The sun was beginning to set; the omniscient light, which had guided my hand all afternoon, began to retreat, leaving a golden orange hue as my compliment for this offering of mine—or maybe it's a warning that my aerosol art in these ancient tunnels has aggravated the spirits who lie dormant until nightfall. Still, the beauty of the light somehow outshines the pride of my creation; in fact, it breathes life into my art.
It's a wonder that I only have a few seconds to marvel at my efforts.
Following the train tracks that curve along the walls and pave the way to the heart of the tunnel, somewhere beyond lies the exit; however, with the dense forest surrounding the mountain, it becomes difficult to locate. The perfect location for my art, though part of me anguishes over the thought that my creation will never be known to others.
I glance over to my left, a shadow within the dark; however, nothing vile… unless you have the eyes of women. Leaning his back against the wall, his eyes heavy, is my close friend Masato. I've pondered on the deeds that I have done in my past life to have earned this friendship—a friendship with someone who walks through the world with one leg shorter than the other.
I walk over the bags and emptied cans, and within a few steps I'm standing over Masato. I lean in, not entirely sure how I should bring him back from his fantasy. He often tells me that his mind drifts towards fishing, but I know he's been hooked on Erina, his longtime one-sided crush, who at the very least knows of his existence.
You see, we suffer from anonymity.
Perhaps I should quit stalling and bring him out of his internal misery. I flick my index and middle fingers against his forehead. His head shifts uncomfortably, but Erina has her firm grasp on him. I flick again, this time closer to his eyes, hoping he will see the siren who has lied to him for the past hours.
This time, I am met with the most unsettling stare; his eyes have opened, but they share no recognition.
She has his soul, his heart—oh, what a tragedy!
It is unfortunate, but…
"You've left me with no choice Sato, For I shall destroy her illusion!"
I rush towards the exit, nearly falling over my untied shoes in the process. The light outside hasn't changed, but I've been warned not to play with time.
When exiting, I look towards the nearest tree; it's to my left and below the train tracks. I lower my body as I sprint downhill, finding very little grip on the green grassy terrain, my feet begging me to be cautious, but how can I when light falls in 1 hour.
I reach the bottom, but I'm forced to do a lap around the tree to slow down my momentum, falling over roots in the process.
"Uagh, that stings~"
Masato, you bastard—if only your heart was made of steel and your mind a fortress, then my actions would not have been this embarrassing.
I stand up, ignoring the pain—no point in crying about it. I drop my hands down to wipe off the dirt, no scrapes, no blood—the pain came from contact rather than a laceration.
I kneel down, towards the roots, where the soil is softer—I cup up some dirt, using my shirt as a bag—3 hands full later, I begin the ascent back up towards the tunnel.
Not all the sand returned with me, but I only need an earful.
Masato is still in a deep trance, his eyes now closed once again. His body tilting slightly—in a few moments he is likely to fall, but his current position will make this easier.
I begin to manipulate the edges of my shirt, trying to create a funneling shape.
"I should just leave you here for them; let natural selection take the reins."
I bend my posture, kneeling down—I place the funnel-edged shirt against his earlobe.
"However, if you were to perish, then I'm surely next!"
And with that, I unload my counterattack, my wrath.
The sand is quick, invasive, and suffocating, as it forces its way into Masato's brain. I get an immediate reaction. His arms flail, eyes open, and he practically levitates into the air before stumbling into the train tracks.
"Aaaugh!"
He immediately tilts his Sandunami ear towards the ground…
"What the hell, aaaugh!! What, Yoshi?! What the hell, man!" He says in a fit, slapping his hands against his head, as if it will help reverse the sand course.
He takes his fingers, practically gouging at his ears, trying to get it all out.
"Sand? You poured sand into my ear! What the heck, man? This is why I won't get a girlfriend, because now I have an ant colony growing in my brain!"
I thought he was joking, but my arms embraced a new sensation, an itch. I rotate towards the light to find that he was right; the sand was filled with tiny landowners, and they weren't happy with their home being shoved into Masato's face.
Luckily, I'm a human—an apex of the food chain—and with a few whacks from my mighty hand, I send them flying into another unseen dimension.
"You know you could have just tapped, to awake me." He says with an annoyed mumble.
I grin slightly, facing back towards him. "Oh, but I did, twice actually—but her bondage was too strong."
"Her?"
The light had grown ever so dimmer, but the red steam on Masato's face lit up the walls with a red glow.
He walks over, and I'm prepared for a nudge—a slap or even a grapple. Instead, he walks past me and towards my aerosol painting.
He looks up in silence, admiring the colors that I had carefully chosen to match the image in my head—to bring her alive.
"Yoshi… Man, are you seeing heroines without me?"
"Sato, you know I'm destined to stay a virgin."
He walks up closer, kicking the cans in his wake.
"Man, you have a talent; you could work for Miyazaki and his studio."
"I'm too young for that, and besides, the train lines are shut down."
Masato continues to stare, his eyes scanning every detail. Her dark black hair and eyes of cyan—where I really managed well was her complexion—it's a mixture of 2-dimensional and 3-dimensional detailed with thin lining; her clothing reflects autumn, but her eyes are cold as winter.
However, it's not complete; it never is…
Her skin color is undefined, the shape of her hair is a mess, and although her complexion breathes part of her to life, her expressions are distant and gone.
"This is the same girl as last time," Masato recalls, referencing the painting that stands by my windowsill back home.
"Should I be concerned?" He says, looking at me with a slight grin.
"No man, she isn't even real."
"Yoshi Every time you work on her, it's like an entity trapped within art. Are you sure she isn't a figure from the past?"
"Have you ever seen a Japanese girl with cyan-colored eyes?"
"No, but I keep on thinking—"
"No," I cut him off, not rudely—in fact, maybe I hinted at slight embarrassment.
"It's not Alison."
I say, while moving and starting to collect my things.
Alison, A girl who transferred into our high school from the foreign lands of South Africa, though her accent appears British—she is the daughter of Charlotte Wedding, a famous European actor and widow of a deceased politician.
The most surprising answer to her arrival was that she calls Masato and me her best friends.
Yep, our duo is actually a trio. Filled with two anonymous guys and one insanely rich and popular foreign celebrity.
We often make plans with Alison, mostly sightseeing or trying exotic foods—and sometimes we head out into nature reserves or centuries-old temples. I often use Alison's camera to take pictures, and if there is enough time (she mostly nags me), Alison will patiently sit or stand near a landmark, where oftentimes she breathes life into the atmosphere as I sketch her out on paper, while Masato suffocates my brain with his ever-extensive knowledge of Japanese history—this coming from the fact that he is the adopted son of 86-year-old Hiroshi Miyazawa, Nagatoro's only surviving monk.
Hence, Masato was always destined to die a virgin; may his soul remain pure for eternity.
Today, however, Masato and I are enjoying the last days of freedom, just us—the old duo, just the Machos and Manos, the musketeers, or as Ichinose would call us, 'Thing 1 and Thing 2.'
Tomorrow when the new semester begins, we'll return to the trio-triangle, which often comes with resentment and disgust from fellow classmates, but we shall manage.
"You know…" I begin as I walk ahead of Masato, down the path leading to our village. Ensuring that he doesn't walk over difficult terrain with that stubby leg of his.
"Maybe we should take her to the beach on Saturday; she hasn't been there."
I get no response; I glance back, and his eyes express a silent sigh.