Author's notes

Toshima-en is an amusement park in Tokyo. Go go gadget Google.

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Help me survive here alone / don't surrender

You are the faith inside me.

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Chapter four

Evil Angel

Really, not a lot could be said about Eri Sawachika anymore. Not because she had no outstanding qualities, nor because she had turned into something despicable, as she was certain her father suspected she had since she left.

No, not a lot could be said about Eri Sawachika because nobody knew much about Eri Sawachika anymore. She was, of course, remembered by her old friends (in spite of her deepest, most repressed fears) and loved by her parents (in spite of their derision of her decision to be independent from the family fortune and all the responsibilities it entailed). But that was about it for her—she was a relatively unknown entity in the fast, brutal world of English art, certainly no threat to the major authors of the day. Or the hour, anyway.

She knew that was about to change. Her publisher knew it. Her agent knew it. It sort of …resonated from the manuscript that she handed her agent—a pudgy, sweet lady who always insisted on buying her tea and a cake when they saw each other—and that feeling of rightness only became more powerful when the woman read it. It wasn't just good. It was incredible, she said. It was a work of science fiction and horror, which was new to Eri, but it was science fiction in the old style—the important style. The style which had served, in the capable hands of a few talented authors over the ages, as a sort of barometer for society. And it was horror in a style long-forgotten in the age of the Grudge and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre; a horror reminiscent of H.P. Lovecraft, of King at his very best. It was more Necronomicon than The Shining, but whatever it was, it was both terrifying and insightful.

And what was best and worst, was that they knew it. Her agent knew it almost at once—that woman had a nose for talent, and she practically scented it from the pages themselves.

Most authors would have been overjoyed at this. At the scent of impending success—more pleasing by far than the feeling of impending doom that they felt approaching as the rent became due each month. Eri, though…

She was about to be thrust back into the public eye.

She could feel it coming. Her colleagues (if indeed a writer had any colleagues) patted her on the back, told her she was going to be a hit. A month and a half later, after editing and drafting (Eri's books needed very little editorial work, though she was certainly no Anne Rice in denying them what they did need) pre-sales of the book would skyrocket, paying off the advertising campaign which centered around Eri herself. Eri saw that coming, too.

She saw it all coming, and almost went back and tore the three-thousand odd pages to shreds right then.

It wasn't the money. Money was just money.

It wasn't the fame, either. She wasn't afraid of the public eye. She hated it, but was far from unused to it.

It wasn't even the dance she would have to do; a tango around the press, a polka with the publishers, maybe even a waltz with some movie pricks.

It was the fact that, once again, her life was about to belong to the public.

She had done her best writing when she was alone, in her shitty London flat, hunched over her desk at two in the morning trying to blink a hangover away. She did her best dreaming when she was flat on her back, still naked, her solitary sheet pulled up to her chin, watching some nameless bastard dress himself after five minutes of unsatisfying sex, both of them fully aware that they would probably never meet again. No matter how much she liked him. She did her best plotting when she rode the bus, sandwiched between a pair of rank bums, both of whom seemed fairly intent on copping a nice, innocent feel just before their stop.

She hadn't just welcomed her shitty life in London. She had actively fought to keep it. There had been offers, of course. Businesses, drawn to the strength of her name. Modeling agencies, drawn to the strength of something else entirely. (They had gotten a little smaller in recent years—a by-product of too many nights without enough money to eat AND live in a flat, welfare state or no—but not noticeably, probably, to anybody but her). She had turned them all down.

She liked how it was. She liked being on her own. Independent. It gave her

misery

freedom. Inspiration. She could never write like this in her father's mansion. No, not like this.

But, of course, now it was unavoidable. She could give all of the money to some charity or another, sure, but then she'd just get more from her publisher. Celebrities (was that what she would be? The thought disgusted her) gave money to charities all the time. Mostly they were reimbursed by their respective companies. Draws attention to their name, and for what? A measly few million euros, but not out of their pockets.

And she couldn't deny it forever. She liked the way she was, but she wasn't stupid enough to throw money out when it shoved itself in her face. And really, wasn't this what she'd wanted? To make her own living off of her own art?

maybe there'll be a book tour

maybe you'll go back to

It must have been. That was what she'd slaved for, starved for, and on more than one occasion, fucked for. (Or had that been for her? Again, that image of herself, clutching the sheet to her chin, floated to the surface of her mind, and she wondered).

She sighed and clutched the pen in her hands. It was a nice pen. Ballpoint. She had gotten it on her last day in Japan

(from him)

(he told her to do something with it)

and it was probably the only thing she'd kept from that little island, save for a few yukata for the stuffier days. (Writing in the buff was fun, but sometimes a challenge).

He hadn't liked it. That bastard, Eric. The only one she saw for more than two nights in a row. More than a year, in fact. She had lost track a long time ago. He'd always thought that odd.

It was his leaving

didn't you tell him to leave?

that had inspired the book. She hadn't ever attributed much to the finer points of writing—time of day, type of pen, color of clothing, that sort of thing; none of it was important to her creative process—but, maybe out of spite, or maybe out of something else, she had written that entire book in the pen she had kept. It felt good, but she knew it wouldn't last long.

Not long at all.

Her phone rang. Her stomach shot down out of her stomach and probably knocked somebody on the floor beneath her out cold.

No, not long at all, now. Now that Kimchee's fight with Eric was over, she supposed it was her turn to dance with the devil. Because, really, that's what Eric was, and even if he hadn't known it, Kimchee certainly had.

He was a devil.

Why, then, did she love him anyway? How could she love a devil like that?

She supposed the answer was somewhere in the three-thousand odd pages that her editor was presently drooling over, but if it was there, it certainly didn't come out of her head. Not really.

Grimacing, she stood, pushing her ragged little chair out from behind her, and walked over to the phone to answer it, quietly telling herself, it won't be as bad as you think, Eri. Anybody else would kill for this chance, now stop being a spoiled brat. It won't be as bad as you think.

It was.

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