7. Sakamoto Hitomi Offers No Constructive Advice

Sleep has long been my enemy. While I'm awake, I can maintain control over my mind. Anxiety, depression, bouts of self-reflection — they're manageable, as long as my consciousness remains active and alert.

Deep, heavy sleep — the kind where it feels like every neural connection in your brain shuts down — isn't bad too. It's like you cease to exist. Sometimes, in search of such oblivion, I drink myself into a stupor.

The worst part of my already less-than-stellar adult life, though, is REM sleep. That's when people and animals dream. My dreams, unfortunately, are a collection of recurring but still deeply unpleasant nightmares.

It's daytime, and I shouldn't be sleeping, let alone dreaming. If I am awake, it means my mind has hit rock bottom. Because if this isn't a nightmare, then it's time to check myself into a room with padded walls.

I'm lying on my bed, and next to it stands Sergeant Hitomi, dressed in a field uniform of the "expeditionary" variety, its pixelated pattern designed to obscure one's silhouette in the jungle. Type 2 is a good uniform. It won't ignite or melt for a full 12 seconds, reduces your visibility in the infrared spectrum, and is relatively comfortable to wear.

But Sergeant Hitomi's uniform is far from regulation. It's dirty, torn, and features an entirely non-standard addition: a blood-soaked, sloppily tied bandage around her abdomen. Beneath it, I know all too well, is a gaping wound. No one with such an injury could stand by your bedside. The sickly, ashen hue of her skin is another giveaway that something's off.

Of course it is. Hitomi-dono has been dead for years now. Killed by yours truly Corporal Hachiman Hikigaya of the Japan Self-Defense Forces and buried in a shallow grave somewhere in Maguindanao.

Three possibilities present themselves. First, this could be a ghost. Unlikely, since I don't believe in ghosts. Second, I'm hallucinating and seeing dead people in broad daylight. That's bad — very bad. It means I'm on the verge of a complete breakdown and in dire need of psychiatric intervention. Third, I'm asleep and dreaming that I'm lying awake on my bed. This is normal. Sergeant Hitomi is a regular visitor in my nightmares. Welcome to Chiba, Sergeant. You never made it here in life, but at least my fevered brain can offer you a tour of the best city in Japan.

"Corporal Hikigaya! Slacking off again, I see!"

"Yes, ma'am," I reply sarcastically. Even when she was alive and all too real, I didn't always bother pretending to follow protocol.

"You do realize, Hikigaya, that your irresponsible attitude toward your chosen profession and duties poses a direct threat to those around you?"

"I'm not in the JSDF anymore. You could've remembered that by now."

"Do you understand, Hikigaya, that your attitude toward people hurts them? That the defense mechanisms of your fragile soul are indiscriminate weapons, wounding the innocent?"

"I do. So, what would you have me do, Sergeant?"

"For starters, stop shifting the blame onto me. I'm not your nanny."

"And yet, you already shifted the blame onto me. Back there, in Mindanao. You could've held on. You only had minutes left to live."

"Or hours, Corporal. Which you didn't have. You wouldn't have abandoned me. You'd have fought back. Four rear-line soldiers from an organization that's not even allowed to call itself an army. How long would you have lasted against insurgents who've been fighting in those jungles since childhood?"

As usual, the sergeant, now in a full swing of rage, begins gesturing wildly like an old semaphore signal. Some habits, it seems, even death can't erase.

"And what difference would it have made? Akira disappeared into the jungle the very next night and never returned. Shintaro died during street fighting in Cotabato. Reiji was beaten to death in a filtration camp, just three days before we were handed over to the embassy."

"Then get up and follow me, Corporal. Your comrades are waiting."

"Go back to the hell you crawled out of, Sakamoto. Don't try to make me feel even guiltier. I killed you, but you gutted yourself on that tree branch when you fell—clumsiness, pure and simple. I just carried out your last request."

"Get up, Corporal. Your comrades are waiting."

I opened my eyes. The room was unchanged, save for the absence of the dead Sergeant Hitomi. Sunlight poured through the poorly drawn curtains. Outside, the noise of a demolition crew tearing down a building echoed across the block.

I cursed. Japanese isn't the richest language when it comes to swearing, but two and a half months in a filtration camp had taught me plenty of colorful words in Tagalog, Maguindanao, and even, I think, Cebuano.

Just a nightmare. A regular, almost nightly nightmare. This one was about the third or fourth most frequent. I'd been napping after an unscheduled night shift.

A cold shower, instant coffee from a packet, and a couple of onigiri stuffed with bland canned tuna didn't exactly improve my mood, but they at least put me in a more functional state. The dead sergeant was right. I really need to be more careful around people. Sooner or later, I'll hurt someone so badly that the backlash will destroy me.

I unplugged my phones from their chargers and checked my work email. As expected, the updates I'd received about the robbery at the Yukinoshita household were minimal. The investigation was now led by Senior Detective Takayama from the city department. My task was to compile preliminary witness interview reports. I wouldn't even need to handle the formal interrogations at the station. Others would take care of that elsewhere.

It seemed my involvement with the Yukinoshita family's affairs was ending before it had really begun. Sure, Mrs. Yukinoshita's insistence that I at least apologize to Yukino still gnawed at my conscience. Komachi's information that the entire Yukinoshita family might be in trouble didn't bring me any peace either. But my conscience is gnawed at by far worse things, and my anxiety has plenty of fuel to feed on.

I decided to take advantage of the opportunity and start calling up potential sellers of stolen bicycles. If I got lucky, I might follow up on a few leads before the evening was over.