I awoke on the plane, covered in sweat. People around the cabin gawped at me in an indiscreet yet obvious sort of way. I must have been screaming again…
I scream like the girl in my dreams does every time I drift into sleep. It was never as frequent as this, even a month ago. It means I'm close to finding her. I stare right back at the people in the seats around me, I tell you; you've never seen people turn away so fast. My neighbour has moved back a few rows; I guess he couldn't sit next to a screaming oriental guy. Chuckling to myself, I reach into my small rucksack and pull out a green, leather bound diary. Putting pen to paper, I wonder how I got on board a plane to hell.
My father moved to Japan from the US three year before my birth. He shipped things between the two countries, it was in Japan he met successful lawyer Yumi Makoto, my mother. They had me and eventually my little sister, so as you can imagine, life was good. Sadly, my father caught cancer and on his death bed made me take a vow. A vow to protect my sister for as long as I live and make sure she never sees any harm. I accepted my vow and yes, my father died. It all went wrong, however, when my sister vanished at the age of nine.
My mother became a broken woman, never working, only living off my father's money. I spent all my spare time as a teenager either looking for my sister or training to kill whoever stole her. Time passed and we slowly forgot about her. My mother returned to her job and I found work at an ink sales department (I used my ability to speak fluent English by getting overseas retailers to by our produce). It was my pointless job that led me to believe my sister was still alive.
Having an American father made me want to keep in touch with all the latest news in the US. He had romanticised it as a place of opportunity and freedom so I was surprised to read about the worst city in the world being in the country I was so fond of. There was a special article on the known criminals in the city. The read was almost funny, with policemen being killed by prostitutes and bribes left, right and centre. They had a photo alongside the words, it contained five or six prostitutes in a huddle talking, I'm sure they never saw the photographer. Standing outside the huddle was a girl, though fourteen years older, she hadn't changed at all.
My sister Miho.