"That'd be 150 yen sir."
The 7-11 convenience store cashier tossed a pack of Mevius onto the table. The man stood there impassively, one middle-aged guy with a full-on greasy beard, looking very bored and very much hating his job.
Osamu Murakami took out his wallet and flipped it open.
Fuck. Only a 100 yen bill left.
He looked hopefully from his sad wallet to the other man, for who couldn't understand a man's need to smoke a few?
The cashier looked unimpressed. "No cash no cigs."
The cashier reached for the cigarettes, but Osamu leapt for the cigarettes first and grabbed onto them desperately. He hadn't had a single smoke for a week, waiting for his next monthly allowance from home, as the past month's allowance had all but gone into the air, and yet a single letter from the school had dissipated even his last hope of cash from home. His father had sent a letter with only the words 'goodbye son', after reading his report card.
"PLEASE! PLEASE! I NEED THESE, I NEED THESE NOWWWWW!"
The small tug-of-war fiercely ensued for five seconds, before the cashier, with a final mighty pull, tore the pack away and in half and sprayed the cigarettes everywhere in a mess. The other man reddened, and if this was some weekly magazine manga the man would've snorted steam and shot lasers out of his eyes.
"That's it. I'm calling the cops." The cashier grabbed his phone out of his back pocket.
Osamu dropped to his knees frantically and scrabbled for a few loose cigarettes before bursting into a run and rushing off into the dark, leaving a quiet little store and a mightily pissed-off cashier behind yelling "Hey! Hey!"
After he'd safely hid in the back of some random alley behind a darkened Tonkatsu place, Osamu leaned against the wet brick wall and lit a cig. He smiled in relief, and his heart was beating fast, but he felt as if he should cry.
His failing this year had been the last straw. Last summer his father had stood in the living room, arms crossed, looking like some Japanese Hitler with his little moustache.
"If you fail your course again don't come back to this house."
Yes. He'd been studying Literature in University three years now, and he's still in his first year.
The Eternal First-Year. That's what they called him both behind closed doors and straight to his face. His initial friends had drifted apart from him, no longer wishing to hang out with the guy who never advanced, and his bestie from year one even spread rumors behind his back, a complete back-stabbing bitch, that one.
Pooh. The Eternal First-Year. Sounds like some title for a second-rate webnovel with an AI cover.
Fuck. If only I hadn't studied literature. If only all those great writers hadn't been so good then I wouldn't have wanted to write stuff. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It's no use anyways, for he couldn't even change courses as he was specially admitted due to his past writings -unfortunately the Demon Professor Aburaya of the Tokyo University's literature course hated him, and his fantasy writings -saying that they were less than human. Pooh. What a bitch.
Anyhow, now he squatted alone in the unlit back alley somewhere not far away from his dorm, contemplating where to go next. Continuing school was impossible without funding, and his father told him to stay far away from home. Without cash, without a degree and no job, he was the next best homeless Tokyo resident, ready to join forces with the Communists.
He finished his cig and rose, stumbling along the dark sidewalk. It was so quiet tonight, he thought. Without knowing it, he'd walked straight up the stairs and out onto the roof of his dorm, the place where he'd once had people to share his beers.
Now he didn't even have the cash for beer.
He sat on the edge of the roof, feet dangling like past times, good old times, and smoked another Mevius. Mevius Menthol 8. What a divine blessing humankinds have received. One draft and the worries of the hearts dampen, two drafts and the mind rises above the clouds. Beautiful.
"Hey."
A girl called from behind and broke Osamu's little bubble of reverie -and he turned around so fast he slipped and lost his seating.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" He scrambled for something to grab as he teetered and leaned over the side.
FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The girl was none other than his goddess, the golden-haloed Fumiko of Tokyo University literature course, secretly a Fantasy lover as well -Osamu had once spied a copy of Earthsea peeking out from her sack. She looked heavenly now too, even if her face was marred with worry as she rushed over to save him. Ah. Beautiful moments.
She grabbed him by the arms and locked onto the railing as she pulled, her doll-like face scrunched with effort.
"Fuck! Please! I don't want to die!" He squirmed as he tried to find footing on the treacherously smooth cement.
"Fuck! Shut the bleep up and climb!"
That's when he noticed the railing giving way.
"Move away! Leave me! Fuck! The railing's coming off!"
Fumiko's expression changed to horror, and she heaved with one final effort.
The railing snapped and she crashed into him as they both fell.
He held her in his arms as they spiralled down.
He didn't even get to publish his Saga of Ral-Drakarn.
Like when he didn't get to say goodbye to his mother in the hospital.
And all went dark.
Ker-splat.
The end.