01: The Aberration

He grabbed a can of mocha coffee and went to checkout. There was a small line, despite how late it was, he wagered the line had early plans tomorrow. He himself had plans, to meet a friend at the library to study before classes. He wanted at least six hours of sleep but looking at the clock behind the cashier, he knew it would more likely be four – if he was lucky. The cashier was a young woman and she smiled at him, he smiled back briefly with even shorter eye contact. He lowered his eyes to the counter between them.

The door clattered shut behind him, the bell ringing in consequence. He glanced back and saw the cashier looking at him, he paused, then looked away and went on down the backstreet the corner-store was on. It was foggy out, a sprinkle in the air, like this part of town was blanketed by a cloud. The streetlights were blurs in the dark and he felt uncomfortable. As he always did when alone at night, after all, someone orsomethingcould kill him without repercussion. It was quiet save for the distant horns of traffic. He stopped beneath a streetlight and took the mocha can from the tiny plastic bag. The sound of the can opening was louder than he hoped and he looked around, at the windows of nearby apartments and a dark alley. He was overly aware of his insomnia then, making him touch his stomach that then growled. He shook himself to remember where he placed the change then rummaged it free from his left pocket. He moved his lips silently while counting and thought, 'Should have got some snacks too. But then again...' He weighed the money. 'I am getting light on money. Very light.' He pocketed his money into different pocket and sighed.

He kept his eyes to the ground, spotting a dirty flier just before he stepped on it. It was waterlogged and faded with age, dirtied also by mud and mold, but he made out a first name and the lower-half of a face that was mostly ruined from the elements.

"Shinro..."

He unlocked his door and went inside, reversing to shut it; he rested his back on the door for a while, just staring at the dark room before him that was dimly invaded by moonlight. He sat down in bed with a heavy sigh. The apartments he lived in were soundless tonight, or maybe it was too late for anybody to make a sound. Again, the only sound he heard was traffic, even fainter now despite the thin walls. The night carried on around him while he laid in bed, his eyes shutting and opening now and then, as they normally did when he tried to sleep. 'Just do as sis told you that night. Shut your eyes. Empty yourself. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.'

It was dark when he woke up and when he checked the time on his phone, it had only been an hour. He mumbled and sat up, his back to the wall. 'What to do...' He went for the TV remote but stopped halfway. He grabbed his phone and browsed an image board for five minutes before putting his phone back on the nightstand. He toyed with the lamp's chain, debating whether to turn it on or not, ultimately deciding not to - 'I don't want to wake up yet.' He returned his back to the wall and gazed at the painting opposite him. 'I don't get it.' It was a beach at sunset, the horizon was crimson, the rest of the sky cast with gray clouds that became darker when nearing the horizon, eventually becoming black nimbus clouds. He stared at the painting for awhile longer before finally returning to rest. Just as his awareness began to fade, a tapping broke his burgeoning dreams. He peered over his shoulder, his tired vision blurred what he saw but he could still make out what was there. There was a person kneeling on the balcony, pressed against the door glass. He got up as fast his tired body could and opened the sliding door, the person collapsed in the gap he made. He knelt down and helped them – more so dragging than anything else – over to his bed where he laid them down. It was a girl. He turned on the bedside lamp and noticed that she was sullied in blood. He slightly lifted up her shirt to reveal a slash that spanned sideways across her stomach. He lowered the shirt again and left to the bathroom, rapidly and repeatedly asking himself what he should do. There was nothing useful in the mirror cabinet, just small bandages for paper-cuts and expired prescriptions he hadn't taken in years. He threw the medicine away and rushed back to the girl. He stopped. She was sitting up, her back to the wall, staring at him.

His mind was scrambled, he was unprepared for what had happened. His thoughts snapped in and out instantly, changing yet remaining the same, in that, the subject was always the girl.

He stood between the rooms, in the doorframe, looking at the girl who stared at him with a pale face. He shook his head and cleared his throat before saying, "You should rest, you don't look good…" He walked slowly towards her and she kept her eyes on him. She didn't blink, he blinked repeatedly. His hands were up, like he was begging or surrendering. Truthfully, he was trying to be nonthreatening, to get her trust, even if only slightly. He was at the beside now, he could hear her breathing now, she sounded scared.

"Are you okay?"

She tilted her head. "Are you?"

"I don't know."

"I am..." she said. "I'm okay." She smiled.

"I'll call an ambulance."

"No," she said with head-shake. "Don't do that."

"You're bleeding…"

She stared at him.

"You'll die."

She chuckled. "Probably, but not right now." She lifted her shirt. "See."

"..."

Her stomach was red but there was no gash anymore. She just looked lathered in red paint. 'A regular magician, huh...' he thought. 'Why'd she come here then? Why… here. Say that.'

"I'm glad you're okay," he said.

"You are? Really?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"H'm..." she eyed him up and down and smiled. "Why, aren't you sweet."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I hardly know you and you hardly know me. Yet you care about me, a complete stranger."

"Stranger or friend, it's human to care about people bleeding their insides out."

"Human?" She laughed, hard.

'She's fine. If she had that wound… her guts would be all over my bed right now from her laughter. She had that wound, I know she did.' He sat on the edge of the bed. He held half his face. 'Am I going crazy? Side-effects of sleep-deprivation?' He grabbed his head and sighed. "What the hell," he said. He felt a touch on his shoulder.

"It's okay."

He looked over his shoulder. She smiled at him. A purely innocent face, if he ignored the blood on her right cheek. He looked away, at the painting. It still didn't make sense to him, but somewhere within, he was able to feel it, the redness of the sky and its reflection beneath, the dark clouds forming about it; his chest hurt.

"Hey, mister."
He turned to her. "Yeah?"

"What's your name?"

"Oh, it's… Shinji Yamaoka."

"Yamaoka, what a nice name."

"And what's yours…?"

"Ah, excuse me. You can call me. Shinro Masahiro."

"Shinro..."

She smiled. "Yes. Nice to meet you, Shinji."