The engines roared as I turned hard against the multi-lane intersection, the tires slashing through the rainwater as I sped past a green light down the narrow residential streets of Edogawa, getting closer to the busier metro area. The rain had ceased from its previous torrent, but continued to drum down the roof of the car and blur my vision. The windshield wipers flicked furiously, the soft headlights glaring through the darkening streets. As I came up on the next intersection I started to slow my speed, my initial hysteria dying down and realizing the threat of getting pulled over (considering my entire front bumper is missing makes me even more of a target), but my foot stayed hovering over the accelerator. My hands rattled against the steering wheel, the sweat of my palms squishing against the fabric.
I was wrong about everything. I was so so wrong. The bruises on her face. The weird phone calls. The dodginess about her Dad. I knew something was wrong, I fucking knew it. But isn't it true that hindsight is always 20/20?
My car rolled up to the next light, second in line. Across the street loomed the drab-looking squarish City Hall building, its beige brick and sheet metal exterior darkening with the streaks of rain. Soon a third car pulled up behind me, and another boxed me in. An elderly woman with a shopping cart meekly crossed the street, clutching her plastic raincoat. Time seemed to grind to a halt, and I began to feel ancy as I wobbled in my seat. My eyes flickered between the cars, looking to the crosswalk, up at the City Hall, the other buildings, down at my lap. My mind was drowning in a sea of fear, and I had no idea where I was. City Hall wasn't too far from Yamaku, which in itself wasn't too far from the Gaijin Boulevards. Just a few more minutes away, and I'm there.
My God, what if I don't make it? What if he–
Without warning my hands flexed hard against the steering wheel, my fingernails clawing into the frame, trying to rip it free. I began to scream and punch the wheel.
"RRRRRRRGODDAMNIT! GODFFFUCKINGDAMN!"
How could I be so fucking dense? How could I allow myself to be this dense? After all those promises to be better and to always be there for her and to be more considerate, here I am again failing someone I love. Just like Sayori. Just. Like. Sayori. I must've been a truly wretched person in my previous life to be such a fuckup, to hurt people in this place. I deserve this.
I felt tears threaten my eyes. I looked up, and the light was already green. My foot dropped like a brick and the car lurched forward, the engine revving hard. I felt myself gasp as I clicked the blinker and dangerously swerved around the car in front of me, way too close for comfort, where for a brief flash I thought I really was going to hit them. Angry honks came from the driver as I pulled ahead of them, barreling down the strip.
As I rolled up on the next light, I became acutely aware of how hard my heart was pounding, feeling like a blood-filled tick about to pop, a constant ka-thump! ka-thump! ka-thump! that rocked my ears and rippled in my chest. The rattling in my hands intensified, and I suddenly had an icy moment of epiphany.
Call. Call someone. Sayori. Help. The club will help.
Pulling off the street to the side and turning on my hazards, I reached for my phone and opened the dialer. My hands trembled as I punched Monika, Natsuki, Sayori and Yuri's numbers and began a group call.
Monika answered first. It was almost seven o'clock now, and she appeared to be in sleepwear, answering from her bed. She muttered, and rubbed her eyes. "Kazuma?"
I tried to keep my voice steady. "H-hey, Monika."
Yuri answered. In the background it seemed like she was in a library of some sort, tall bookshelves and tables behind her. She was in casual clothes, wearing her glasses and her flowing hair combed and tied behind her with a band. "Hello?"
"Yur–"
Sayori answered from inside the lobby of the Tokyo Convention Center, I could tell from the huge windows with soaring metal arches she was walking by. In the background, cosplayers by the hundreds were swirling around the white marble and palm-tree concourse posing for photos and carrying vendor bags. The lobby was warm with its soft golden lights, as the dealers hall and artist alley were closing for the day and people were clearing out to check out the late night scene. She grinned, "Kazumaaah! Heeeey!"
"Hey, Sayori."
She pushed part of her wig aside, looking for a place to sit down with Yoshi. "What's up?"
"I uh…", I felt my voice snag in my throat. "Listen, guys. I'm so so sorry to do this, but something happened."
"Hm?" Monika said, walking into her bathroom. "What did you say?"
Yuri asked, "What happened?"
I started, "Natsuki–"
Her call connected. The screen was black.
"Oh my God," I gasped. "Nats."
"Shhhh…" Natsuki whispered shakily. "Hang on…"
"Natsuki?" Sayori asked, looking concerned. I could see Yoshi peeking from the corner of her screen, confused.
I heard the sound of clothes being shuffled around, and a door sliding shut. "K-Kazuma."
"Yes baby."
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes I can."
"I have to talk fast." Her voice was low, but strained. She coughed, "I'm hiding in my closet. It's upstairs past the bathroom. I don't know where he is, but I think he's downstairs."
"Okay."
"I have a knife. I'm bleeding."
"You have a what?" Yuri cut in.
Monika had sat her phone down and was quickly getting dressed. Sayori looked alarmed, standing up and pacing around in the lobby. "What? What? Who attacked you, Natsuki?"
Natsuki addressed me, "Have you called the police?"
"No. I'm driving to you."
"Kazuma, call the police. I will be fine."
The call began to argue and overlap each other.
"I'm about to–" "The police? What's going–" "Are you okay Natsuk–" "Where are you–"
My voice rang out above the rest. "Natsuki, I'm racing as fast as I can to you. We're calling the police right now."
"Tell them he beat the fuck out of me and he said he's going to kill me. I'm upstairs. I unlocked the front door. Please hurry."
"Oh my God!" Yuri exclaimed, her voice rising.
Sayori was shrilling, "Natsuki, where are you?"
"I have to go. I know what's going to happen. Please hurry."
And then she hung up.
Monika's voice cut through. "What the fuck is going on?"
Detached from it all, the radio quietly droned on. There's a room where the light won't find you, holding hands while the walls come tumbling down, when they do I'll be right behind you~
There were no cars. I punched through the red light.
…
"Konnichiwa, Edogawa keisatsudesu."
"Sumimasen. Dareka to eigo de hanashite mo īdesu ka?"
"Chottomatte kudasai."
The phone crackles. A brief piano melody plays before the line clicks again.
"Edogawa Police, officer Yagami, what is it?"
"Good evening, uh, I'd like to request a welfare check on one of my neighbors. About half an hour ago I heard some arguing and stuff being thrown around–"
"Who's calling?"
"My name is Gabriel Saenz, S-A-E-N-Z. I'm retired United States Air Force. I live on the 1100 block of Eisenhower Street near Grant Road."
"Okay, Mr. Signs, Eisenhower and Grant…and you said, what you heard fighting next door?"
"Yeah, me and my wife were sitting down to dinner just now and we heard some screaming, a young girl, and what sounded like glass breaking. I don't know him too well but I know he's got a high school daughter, and it was pretty loud. There was shouting, she was yelling 'get off of me, get off–"
"Are you still hearing the fighting?"
"No, it's been quiet for a few minutes now. The shouting was pretty brief, we weren't sure what to do."
"Is this the first time you've called in something like this?"
"Ahh, no. Police have been over there before, about half a year ago. Someone else called, I think it's just the dad and the girl who live there."
"Do you know the dad's name? Or the girl?"
"Ahhh, shit. I want to say Gary? Or Gerry? He's Army, but to be honest we hardly see him come out of the house. The girl leaves in the morning for school, I wave hello from the porch when I drink my coffee whenever she walks by. I don't know her name, sorry."
"Okay."
"My wife was wanting to go over and see, cause of the girl–"
"No, no, no. No sir. We'll call for an officer to investigate. It won't be too long. Just stay in your house and call back if you see anything else."
"Okay, thank you."
"Thanks."
…
I arrived at her house in minutes.
The tires squealed as I slammed to a stop right in front of her driveway, swerving the car around and almost clipping the curb. The streets were empty, cars parked in driveways but not a soul in sight. The streetlamps glowed under the mist of the rain, which clung low against the roofs and canopies. It gave the neighborhood an ominous, abandoned feeling, and I heard nothing coming from Natsuki's house. The rain had paused, momentarily, but the sweet smell of dew clung thick to the air.
After she hung up the call exploded into hysteria. As I drove I had to quickly relay and summarize just about everything that had happened in the past few months; the bruises I saw, the talks about her Dad, my parents anniversary party, that cursed phone call, my mad dash to her. Monika knew Natsuki's direct address mentioning she had dropped her off once before and called the local police, who promised someone was en route. It was only a matter of time, but I was surprised the police weren't already here when I arrived. We had all rung off, me promising to call back with an update as soon as I had it.
I turned the car off and sat for a second, staring out the rolled-down window to her front porch, searching for a sign of activity.
What should I do?
I have to go in there.
We don't know who's in there waiting for us.
Natsuki is going to die. She's bleeding.
And what if it's a trap and you end up getting killed? You have no weapon. The police have guns, you don't.
I stepped out of the car and walked to the back, beeping the trunk open with the keyfob. I pushed aside some old papers, a backpack and some clothes to reveal the utility space under the floorboard. I quickly pulled out the tool kit and flipped it open, searching through the pieces. A vice grip, a socket wrench, a screwdriver, a coil of battery cables. A flare. A small hammer.
I leaned forward into the toolspace and felt my fingers grab a large, silver crowbar about two feet in length. My hands gripped the cold metal, and slapped the curving end against my open palm, feeling it sting with the wetness.
The police have guns.
I slammed the trunk shut and looked back to the house.
But I have a crowbar.
Holding it with my right hand, I slowly stalked over the lawn to the house, my shiny dress shoes leaving imprints in the patchy dew-clung grass. Past the rose bushes, up the stairs to the patio.
To face the slightly cracked open front door.
I took a moment to check myself, digging a hand through my windblown hair and swiping it back and out of my face. The oak door had a round glass window looking in, covered by a curtain. Under the flickering bulb of the porch light I could see my own face, wide eyed, dripping from the rain, my features stricken with agony. My suit was sort of damp, but dry around the chest and neck from having the heater on. I undid my soaking wet tie and tossed it away, flopping onto a metal rocking chair.
I leaned in towards the frame of the entrance, trying to peer into the darkness. Nothing. No sound. Not even a TV.
I gently opened the door.
"Natsuki?"
It looked like a wrecking crew had just passed through with no regard for personal effects. The house was dark, but the lights appeared to be on in the kitchen. The dresser by the door, I'm guessing where coats and keys were kept, had been flipped onto its side, the contents spilled out by the door. Several photo frames had been shattered and scattered against the hardwood floors, littering the patterned walkway rug. There was a large indent about three feet in diameter in the drywall down the hallway, leading to a staircase to the bedrooms upstairs. On my left was the living room, to the right was the kitchen.
I took a hesitant step forward, my shoes crunching in the glass.
A guttural, labored breathing became audible to me, in the still darkness. I held the crowbar defensively, across my chest, and took another step forward.
"Hello?", my voice said, barely above a whisper.
A dark figure was slumped over by the staircase that I hadn't noticed. They were tall, easily six foot something, with thick graying hair combed over his scalp and back again. The figure was lying on their back, their arm slumped over their body. I stepped closer. A bushy mustache. Black slacks with a brown belt, one tennis shoe missing, with a shredded white tee shirt revealing an average but toned body. Abs visible, biceps bulging. Certainly not a slouch. The unconscious figures' chest rose and fell with each drawn out-breath, several seconds apart.
And a gash wound the size of an apple near his temple.
Natsuki's father.
My face scowled with disgust as I walked towards the figure, leaning over him, peering into his face.
His face was wrinkled, shrunken in, but his features were calm (probably because he was knocked out). There was a half broken dark bottle just a few feet away from his head, possibly the source of the blow, which had stopped bleeding but still looked pretty nasty. It had begun to swell some. I couldn't smell alcohol, but there was a peculiar curling smell I can only describe as like stale cat piss that clung to his shredded clothes. It was pungent, and I recoiled to gasp for cleaner air.
I straightened up and stepped over him, walking up the narrow staircase. My feet squeaked against the steps as I slowly crept upstairs, trying not to make any sound, and cautiously peered down the hallway. A long corridor with framed photos of hillsides and black-and-white military portraits (her extended family?), a small table along the side with candles and books.
Again, no lights were on. There was a small derelict bathroom with the door wide open, and two bedroom doors ahead. I walked to the first one, which had a deadbolt on it, and jiggled the knob.
Locked.
I rapped my knuckle against the door. "Natsuki?"
No reply.
I looked ahead to the other door, which was done in pastel white with a faded color painting of a yellow rose, streaked over the upper half of the frame.
I walked to the door and jiggled the knob. It opened with ease. Hesitantly, I stepped inside.
The room was trashed, but not quite as bad as downstairs. Beige paint walls marked with cobwebs in the corners, and a large hard oak bookshelf had been flipped over on its face. Posters of mountains and skylines were tacked on the wall, next to various drawings and self-made art. A string of Christmas lights rang around the ceiling, half ripped down and drooping down to the ground. A large red comforter had been nailed against the window looking out. The bed had been thrashed up, the blankets flipped over and tossed around the room. A boxy TV sat on top of a dresser, neglected.
I'm hiding in the closet, she had said.
I slowly stepped over flipped books, plastic throwaway cups and pillowcases to a sliding closet door.
I gently knocked on the door.
"...Nats?"
For a second, there was nothing. I heard clothes being shuffled around, and the door slowly slid open.
Her hair was messy, blown out and missing its red clips. A streak of dried blood ran down the side of her face, crumbling in her eyelashes. She was wearing a white tee shirt with a pink cat on the corner, but the shirt was incredibly wrinkled and smeared with dirt and grime. Her pink tutu was the same, shredded and fraying. She was clutching a very large butcher knife, her hand trembling and eyes wide as dinner plates. She seemed horrified for a brief second, at the door opening, before recognition came in.
I gasped, dropped to my knees and pulled her in for a painfully tight hug. She began to sob, pulling on my sleeve and crying into my shoulder, her face nuzzled deep.
"H-hi, babyyy…" she whimpered. She lifted her face and tried to lighten the mood. "See, I told you I'd be okay…"
I kissed her, clutching her cheeks tight. Hot tears spilled from my eyes as I adjusted myself, pulling her onto my lap. We said nothing for a few moments, just enveloped in the embrace. Nothing in that moment mattered more than the two of us in each other's arms.
She pulled away. "Where are the police?"
"I-I don't know. Monika, everyone called them. They're coming."
"Where is he?"
"He was at the bottom of the stairs. He was bleeding."
"Good. I knocked him out with a bottle. He got high and tried to throw me out, saying I was eighteen and needed to grow up."
"Oh my God…"
"We have to get out of here."
I started to my feet and began to pull her up, but she winced in pain. I looked down at her arm and saw a brown tee shirt wrapped tightly around her arm, a makeshift tourniquet, turning black with blood.
"What–"
"I rolled in glass during our fight. It cut me up bad but the bleeding stopped. That was when you called."
"Can you walk?"
"Y-yes." She stumbled a bit, almost tripping over a book. "I want to get out of here, baby."
"Then let's go."
I wrapped my arm over her and half carried, half guided her over her ruined belongings and into the hallway.
But someone blocked the path.
For a moment, the figure at the end of the hall said nothing and just stared at us, his chest heaving hard. He was about six foot even, but still a giant compared to me. A clump of ice wrapped in a towel was held up to his head. Blood dripped down his face and onto his pecs, rolling down his body. His eyes were low, creased, but under the glow of the hallway lights had an energy coiled like a spring ready to pounce.
"Identify yourself," he growled.
I glared.
"You…" I start, my voice low. "Are not laying one more fucking finger on her. Do you understand?"
He ignores me. "Nice suit. Like a little boy wearing Papa's shoes."
"I know what you've done! The police are on their way! Surrender now and make it easier for you!"
He guffawed. "You wanna go to jail, son? As if I don't have friends with PD, and right now all I see is some burglar trespassing on my property. Who they gonna believe, the army vet or some faggot punk?"
I hold my ground, glaring daggers into this demon. Natsuki's hands shake, tightly gripping the back of my blazer. I put my arm out behind me and she grabs it, fingers digging my skin.
He snorts at me. "Oh, I see how it is. You must be her pimp. Cute, the two of you can share a jail cell."
"I wish you fucking would! I'll drag you into the cell with me, you sick monster!"
Natsuki starts to whimper. I can feel the veins in my temple pounding, constricting.
My blood is getting icy. My teeth grit. "I am not leaving until you apologize to this girl or throw me the fuck out."
Natsuki began to cry. "K-Kazuma…wait…"
He straightens up, popping his neck with a sickening crack-crack. He tosses the wad of ice away, the cubes rolling across the floor, and assumes a fighting stance. "Motherfucker, if it's a fight you want. I got no trouble beating your Jap ass before they cart you off to juvie."
My fists tensed up.
White spots flash against my vision.
"What's it gonna be, son? Who are you really?"
I slammed my foot on the ground with a sickening thud. From the bottom of my lungs up to my throat past my lips, my voice finally found its footing.
"I am Kazuma Odaka, goddamn you!"
I point the crowbar at him like King Arthur's sword.
"And you will either respect her or you will fucking fear me!"
He just stared at me, dumbfounded.
I slammed my foot on the ground again, bearing myself up. I threw the crowbar aside and pounded my chest with a hearty thump-thump!
"You fucking heard me!" I roar. "You want me out!? Come and take it!"
I am going to kill you.
He growls and shakes his head. "Get the fuck outta my house already!"
He stomps forward.
My chest tightens.
And for that brief, fleeting moment…the entire world seemed to hold its breath. Every second, every movement, every blink became carefully calculated, synchronized, timed. I became acutely aware of the sweat dripping down my brow, the wrinkles and creases in this monster's face, the chipping in the paint on the walls. My car, the literature club, Natsuki Tamura, it all seemed so distant from my mind but so present. Every heartbeat rippled through my body, as my vision narrowed and my muscles pulsed.
Then the screaming started.
"NOOOOO!"
Natsuki reels back in shock as the first punch whirs past my face, scraping by my nose. His entire weight was behind the punch, and he clumsily lunges past me and misses me. As he tries to realign again, I throw my arm back and land the first blow against his jaw with a hearty smack! As my knuckles pop against his cheek. He grunts in surprise, but I don't stop. Two, three four punches straight to the face. I've never been in a fight in my life, but the adrenaline was in control for this one.
"You little–" he growls, but I swing my foot forward and land a solid kick against his stomach. He stumbles back, not expecting the blow and I lurch forward and sprint down the hall to tackle him to the ground, slamming against the corner of the wall and tumbling down the staircase. The two of us grip and claw for each other's clothes and screaming obscenities at each other, our bodies crashing and falling against the wood railing of the stairs. His weight is more than mine, and as we hit the bottom he collapses against the railing and drops a few feet to the floor, the wind knocked out of him. A set of keys on a lanyard flip out of his pocket and snag against one of the splintered wood poles of the railing.
I seize on this and start whaling blows on him, his face, his forehead, his throat. Blood drips down his nose, from his lips, a gash swelling on his eyebrow. He starts to shout. "Get the fuck offameeee!"
My voice is raging, "YOU MOTHERFUCKER! FUCKING COCKSUCKING CUNT! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU! I WILL BURY YOU UNDER THE FUCKING JAIL!" He hollers something and grabs me by the throat, squeezing hard as he tosses me with ease against the wall, my body rolling across the busted glass and striking the busted railing. I cough, gasping for air, gripping my chest. Something definitely broken.
He rises to his feet and sneers as he towers over me. "You think you're so fucking tough? Huh? A regular John Wayne, is thaaat riiight?"
He grabs me by the throat again and literally picks me up, his muscles bulging, tensing up. Hate writhes across his face as he inspects my features. Spittle drips down my mouth as I dig into his fingers helplessly, trying to claw free.
"All for that whore?"
The rage washes anew within me. Thrashing around in his grip, I lean my head forward and bite down as hard as I possibly can on his hand, down on his thumb. My teeth mash against the bones of his fingers and tear open a wound, digging deep against the veins, blood gushing immediately. He shouts in pain, and starts punching me hard in the skull. Once, twice, three…
I can see the angels.
Natsuki's screaming is constant, a shrill wail like a tsunami alarm. She's hitting him on the back, trying to rip him away, yanking on his pants. "DADDY STOP, STOP PLEASE, YOU'LL KILL HIM!"
With his other arm he grabs me by the belt and throws me again, and there's the odd sensation of my body literally flying through the air, soaring past the stairs, past the front door.
Before I crash into the living room, my head knocking against the frame of a leather couch. This room was untouched by whatever fight happened earlier. A large flatscreen against the far wall. Large photos on the walls. Colors. Wood. Metal. My head hurts. I can feel blood trickling from my…
In the kitchen he strikes her, and a ball of pink slumps to the ground.
I stir to my feet, but the air is sucked out of my lungs. I blow out, and try to suck in air again. My lungs are on the verge of failure.
He starts to walk over to me, a sneer on his face. I scurry to my feet and scamper away, behind the couch, behind some sort of table. He reaches down, grips the couch from its legs and throws it to the side, the couch crashing against the wall. Drywall explodes as the frame of it strikes the wall, tearing down photos in a loud crash.
"Ohhh, come ooon now, queerbait," he scolds. "This was juuust getting fun."
I rise to my feet again and raise my fists up. "I'm still…still standing."
He grabs me by the hair and glares at me for a moment, peering into my busted face. "Was this all worth it, son?"
I can feel the blood pounding in my skull. One of my teeth is definitely broken. My mind spun, with dreams of love and literature. With the last of the strength I have, I reel my foot back and play my last trump card. I swing forward and kick him as hard as I can muster in the balls. He drops my head and crumples inside himself in pain, gripping himself.
On the table sat some books and a mug. I grab the mug by its handle and smash it clean against his head. He drops, but isn't out for the count. Again I grab his hair and land a few blows to his jaw, but he simply won't stop. His strength has no limit. He picks me up by my suit and tosses me again, throwing me against the TV. In a cascade of white electric sparks it explodes, smashing against the speakers as I crash to the ground. Thousands of LCD crystals splinter in my face, cutting my hands up in microscopic pieces. DVD and CD cases fly in all directions, crashing around me.
This is it. This is how it ends.
"THAT'S ENOUGH!"
I look up.
There stood Natsuki in the entry of the living room, tears rolling down her face, holding a long barreled shotgun.
"What the…" The beast mutters. "How–"
Natsuki lifts the gun up and fires a single warning shot, blasting through the popcorn ceiling in a blistering explosion of wood splinters and sheetrock, raining down on all of us. The echo of the gunshot vibrates through the room, a frightful deafening sound that rattled through my bones.
She pumps the gun, dispensing the shell, and aims it at her father. "I WILL NOT TELL YOU AGAIN, DAD!", she screams. "LEAVE HIM ALONE, NOW! THAT'S AN ORDER!"
He looks back at me, and back to her. "You…", he laughs. "What did you just say?"
She takes a step forward. "YOU DON'T THINK I WILL!?"
He shakes his head, grinning ear to ear. "You don't have the nerve to–"
The gun finishes his thought.
The demon flies backwards, towards me, and slams to the ground in the debris of broken television and furniture. The air again gets squished out of me, all two hundred and something pounds of man crushing down on me like a truck. There's a sickeningly sweet metallic smell in the air, as I see Natsuki literally fly back from the force of the gun and drop to the floor of the hallway.
My ears are still ringing, and a puff of white smoke still clings to the air. A massive dead weight is slumped over my body, with gallons of paint being poured over my suit. A fleshy stump of something is resting on top of my chest, with pipes and wires and parts flickering and pumping inches from my face. The dead weight says nothing, and it takes all of my strength to try and shove it off of me, my hands slick with paint–
It's not paint. And it's not a stump. It was Natsuki's father, decapitated from the gunshot.
But in this moment, I still cannot recognize this, believe that it's really happening, and as the ringing in my ears starts to die down and fill with the swell of police sirens, I notice something peculiar wiggling around in my lips, touching my teeth. I reach my hand into my mouth and grab the tiny little piece, squishing it in my fingers.
It was a bleeding chunk of his eyeball, about the size of a penny, his gray sclera visible.
And it was now my turn to scream.
ACT FOUR
THE FLOOD
