#003. 2003年12月27日 {Misora Naomi}
Two days ago, you and Raye walked side by side in shibuya, looking into shop windows, and you felt a little giddy, and silly, like young lovers, even though Kira was still around, even though the world was no better a place than it ever was, just dressed up in sparkling lights. You'd stayed out into the evening, awash in the bustle of the city, baubles and toys and deals for new products all crowded together until it was enough to wash away the cynical affect of your own thoughts. This morning, he'd gotten up to go to work, kissed you while you were still sleepy in bed.
"Don't go," you'd murmured to him.
"I have to," he'd replied, with a bit of a tease in his tone. "We can't all be layabeds like you."
"Oh yeah, just wait until you're retired, you'll sleep in too," you'd said.
He'd smiled. "I'll look forward to it."
You'd puttered about; read a book, gone for another swim in the hotel pool and wished for something interesting to happen. And when Raye hadn't come home at five, or at six, you'd thought nothing of it. When you get the call from Mason you listen to him, numb; clipped, he explains that all he's sorry for your loss; Raye is dead. All the FBI agents who came to Japan are dead. "We're pulling out," he says. "Listen, Misora, I—it's fucked up that he died before you two were married, we all know you deserve the financial compensation. I'm sorry." This time, he actually sounds like he means it, as though the money matters to you when Raye is…
"Yes, of course," you say, and hang up the phone. You cry quietly. Always have, since you first realized as a kid that showing emotions to other people was a burden on them. You want to wail, to scream, but you can't; you just sit in the room and cry silently into a world that doesn't give a shit. You're staring ahead, but it's not at the bed, or the bathrobe crumpled against the bathroom counter, behind the half-open door; it's not at the unassuming beige walls or the unassuming nature prints set up in their frames; everything is cast in shadow and you could be anywhere. A hotel; you weren't even with him. You can't even curl up under your own blankets, half a world away; you're frozen.
"Raye… is dead…" speaking it is necessary. Like you'll vault yourself through the first four stages of grief in one fell swoop. Bulldoze your way through it. Speaking the words only makes you feel sick; it's no more real. "No," you reframe it. "He was murdered. By Kira." You can't bring Raye back. But by god you can find the bastard who did it.
You drag yourself up, feeling heavy, ungainly, pull your leather jacket on, and your boots, and step outside; it's begun to snow. It wasn't snowing two days ago. You'd had pictures taken and you'd sent them to be developed; you and Raye smiling goofily in the middle of Tokyo. It feels like another lifetime. You've got another picture of the two of you in your pocket, that beach vacation where he proposed for the first time. You're going to have to pull it out and show it to strangers, because Raye isn't your fiancé anymore. He's a statistic. 12 FBI agents dead. One of them was in love.
You haven't bothered to check out of the hotel, everything but your ID still packed in suitcases, lying open and waiting.
You will never go back.
.
.
.
