Real World Read online

  The people who were beating him up were an emaciated old Filipino man and woman, most likely taking revenge for what the Japanese had done to them during the war. Their positions reversed now, the old Filipino woman was whaling away at the soldier, putting everything she had into it like that was the only way she could get rid of the hatred inside her. The soldier had on a grubby T-shirt and a loincloth. Somehow he was still wearing his uniform cap. His hands were tied behind him and he stood there, staggering under the blazing sun. Whenever he was about to collapse, someone off-camera pulled on the rope that bound him, so he had to remain standing up straight.

  My point is, at a moment like that, what is a person thinking? I was in elementary school when I saw this scene, and I found it incredible that the soldier looked so sleepy, like he was about to doze off. He had these vacant-looking eyes, half closed like he was going to fall asleep any minute, so you couldn’t tell if he was feeling any pain. If it’d been me, I’d have been scared to death and would have cried and begged for it to end.

  I remembered this scene because right now I’m so sleepy I can barely stand it. Abnormally sleepy. All the time I’m pedaling my bike I’m about to doze off. Maybe it’s the weather, but it’s weird I’d feel this way as I pedal down the blazing asphalt of the highway, inches from trucks whizzing by. It’s not like I’m tired or anything. All I’ve been doing since yesterday is tooling around on a girl’s bike. It’s been an easy trip so far. Whenever I see a convenience store I stop in to cool off, drink some water, read some manga. So there’s no reason I should be so sleepy.

  So maybe the situation I’m in now is like that of the Japanese soldier. Maybe I’m not aware of it, but my unconscious is trying to escape from reality. So I guess there’s something to be afraid of.

  Mother-killer. I never imagined I’d do something like that, but there it is. The shock of seeing that news program last night at the convenience store has started to make me jumpy. When I saw an article about it in the paper, I just thought, Hey, look at that! But TV is frightening.

  What sort of ominous thing dwells in this suburban neighborhood? What happened to this boy who’s disappeared? Is the same darkness in this boy hidden in this seemingly quiet neighborhood?

  The newscaster’s remarks were dumb, but when I saw this, it was the first time I realized what a mess I was in. Newspapers don’t count, but once something hits TV it’s all over. On news programs and talk shows people are endlessly analyzing this “darkness” in my heart. They’ll all join forces and drone on and on about my mental state—commentators and newscasters, all with these know-it-all looks on their faces, gabbing away like they know what they’re talking about. Isn’t that slander? Even if they say something about me that’s completely off the mark, though, I can’t just laugh it off. ’Cause it’s me they’re talking about.

  Just like with Sakakibara and those other murderers, I’ll be in all the papers for days, and they’ll gather experts together to endlessly debate changing the juvenile statutes. There’ll be articles with my photo and the message I wrote in my grade school yearbook, some classmate will post my photo on the Internet, and all of it will be just more ammunition for the rumor mill. People who didn’t like me will say whatever they like: “He was kind of gloomy, but never stood out in class, so I don’t know much about him.” “He always said hello, but I heard rumors that he tortured cats in the neighborhood.”

  When I think of being on the run all over Japan with everybody in the country trying to track me down, it feels like my fate is to keep on running forever. Not like there’s anyplace for me to run to. Like in Stephen King’s The Running Man, taxi drivers and convenience store clerks are going to phone the cops, telling them that that guy on TV was just here.

  Speaking of Stephen King, I really like him. The Running Man and Carrie. I read The Long Walk twice. Battle Royale isn’t by King, but I read that twice, too. Most of the kids I know read only manga, but I prefer novels. Novels are closer to real life than manga, it’s like they show you the real world with one layer peeled away, a reality you can’t see otherwise. They’re deep, is what I’m saying. Which makes me sort of a weirdo in my class. The guys in my class see only the outer surface. Same with their parents. Guess they find that makes living easier, like that’s the smart way to approach life. What a bunch of assholes.

  I have to keep doing something, I’m so sleepy. Half awake, I focus on the scenery passing by. Boring scenery along a main road. A pachinko place, a karaoke place, a used-car lot. A ramen shop, a family restaurant. All of them with their windows shut tight and the AC going full blast. A tin roof of a garage reflects the bright sun, hot as a frying pan.

  But it’s like none of this is part of my world anymore. Ordinary scenery has transformed. Or I should say it’s me that’s changed. If I go into a pachinko place or a karaoke place, I know I won’t feel the way I used to about them. I’ll never feel the way I used to—ever again. Do you know what I mean? If somebody had told me all this before, I would have said, What the hell are you talking about? But there’s this gap now between my world and other people’s. And I’m totally alone.

  People are part of the scenery, too. The truck driver talking on his CB as he passes me, the middle-aged guy stifling a yawn as he drives a white delivery van. The woman with a small child on the seat beside her, the elementary school pupil crossing the road. It’s like all these men and women—everybody—are in a different world from me. In their world, time just stretches on endlessly, today the same as yesterday, tomorrow the same as today, the future the same as tomorrow.

  I feel like I’m racing alone through a desert on some distant planet, like Mars. Everything’s changed from two days ago. Everything’s divided now into before then and after then—then meaning the day I killed my mother. My actions created a turning point, a crossroads, in my own life. And now I finally understand the fear that Japanese soldier felt. People who experience this kind of a crossroads are afraid. And so sleepy they can’t stand it.

  As these thoughts kept a lazy pace with my pedaling, I got so sleepy I really couldn’t stand it anymore. I wondered if I should stop my bike by the side of the road and take a nap. I looked around for a good place to sleep, but there wasn’t any, just cheap-looking houses and shops, not what I wanted—a bench or a small patch of grass. God, I’m so sleepy! So sleepy. I want to crawl into my own bed and sleep forever.

  My room is a corner room on the southeast side of the house. An eight-mat room with wooden flooring, French bed, double mattress. Plus my own TV. It’s the biggest, best room in the house—not that I chose it myself or anything. Two years ago, when we moved in, when that trouble happened, Mom announced we were leaving the apartment building and moving here to a single-family home.

  After we moved she said, “We’ll make Ryo’s room the sunniest one on the second floor.” She always says these “nice” things, taking care of her precious son.

  Since that was already decided, my old man said he’d use the Japanese-style room on the second floor as his study. A study? Don’t make me laugh. All he’s got are dusty old sets of collected works. Those aren’t books—they’re furniture. And how about all those records he’s collected since college? He never listens to them. Hello! Ever heard of CDs? We got MP3s and DVDs, too, in case you didn’t know. And don’t give me all that crap about how great analog sounds, okay? You don’t know anything, yet all you do is brag, you clown. Where’d you learn all that useless stuff? From some bar hostess? Women aren’t falling all over doctors anymore. Okay, so you bought a computer, but do you ever use it? You’re just trying to look cool. Do you know that I sneak into your room, surf the Web, and play around on porn sites? As long as you don’t, there’s nothing you can do about it. Stop showing off, you jerk. Why can’t you see that I think you’re a total loser? You always brag about being a doctor, but you just work in a nothing little clinic. No better than some office worker. If you don’t like it, why don’t you become the head of a huge hospital and use your