you. “You aren’t going to die, okay? Wait for me.”
It takes you a second to process, it feels so strange to think. But from the way her voice shakes... you think she might be crying for you.
“I-...” She’s coming. For you. She doesn’t want you to die. Tears bloom anew. “I-I’ll wait for you.”
“Good.” Ruiko replies, sounding relieved and terrified in equal amounts.
You wonder if, maybe, you don’t have to die. The life you dreamed of feels so impossible, but so did the idea of Ruiko picking up. It’s why you called her, after all. Nagawa would’ve stopped everything. Shigeki would be over in an instant. Takeshi is always close enough to help.
You still aren’t sure what you want. Fantasizes of suicide mixing with dreams of Ruiko- oil and water. You can’t have both, and you don’t know what you want.
But Ruiko wants you to live, it seems.
Maybe it’d be easiest to give into that.