Chapter Eleven - Regret
As soon as Homura was across the street she reached into her pocket and dialed Toby's number, pressing the phone against her ear so hard it made the skin go numb. Her legs worked on autopilot, though she had no idea if she was heading in the right direction or not.
It was the middle of the night. He might not pick up. But Homura didn't care. A seething mass of shock, pain and anger roiled in her chest. Her heart raced in flight from an all too familiar feeling: fear.
The phone rang three times. Four. Five. Just as Homura was about to give up, someone picked up.
"Hello?" Came a tired sounding voice.
"Toby," Homura said immediately, "Did you call my phone earlier?"
"Well yes, as a matter of fact I did. Trying to get a hold of you this week has been a nightmare-"
"What did you say to her?" Homura demanded, cutting him off.
"Your friend? She said you were out so I told her I need an update by this weekend. She also mentioned your real name, which I apologize for if you were trying to keep that private. But you have my word that I won't tell anyone."
The world spun slowly around her as she crossed the main street from earlier. She came to a stop on the sidewalk, putting a hand against the stoplight to steady herself.
"What else did you tell her? Did you reveal any information about the manuscript? Anything at all?"
"Other than that it exists, no. But I did tell her my full name and what company I work for."
Her stomach clenched; she thought she might be sick. It was enough. The smallest, seemingly insignificant scrap of information, but it was enough to bring everything crashing down.
The world began to recede from her senses. The roar of the cars passing her by faded into nothing. She felt suddenly like she was staring at herself from within, detached from anything occurring on the outside.
"Su…Homura? What's wrong? Did I say something I shouldn't have?"
Homura took a deep shuddering breath and leaned her back against the stoplight. She closed her eyes and began to speak, her words rushed and garbled.
"Toby, you…can't. Don't just start saying things to people you don't know. What if she was a stranger? What if I didn't actually know her? You don't know what I have going on in my life. Why, Toby? Why did you have to tell her? If only you hadn't…if you hadn't said anything, it would have been fine. I don't want you to speak to anyone except me about this from now on. I don't want people to know. Personal reasons. Do you understand? No one can know. I have no choice, so you have to understand that I-"
Her senses abruptly returned to her all at once, and she realized she was practically shouting into the phone. Several passerby were giving her odd looks. The people sitting in their cars at a red light stared at her, their eyes numerous and all seeing.
She cut herself off. Her forehead was drenched in sweat. Toby said nothing for several seconds. When he did speak it was in a calm tone.
"I don't pretend to know your personal situation. But it seems I may have overstepped my bounds. For that I apologize, Ho…Sunako. It won't happen again, I promise."
Homura shook her head, putting a hand against her forehead. "No. No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted. I'm sorry."
"That's fine. Listen, if you need more time, we can find a way to make it work. It won't be easy, but it's better than stressing yourself out. Take care of yourself; you're still very young, unlike me."
"No…I'll have an update ready. I promise."
"If you can. But don't fret about it too much."
"Goodnight, Toby."
"Goodnight, Sunako."
Madoka did not get any sleep that night.
She spent the next several hours scouring the Internet for any trace of information on Sasaki Arata. It was well past midnight when she began her search, and as the number of tabs in her browser increased dawn grew ever closer.
But in the end there wasn't much. The sparse bio attached to his company profile seemed to be the only public information available.
It's him. There's no doubt. But what's his connection to Homura? Do they even know each other?
It was nearly four in the morning when she was about to give up and close all her tabs. Her laptop was low on battery and on the verge of death. But just as she prepared to close her computer, a link buried deep within her search results caught her eye. It caught her attention because some of the words were familiar.
Her finger shook slightly from lack of sleep as she dragged it across the trackpad.
It was an online database of every book in the possession of the Mitakihara University Library. Seemingly unrelated, but there was a match. The library owned one book written by a certain Sasaki Arata.
Madoka's bloodshot eyes squinted at the pale glow of the screen. The kanji was the same. It was most likely him; it wasn't a common name. She caught the title of the book he had supposedly written.
The Glass Garden.
A memory returned to her then, tiny but significant. The night she met Homura for the first time. The girl was sitting on the floor of the library with a book cradled in her hands. Through the fog of her memory she recalled the title set into the faded cover of the book.
A deep sense of fear pierced her chest. But she didn't know what to make of it.
He and Homura are connected somehow. The book has something to do with it. What's the answer? Is Homura hiding something?
Has she been lying to me?
Panic rose up and swamped her, sudden and suffocating. Something was afoot, she knew, but her ignorance was as deep as her suspicion. It was the same sick, awful feeling she got when she visited home. Her breathing became shallow; it felt like she was hyperventilating.
Shaking her head violently, she rose and went to the bathroom, where she dunked her head under a cold stream of water. After washing her face she looked at her reflection in the mirror. A gaunt expression stared back, dark bags clinging to the corners of her eyes.
It's happening again. Everything's falling apart. Is it my fault? It's always me.
Returning to her room, she laid in her bed and tried to go to sleep. Exhaustion dragged at her bones but her anxiety, fickle and buoyant, kept her consciousness afloat. Madoka laid with her eyes fixed on the ceiling until the sun began to rise behind her curtains, and birds chirped in the street outside.
She left her bed and took a shower. Afterwards she put on some outdoor clothes and gathered her things, heading for the door.
As she slipped into her shoes she heard Sayaka stir in her room. As her roommate's door opened, a tired voice called out from the hall.
"Madoka?"
But Madoka was already gone, the door closing softly behind her.
The campus library wasn't open yet when Madoka arrived. She stopped by a small breakfast place across the street, ordering a hash brown and eggs. The waitress who brought her food complimented her outfit. Madoka did not respond. The waitress frowned and walked away.
Once she had eaten she ordered a large cup of coffee and downed it in one go. She then went to the front entrance of the library and loitered there until someone came to unlock it, an elderly woman who smiled and wished her good morning. Madoka nodded wordlessly before slipping inside.
Locating the book was rather easy. She took the elevator up to the floor where she first met Homura, following her memory to the shelf where the girl had sat curled up and alone. After scanning the volumes with a finger for a few moments she found it, a small battered thing that smelled vaguely of dust.
She checked it out and made the short walk to the lush green lawn that occupied the center of campus. Typically it was crowded with students taking lunch under the city sun, but this early in the morning it was empty. Madoka picked a wooden bench beneath the shade of a cherry tree, setting the book on her lap. It was rather thin, so light that she had to keep looking at it to make sure it was there.
A lively summer wind stirred around her shoulders, urging her forth. She opened the book and began to read.
Long ago, a girl named Calliope was the most beautiful in her small seaside town. Lush hair as dark as the sea at night fell to her waist. Her fingers were long and graceful, and her eyes betrayed an intellect that lurked beneath her kind expression. The men sang her praises when she walked down the street, and the women bickered jealously amongst themselves. All the town's residents wondered aloud who would be so blessed as to wed the beautiful Calliope.
As she grew into marriageable age, Calliope spent much of her time alone. Her father, who desired a significant dowry in exchange for his only daughter, forbade her from mingling with other women or flirting with men to preserve her purity. She spent her formative years in a beautiful garden her father built for her, surrounded on all sides by high walls that blocked the sun in the mornings and twilights.
The flowers in this garden were crafted painstakingly from glass. During the day they sparkled so brightly they were nearly blinding; at night their soft glow lulled her to sleep. These were the only flowers Calliope knew; flowers that were perfect, beautiful, and artificial.
Beyond the garden walls, suitors competed for Calliope's hand in marriage. Two men, a wealthy merchant and a renowned painter, emerged as the top contenders. Calliope's father, seeking to drive up the asking price, played both men against each other. The two suitors competed with gifts of wealth and connections, and boasted of their various accomplishments. Residents of the town formed two separate camps for each man, arguing back and forth over who was more worthy to wed Calliope.
The girl's father, in the meantime, enjoyed the great treasures hoisted upon him. Agents on both sides resorted to deception, trickery, and sabotage to gain the upper hand. It seemed the war for Calliope's heart would never cease. The rivalry between the merchant and the painter frothed and broiled to a breaking point; then in the dead of night, the painter slipped into the merchant's home and slit his throat.
Tragedy and chaos gripped the seaside town the following morning. The merchant's sister, who was the first to discover her brother's corpse, became filled with rage and sought out the murderous painter's home. Using a torch, she set alight the storage shed where he kept all of his uncompleted works. When the painter rushed inside to save his creations, she locked the door and listened as he burned to death within.
The merchant's sister then wrote a letter in ink addressed to Calliope, vilifying her for causing the death of her brother. She tied the message to a stone and hurled it over the wall of the glass garden, where it landed beside Calliope.
Young Calliope read this message, and came to learn of the catastrophic deeds wrought in pursuit of her hand. She looked up and saw the pillar of smoke rising from the direction of the painter's shed. Young Calliope, whose dream was to one day leave the garden and at last meet her husband, came to abhor her own beauty for the agony it had brought.
That night she crafted a mask to hide her own face behind for the rest of her days. She was very skilled with her hands, and the mask she created was so grotesque as to disturb the imagination. Even the mercenaries hired to stand guard at the garden entrance shuddered when they caught a glimpse of it. It was a manifestation of self loathing and disingenuity. She fixed the mask to her face and wore it through her subsequent days in the garden, never removing it.
Despite the tragedy of the merchant and the painter, new suitors continued to clamor for Calliope's hand in marriage. Her father, distraught and disturbed, ordered his daughter to remove the mask. When she refused, he struck her. But even still she refused, and he left the garden in a rage.
The guards gave her a wide berth, unnerved by their mistress's appearance. Calliope took advantage of this to slip out of the garden on the night of a new moon. Under cover of darkness she fled, disappearing into the mountains with the hideous mask still fixed to her face.
In the morning her father returned to the garden to reason with his daughter again. When he arrived he found only a sea of glass, the flowers that had been so painstakingly crafted smashed to pieces.
Madoka closed the book when the sun rose high enough to strike her eyes. She was only about a third of the way into the story, but felt no desire to read any further. Her hope had been to learn something about Homura by reading it, but in hindsight it was a fool's errand. She didn't know what she could glean from this, if at all.
Madoka set the book aside and sat still on the bench for a long time, watching the lawn slowly fill with students. She left when someone sat on the unoccupied half of the bench, her mind haunted by images of demon-like faces and hungry men.
As she walked she did searched up a route on her phone. Her eyes glanced over the results as she made a beeline for the train station. She caught one and took it uptown, her eyes staring sightlessly out the window.
She recognized the station she got off at. It was the same one she had left from with Homura, when they ran into each other at the cafe in the rain. The same homeless man was still sitting against the wall. His sunken eyes flickered in recognition when they saw Madoka, but this time she passed him by, her thin figure disappearing up the steps.
The Toshoukan Publishing building was easy to find; it loomed large against the sky. Madoka lingered in front of the entrance for several minutes, clenching and unclenching her hand around her bag. Tall men in suits gave her suspicious glances as they left the building. After nearly ten minutes she brought herself to enter, the cool air inside the lobby almost shocking against her sweaty skin.
Once inside she found her path to the elevators blocked by a set of turnstiles. When Madoka spoke to the woman behind the desk she was asked about an appointment, which she did not have. She even begged the woman to call Sasaki Arata's desk and say Junko Kaname's daughter was there to see him. The woman rolled her eyes and obliged, but in the end she was shooed away from the lobby. Apparently Mr. Sasaki had no idea who she was.
After leaving the building she took a long walk by the river. It felt like she had run out of options.
She came to a stop then, along a section of the riverbank where she could see the new boardwalk she had visited with her mother. It wasn't true. There was still one more thing she could do. But it was a terrifying thing, a solution perhaps more dangerous than ignorance. She didn't know if she could do it.
But you always do this, don't you? Run away. You couldn't confront Mama, or Sayaka. Now Homura's next. And then there will be nobody.
From the very beginning Madoka had harbored a fear of the truth. But she came to realize, along that quiet riverbank of memories, that she was tired of feeling regret.
Homura came home past midnight and slept fitfully. She had a nightmare of being chased by something. When she awoke it was only five in the morning, but she could not fall back asleep.
There's no guarantee that Madoka will find out. But there's no guarantee that she won't.
She washed her face in the sink. When she looked at her reflection in the mirror she was shocked by how haggard she looked. She splashed more water against her face, rubbing her eyes until they were red.
Afterwards she forced a small breakfast down her throat and collapsed onto the couch. A sinister cloud of thoughts bogged down upon her. A striking sense of fear gripped her, so deep as to be undeniable.
I don't want to lose her.
The memory of Madoka's touch returned to her. Homura shuddered as she recalled the sensation of the girl's skin.
But I deserve to.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Kyouko's bedroom door creaked open. The redhead emerged quietly from within, more quietly than Homura had ever seen.
"You're up early," she said.
Homura turned her face away, hiding it in the swaths of dawn shadow. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. "I thought you were with Sayaka."
"I was. But things got a little awkward."
Homura said nothing. Kyouko went into the kitchen and had a glass of water before turning to face her roommate.
"Madoka seemed kind of upset last night." Kyouko eyed Homura. "Did something happen between you guys?"
Homura felt her stomach turn over at the girl's words. A dull roaring rose up in her ears, nearly drowning out the sound of her own voice.
"Nothing you should concern yourself about."
Kyouko raised an eyebrow. "You sure? She seemed pretty messed up. And Sayaka's been saying she's been acting weird lately. Normally I wouldn't care, but it's affecting Sayaka."
Homura gritted her teeth and looked away. "I said nothing happened."
Her heart was hammered insistently in her chest. She felt acutely aware of her own pulse. A cold sweat seeped through her pores and drowned her in its freezing grip. She felt suddenly short of breath and her vision, usually so sharp, swam in and out of focus.
"Maybe you did something to hurt her."
The words stabbed her in the gut, painful and searing hot. The couch scraped loudly against the floor as she rose. "I would never-"
Abruptly the world spun around her, and she sagged down to her knees. Kyouko's stern expression grew concerned as Homura collapsed, clutching her chest and gasping for breath.
"Hey, what's wrong? Are you okay? Hey!"
Kyouko knelt down to help her, but Homura waved wildly with one hand. She dragged herself up and staggered to the bathroom, her soft groans echoing off the walls. Kyouko followed, flicking on the bathroom light for her.
It felt like something evil and alive was trying to force its way out of her. Homura fell over the toilet and retched, her entire body shuddering violently. Kyouko quickly gathered the girl's hair and held it back, pinching her nose. There wasn't much to get rid of, other than the paltry breakfast Homura had forced herself to eat, but for some reason her body kept heaving for several minutes, as if possessed.
The bout left her hollow. Homura leaned against the cold bathroom wall, breathing heavily. Kyouko flushed the toilet and hoisted her roommate up, pushing her towards the sink.
"Come on. Wash your mouth out."
While Homura gargled, Kyouko left and returned with a glass of water from the kitchen.
"Drink this. It's warm."
She took the glass and downed it slowly. Hot liquid burned down her throat and settled in her stomach. Heat blossomed in her core, slowly spreading through her body.
Homura set the glass aside and gripped the sink with both hands. She was still weak on her knees. Her breathing felt shallow, her mind a maelstrom. Kyouko watched her carefully from the hallway.
"What happened?" She asked softly.
Homura shook her head. "…Nothing."
"That's bull," Kyouko snapped, grabbing the girl's shoulder. "You're a mess. If you tell me maybe I can help! What's your problem?"
"Leave me alone!" Homura snarled, shaking free. She lumbered past Kyouko and into her room, slamming the door shut.
Once inside she fell into her desk chair and opened her laptop. Sweating, weak and hungry, she attempted to write. It felt like she could pass out at any moment, but she pushed on regardless, driven by a desperation to prove something to herself.
But it was fruitless. Every word she put down, every line felt empty and soulless. Homura wrote through the morning and well into the afternoon. Her fingers typed out thousands of words in that single sitting. She did not eat, did not drink. But in the end it was useless. In the end she knew she would have to delete everything she had just written. In the end she knew she was only denying the inevitable.
Summer in the city felt different than in the small middle of nowhere town where she grew up. As the sun rose outside her bedroom became sweltering hot. The heat was relentless, and sweat dripped from Homura's arms as they finally left the keyboard and sagged lifelessly by her sides.
A cicada cried out from beyond the window. In her mind's eye Homura saw its pale and fleshy body emerging from its shell. In the pursuit of a continuation, it left its old armor behind.
There was nothing more to be done. Homura closed her laptop and buried her face in her hands.
Homura waited until Kyouko was in the bathroom before leaving the apartment. She wandered into a nearby diner and ordered a meal big enough for two. Her stomach still felt acidic, but she forced herself to eat to make up for what she had thrown up earlier.
The sun was slowly setting behind the horizon when she finished. Having regained some strength, Homura took a train downtown and entered the coffee shop by the stop she got off at. She ordered an iced latte and carried it with her to the small park by the water.
It was evening when she reached it, the constant city noise fading behind the soft wall of trees. She had not been here in a very long time. Not since just before she saw Madoka near the Midoriiro, on that fateful afternoon.
The park was empty. She picked her favorite bench in a little alcove off the beaten path, nearly invisible behind the trees. After she drank half her coffee she set it aside and closed her eyes.
Now that she had eaten, had caffeine and rested, Homura began to think. A dire choice lay before her. She knew that now. In order to make a decision she would not regret, she needed to be of sound mind and body.
The peaceful quiet within the park was comforting. Being with Madoka was much like being here. Silence never felt threatening with her. It felt like the girl was always trying to tell Homura, without words, that her presence alone was enough.
Her life had changed much in the past few months. Allowing someone into her life, through calculated means or otherwise, wrought far greater consequences than she had anticipated. She had thought she would be able to do what had to be done when the time came. But the deep, ravaging anxiety that had gripped her that morning and proved it was not so.
She did her best to envision, with her particularly gifted imagination, a world where her manuscript and Madoka could coexist. Yet it quickly became clear to her than one existed at the expense of the other. And the idea of having to choose, of prioritizing either her heart or her dream, tore her in two.
The memory of Madoka's touch returned to her once more. The truth was Homura wanted desperately to accept Madoka at the time. But she had to reject her because she could not bear the guilt of indulging herself. That moment, she now realized, was an admittance of wrongdoing.
There was no guarantee Madoka would ever forgive her for what she had done. Homura almost would prefer that she didn't. But she thought of a life where she completed her manuscript and shuddered. It would only be further proof for her philosophy on life. Perhaps, in a deeply selfish way, she just wanted a chance to prove herself wrong.
She could not lie to Madoka anymore. Homura knew she had always secretly looked down on the girl, for having a predetermined delusion about who Homura was. But in a way she had used Madoka too, as a way to feel the comfort of confirmation.
When did I become this way? I don't want to lose her, even if I deserve to.
On a soft spring day now long past, the two of them met to view the cherry blossoms together. Homura remembered it well. Madoka took her hand and led them down the winding road, her bright clothes fluttering in the breeze. The image of the girl's smile amongst the flurry of pink petals had always been imprinted upon Homura's mind. She recalled thinking she wouldn't mind if that moment lasted forever.
I want that. I want her.
But it was a vision unattainable, if she could not do what she had to do.
A small sigh escaped Homura's lips. The trees stirred gently in the wind, drawing her gaze to the evening sky.
Who would have thought that things would turn out this way? It was almost unbelievable.
But sometimes little things became big happenings.
Once Madoka had made her decision, she went back to Homura's building and rang the buzzer.
"Hello?" A voice she recognized as Kyouko's crackled through the intercom.
"Hi. It's…it's Madoka," she said. "Is Homura home?"
Kyouko seemed surprised by Madoka's presence. "No, she's stepped out for a bit. Don't know where to. If you want, you can come up and wait for her."
"…No, that's fine. I don't have much time."
"I'll let her know you stopped by."
"Thanks."
After that she went outside and sat down on the steps leading up to the lobby entrance. The thought of waiting in Homura's apartment beneath Kyouko's questioning gaze unnerved her.
The sun had set by now. Long shadows crept down the length of the street. As darkness fell, Madoka wondered if Homura would ever come back. Perhaps the girl was simply gone for good.
As she waited she thought several times about just getting up and going home. Fear sank its cold teeth into her body and petrified her bones. But she resisted the urge to flee. She knew if she ran away now, it would prove she had learned nothing.
Night swallowed the neighborhood. Madoka drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. As the street lights flickered on one by one, her eyes were drawn to the far end of the road.
A lone figure appeared beneath the glow of the final street light, slowly approaching.
Madoka rose as Homura reached the apartment. They observed each other in silence for a brief spell. The look in the girl's eyes was weary.
When the silence was broken, it was Madoka who spoke.
"I'm sorry to bother you so late," she said. "But I had to talk to you."
Homura said nothing. She simply nodded.
"I thought a lot about what your editor said on the phone. I looked up the company where he works. His boss is the man my mother was with that day."
She took a deep breath before continuing.
"You knew, didn't you? You knew who he was."
Homura's expression was unfathomable. She averted her gaze to the asphalt beneath her feet, her voice so soft it was nearly indiscernible.
"Yes. I knew."
Madoka shuddered. Her hand trembled by her side. "Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell me?"
Homura did not respond. Her gaze was fixed on something very far away once again, just like the previous night. Madoka walked up and grabbed her friend's hand. Homura felt the trembles shaking Madoka's body and finally looked at her, eyes filled with a mixture of pain and regret.
"Homura, please. Tell me the truth."
Releasing the girl's hand, Madoka pulled Homura into a tight embrace. Homura felt the utter fragility of Madoka's body against her own. Her own arms remained limp by her sides. They stayed like that a long time, between the streetlights, between the light and the dark.
For a moment Madoka thought she wouldn't be able to get through to her. But at last Homura returned the embrace. She pressed her nose against Madoka's temple, breathing into the girl's ear.
"Okay. I'll tell you."
Homura stepped away and led them inside the building, then to the elevator beyond. They entered Homura's apartment, where Kyouko was sitting on the couch. The redhead saw the two of them together and seemed to understanding immediately.
"Sorry," Homura said. "Can we have a moment?"
Kyouko nodded and gathered her things, leaving the apartment without a word.
Homura guided Madoka into her bedroom and closed the door. She retrieved her laptop and unlocked it, then held it out to Madoka.
Her next words would be damning, she knew. But she said them anyway.
"Here. Read it."
Madoka accepted the laptop and placed it before her on the desk. Homura retreated to the far corner of the room, pressing her back against the wall.
And so for the second time that day, Madoka began to read.
A/N
Ahhh it's finally happening. Hard to believe the story has finally reached this point.
I think I will aim for monthly updates moving forward.
Also funny story, when Homura visited the diner in this chapter I wrote in a line about her leaving a tip, then had to go back to fix it when I remembered tipping isn't a thing in Japan.
Thanks for reading.
-Banshee
