It's summer.
This city never sleeps. Cars and people crowd the narrow streets below, polluting the air with their noise and the smell of gasoline. She can hear the din from within her room, muffled through the thin glass doors that lead to the outside patio.
Madotsuki sighs hoarsely. She rolls off the bed, head and shoulders dangling over the side. She pushes herself up and her head is immediately swimming.
She's hungry. More thirsty than anything. Her mouth is so dry she swears that she's been living off of her saliva for the past week. She can't be bothered to rouse herself; it's too hot to go outside, much less get up and deal with people. She's immune to the odor of her own sweat-saturated body. She must smell disgusting. Another reason why her parents have forsaken her. She's rotting. Like stale food in a broken refrigerator.
She rolls onto her back, cradled between the floor and the bed. It's the same room. Same wooden floors. Same desk in the corner with that stupid diary. Her sister gave it to her for her fourteenth birthday. It's not been touched since, and she should feel guilty, but what's the point? She's much too tired.
Mother and Father stopped calling months ago. She never wanted them to worry. She wonders what her parents would think if they saw her now, and a pang of guilt echoes in the emptiness of her room.
She watches the clock on her wall, gets up when she can't stand it any longer. Her head is still pounding. Really, it's probably just dehydration. She fixes herself a glass of tepid water from the sink and sits back down on the floor.
The television offers twenty channels. Five of these are never working properly. The news. Some silly children's show called Nasu. Madotsuki tries watching it. It's horribly depressing, but maybe that has more to do with her gloomy outlook on life. Nasu, the titular protagonist, is truly a pathetic creature. His life revolves solely around eggplants. He can never seem to eat enough of them. And yet he is never any worse off for it. No one ever scolds him for overeating. He has no real friends. No family. He doesn't even have a house.
Madotsuki recalls something she's learned about eggplants. Something about nicotine. She can't remember it all, just the gist of it. Eggplants have nicotine. And sugar. Not much else. She decides he is foolish and vapid. His addiction is insubstantial, and he will probably die of a ruptured stomach or something equally disgusting.
He's a lot like her, really.
She switches it off. But the thought of Nasu's plight plagues her. Her head throbs dully. Madotsuki imagines a flock of birds pecking at her skull. Then they change, grow larger and become old, wrinkly women with beaks and claws and screeching voices. Get up, you lazy thing!
She almost laughs. Her sister would balk at the ease of her decline into such morbid diversions. Poor girl. Madotsuki wishes she could tell her it's not her fault that she's so grim. Tell Mother and Father they're lucky to have one successful daughter in the family.
She hasn't always been like this. She was happier, once. It seems like it was a very long time ago. It's as if she'd been living some other girl's life, and she's woken up from the dream to find herself wasting away here. Maybe her mother got intoxicated on cooking sherry. Maybe her parents secretly never wanted another child. She never thought to ask them, and she doesn't care, anyway.
She's dozing now, too tired to keep her eyes shut, but the sounds of the city are fading into a distant hum. And before she knows it, she's back in the heart of her dreams.
Where it all began.