by Tristram Lowe
A noise came from the bedroom. It sounded like a thud and then something rolling. The closet door had probably fallen open again.
Sayaka lay on the couch, entangled in a blanket. She did not want to get up, not in the slightest. Her boyfriend’s golf clubs were in the closet, and the heavy bag would often lean against the door and push it open. A golf ball had likely tumbled out. Katsu hadn’t even liked golf. He had only played because his boss did.
She heard another noise, softer this time, like boxes shifting. It was probably just her boyfriend’s stuff being jostled when the golf bag fell. She extracted herself from the couch to investigate.
Sayaka hadn’t opened the bedroom closet since Katsu’s death a month before. All of his clothes were in there, and his stacks upon stacks of playing cards, which he had collected for years. There wasn’t much room in the closet for anything else. Three suitcases and a dozen shoeboxes were filled and piled against the wall. He had bought them from every tourist spot and game store he had ever visited. He hadn’t been able to leave a souvenir shop without at least three packs. Sayaka had often been frustrated with him spending so much money on cards when he had rarely taken her to dinner. “Cards are cheap!” he would say. “Dinner is much more expensive.”
“Not when you buy ten packs!” she would counter. And sometimes he had spent up to 2000 yen on one pack. But he hadn’t listened. At times she had believed his hobby was more important to him than her.
Sayaka kept her own clothes in a separate wardrobe. After Katsu had moved in, she removed her photo albums and her two boxes of old Doraemon comics and just let him have the whole closet.
Katsu’s death had sent her into a terrible depression. She had found out about it initially from the news on her little black and white television in the kitchen. “Another man’s body was found this morning at the train station here in Kofu,” the reporter said. “And like the others found in recent months, it was only the body. This man also had no head.”
Katsu had not come home the previous night. Often, he had to work late and would catch the last train from Matsumoto, where he was employed at a company that made high precision plastic products for light industrial use. He was in sales. It wasn’t rare for him to not come home. His boss would always work late, and to Katsu, it was not only disrespectful but unthinkable to leave work before the boss. Some nights, when he missed the last train, he would stay with a friend. But he would always call.
She had known that the reporter was talking about Katsu. She felt it in her gut. She didn’t answer her phone for two days. Finally the police came to the door. The body had been identified by fingerprints. The police questioned her extensively while she sat numbly answering. They wanted to know where she had been, what their relationship was like, and why she hadn’t filed a missing persons report. In the end, they accepted that she was simply overwhelmed with loss and couldn’t possibly be the killer.
Sayaka had returned to her job after a week leave of absence and now went through her days like a zombie. She declined all of her co-workers’ offers to go to their local izakaya for drinks after work. Their weak attempts to console her with alcohol and mindless camaraderie made her want to be alone all the more.
Her apartment was empty, dusty, and quiet. The blinds hadn’t been opened in weeks.
Her TV hadn’t been turned on since its dreadful announcement of her boyfriend’s death. It sat on the dumb waiter, dried ramen draped over the edge of the screen from when she had flung her bowl at it days later, recalling the broadcast. She wanted silence but couldn’t find it. Even when it was quiet, the words replayed in her mind.
This man also had no head.
The neighbor’s TV would sound through the wall some days. It didn’t matter what it was playing. In between lines of cooking shows and anime episodes, she would hear it.
This man also had no head.
She would put pillows over her ears to try to block it out. She wanted to put a pillow over her mouth to smother herself.
If only that would work.
Sometimes, she sat in the dark quietly weeping. Three times, she had dropped to her knees to pray, but no words would come. So she would collapse to the floor, her long black straight hair pooling on the hardwood, mingling with the dust. Eventually she would fall asleep.
But she did not dream of Katsu.
She dreamt of samurai.
Her father had told her time and again that they were descendants of samurai from western Honshu. Sayaka’s skin was far paler than normal. He claimed that was proof of their nobility.
When she was a girl, this had meant something to her. Now they were useless words, memories of a man she never saw anymore.
In her dream, her skin was white as chalk.
She stood in a vast garden surrounded by castle walls. She wore the finest kimono of pale purple with peonies adorning the wide sleeves. Bellflowers were intricately patterned across her chest, while irises blooming by a running stream encircled the hem.
Cherry blossoms fell all around her and blanketed the ground like pale pink snow. In her hand, she held a slender naginata, its long black handle ending in a short curved blade resting among the blossoms and dripping blood.
In front of her lay a dead crane.
She looked down at it with remorse, scanning its slender body and long neck. There was no wound that she could see. But it was clearly dead.
Had she killed it?
She looked up and saw people lining a balcony. She did not know them. Their faces were grave, dire and judgmental. They looked down at her with anger, with disappointment and disgust.
The flowers slipped from her kimono like leaves drifting from a tree, and the fabric’s purple hue began to darken. It became deeper and deeper until it was nearly black. She fell to her knees, dropping her bloody weapon, and cradled the crane in her arms, but it dissolved into worms and ash. It fell through her fingers, repelling the cherry blossoms, which retreated from it like feathers in a sudden gust of wind.
She looked up and saw streams of light burning through the castle walls like fire through paper, burning through the people, who seemed oblivious to it. Playing cards fell through the gaps in the walls. Queens and aces, kings and jacks, clubs, diamonds, spades and hearts of all numbers fell to the ground where the cherry blossoms had just been. But now they landed in ash and dirt, and were eaten by the worms.
Sayaka hated that she didn’t dream of Katsu, only of his damned cards. She resented her father for filling her head with the nonsense about samurai. It took up the dreamscape that her dead lover should be occupying.
It was Sunday, the day they used to walk together in Maizuru Castle Park, the day they would get crepes with ice cream and lay on the grass, the only day of the week they had time to be intimate. They would lie in bed afterward, dreaming of a house together on an island somewhere. They would have a farm, and maybe children.
She knew that just picking up his golf clubs would make her cry, but she had to do it eventually. She had been sleeping on the couch since it happened. She had avoided the bedroom altogether, but she knew she had to deal with it now. He was gone.
She had to accept that.
Opening the bedroom door, she discovered she was right. The closet door was wide open and Katsu’s olive green golf bag was prostrate on the floor, its clubs splayed out and pointing accusations at her. A battered golf ball had rolled most of the way across the hardwood and stopped just where she now stood. Steeling herself to the task in front of her, she picked up the golf ball and took one stiff step toward the closet.
She stopped abruptly. Someone was in there.
A large figure was hunched over in the closet. The shock of it made her breath catch. Someone had broken in. But worse than that, this intruder appeared to be in full samurai armor. It was like a figure from her dream had come to life. He barely fit inside the closet; hanging clothes were draped against the complex pieces of the yoroi carapace. A sheathed katana protruded from his left hip like a huge black tongue. His menacing kabuto helmet—a leering many-toothed dragon face adorned its front with ears like reptilian wings and twisting horns spiking upward—had been removed and placed next to the golf bag. His focus was intent on the contents of a shoebox. He sifted through the playing cards within, admiring each pack.
Fear froze Sayaka for a moment, but she quickly felt violated and angry. Her boyfriend was dead, and now someone was looting through his cards! She no longer cared that this intruder was in armor. The freak must have climbed through the window. She noticed it was wide open.
Without thinking, she shouted at the armored stranger and hurled the golf ball at him. “Stop it! Leave those alone! They’re not yours!”
The samurai in the closet lurched upward, banging his head on the shelf above him, and turned to face Sayaka, a gruesome scowl of hatred embossed on his face. It was otherworldly, too pronounced to be real. It was a face of pure fury glaring at her. A pack of cards fell from his large, gauntleted hands.
The face was gray and bloodless. The teeth that showed through its scowl were an awful yellow with thick grime in the gaps. The eyes were wet, almost teary, but the pupils were a dead and lifeless black; no human soul resided there.
The black hair was matted and unkempt. So often had she told Katsu to brush his hair. It had always looked a wreck, but he had never cared.
The cheeks were hanging; the skin looked like burlap; the eyes were empty, but it was Katsu's face. It was unmistakably his face twisted into that angry, unfamiliar grimace. But it was most definitely not his body. The body that wore her lover’s head was much larger than Katsu's. He had always been on the scrawny side. And besides, his body had been cremated three weeks ago.
Sayaka stood, unable to move. Her love had come back to her. But this reincarnation of him was unforgivably wrong. Her guts begged to cry out, but nothing came. Her lips did not even move, save a tiny, almost imperceptible quiver.
Then, in one swift and graceful movement, the katana’s blade flashed from its scabbard and severed the air on either side of Sayaka’s neck. In the same movement, the samurai with Katsu's face shook the drops of blood from the blade and re-sheathed it silently.
At first, it felt only like a cool breeze had passed just beneath her ears, then a tickle in her throat like the start of a cold. Then she was dizzy and the room spun around her until she was staring up at what looked like her own clothes still on her body, jeans and a lime green t-shirt. A fountain of red pulsed from her empty neck. Then her body collapsed. And her eyes went dark.