FROM NOW ON

A bloody corpse of a young man is lying on my front porch.

I look down at the corpse, then at the front of the house. It is a quiet morning. The apartment across the street is casting a long black shadow on the pavement in front of me. The trumpet vines planted in the hedge are rustling in the breeze, and whispering to each other in a way that human cannot decipher. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the sound of the long-distance trucks scraping against the road surface. And there is a corpse in the middle of the stairs in front of me.

In any case, to our eyes, a corpse is always a strangely exaggerated presence. But this time it is different. This corpse blends in with the landscape, becoming one with the everyday peaceful morning scenery. After a while, I realize the reason. The corpse’s chest is moving up and down faintly. It is not a corpse, it is alive.

I look at the young man. He is all black. A high-collar black cloak, a three-piece suit, a black tie. The things that are not black are his button-down shirt, and the bandages around his head. This one is a mottled color of white and red. This color pattern reminds me of some ominous Chinese prophetic characters. The place he is lying is the middle of the stairs that leads to the front porch. The blood stains continuing down the cracked concrete stairs looks like he has been crawling.

Question. What should I do with this nearly-corpse in front of my eyes?

The answer is simple. If I touch him with the tips of my toes and put some weight on him, he will just roll down to the ground below. If I do so, then he will not be on my premise anymore. He will be on a public road. The country’s territory. All those who are in trouble within the territory of the country should be saved by the mercy of the country. An ordinary postman like me should go home and have breakfast.

I am not doing that because I am a cold and heartless person. I am doing that because it is a survival necessity. The young man’s wounds are clearly from gunshots. He has been shot multiple times. There are probably more holes in his body than I can see from here.

I look at the young man, at the road, and the sky, and at him again.

And then I start to act. First, I approach the guy and lift him up by his sides. Then I drag him by his heels into the house and lay him down on the wall-mounted bed. He is much lighter than he looks. Carrying him alone is not that much of a trouble. I check his wounds. There are many deep wounds, and the bleeding is not usual, but if he receives immediate proper treatment, it is not like he will die.

I take out my medical kit box from the back of the closet, and give him some simple first aid treatments. I put a towel under his upper body, cut his clothes with a pair of scissors to expose the wounds, and check if there is any bullet left inside. In order to stop the blood flow, I apply pressure on the pressure points: below the armpits, inner elbows, ankles, backs of knees, and tie them tightly with a clean cloth. Then I put disinfected tourniquets to the wounds to stop the bleeding. Fortunately for him, I can do this kind of first aid even with my eyes closed.

After I am done with the treatment, I look down at the young man and cross my arms. His breathing has stabilized. His respiratory system and bones seem to be intact. But he does not seem to be waking up. “It’s fine already, just kick him out.”, I can hear the angel’s voice in my head. There is nothing more stupid than treating a suspicious guy like this. I guess I should listen to that voice. That is what a wise man would do.

Before following the angel’s advice, I take another look at the young man. I don’t recognize his face. Probably not someone I know. I say probably, because the bandages covering most of his face makes it impossible to make out his features.

I feel an uneasiness in my chest.

There is something strange about this young man. It is impossible to say that seeing someone covered in blood in front of your house is not strange, but I am feeling a completely different kind of discomfort than when I first saw him. I go around and look at his face. His eyes are closed. His face is pale and tired. His breathing is so faint that it is hard to tell without paying close attention. But still, I feel a strange power coming from his presence. It’s like will power, a certain sense of trust in his own body. And more specifically, right…

It is as if the whole thing about him collapsing here is all according to his plan.

The young man opens his eyes and looks at me.

I am startled and jump up. I didn’t notice when he opened his eyes at all. He moves without any sign of movement. He looks without a sign of looking. He seems to be one of “those people”, the kind of people you will never encounter if you are to lead a normal life.

Those eyes.

I’m not a person with an excellent observation skill. But even so, just by looking at those eyes, I understand a few things right away. He probably has killed before. Not one or two digits. Hundreds of people. When you have killed that many people, you will reach the other side of the mentality that ordinary humans can possess, beyond the other shore where neither light nor gravity can reach. The spirit of those who have reached that state will be seen first in their eyes, then in their mouth. Their eyeballs become black holes, and the muscles around their mouth become organs to show the depth of their sin, not their facial expressions.

And I also know one more thing instantly.

This young man knows me.

“Who are you?”

I ask without thinking.

The voice coming out of my mouth is so cracked, I cannot believe that it’s my own voice. If I didn’t hold my leg strong, it would have backed up a step on its own.

“Who are you?”

I ask again. There is no answer. I don’t even know if he is listening. Because the light in his eyes show no reactions to my question. No matter how cold-hearted a person is, if you look at him in the eyes and throw words at him, you can still see some kind of responses. But this young man does not have any of that. Just black eyes looking at where my figure is.

I cannot say anything much in details, but I associate this young man with a certain state.

There is no heart here. Just a heart-shaped emptiness.

Just as I am thinking this, the young man opens his mouth. He is trying to say something.

To make sure I do not miss anything, I stare at his lips and listen carefully.

But he doesn’t say anything. He just opens his mouth in a certain way. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t show any emotions. He just changes the shape of his lips. That’s it.

“Do you know me?” I try asking. “Why did you collapse in front of my house? How did you get all those wounds?”

The young man looks at me. He opens his mouth and breathes in as if he is going to say something, but he ends up not saying anything. His mouth is quietly closed, together with a sign that it should not have been opened from the beginning.

Maybe he cannot speak? Aphasia, or probably congenital speech impediment. People can lose their voices for various reasons. Mental reasons, brain conditions. Having their throat burn in a fire, or having their pharynx removed through surgeries. However, I feel that none of those applies to this young man. There is a sign that he has been suppressing the sounds coming right up to his throat.

He can speak but he doesn’t.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk. But if I leave you untreated, you will die. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He doesn’t reply. Those eyes are filled with a quiet emptiness. From that, I assume that he is listening. Because if he is deaf, there should be a reasonable amount of confusion and signs of claiming that he cannot hear.

“To treat you, or to kick you out, it is up to me to decide. As long as you don’t speak, you have no rights to decide. Is that okay? If it’s not, say something.”

The young man stares at me. A few seconds, then tens of seconds. Then he gently looks away and closes his eyes. Quietly, emotionlessly.

He can hear, he can speak. The reason he does not talk is because his door is closed. A door built of thick, huge iron that will not open now matter how hard you try.

“I see. Then I will do as I like.”

I say, my words echoing in the emptiness and dropping into the corner of the room, in the middle of nowhere.

And so begins my communal life between me and the young man.

Strictly speaking, it cannot be called a communal life. It cannot even be called nursing. It’s more like an adjustment work, a monitoring work, and a maintenance work. If I dare to put it in a terribly devious way, it is like keeping a fish. After all, the young man just lies in bed and hardly moves all day. Except for eating and going to the toilet, he is not stirring a muscle. He doesn’t react to what I say or do. It saves me some effort, but it does not feel like dealing with a human at all. I do not expect to hear words of gratitude, and it is a lot easier than dealing with rampages or complaints, but it makes me feel restless all the time. I have never experienced something like this in my life.

There is just one time, when I try to change the bandage that covers most of his face, do I get a strong resistance. That is such a quick reaction that I cannot even imagine. He quickly grabs my wrist as I try to change the bandage. His other body parts do not move at all. It is just like his hand only has turned into another creature and attacked me.

In fact, that bandage should be changed. The bandage that covers most of his face has turned gray in places, and the blood stains have darkened into a gloomy color. From a hygienic point of view, it is not in a condition for an injured person to wear. So I try to change it no matter what, but he is still resisting so stubbornly that I eventually give up. I have carefully applied disinfectant on it. He will not die.

Probably, I imagine, he is afraid that I will see his face when I change the bandage that covers it. I can see the stubbornness in the color of those hard and cold eyes. When you are resisted with such strong will, there is no choice but to back up. However, no matter how many times I try to recall after that, I cannot remember ever seeing him before. Not even in a photo. So, his worry is absolutely groundless. I think so and I actually speak it out, but there is no response from the other side.

Just do as I like.

I cook his meals, let him change his clothes, and change the bandages on his body. We do not talk. He is not speaking anyway, and I am not exactly good at conversations. So, his silence itself is a convenient thing. But somehow, I cannot get rid of the feeling that I have been put on a boat without knowing where it is going.

The time the cops appear at my house, is one of those times.

A bloody corpse of a young man is lying on my front porch.

I look down at the corpse, then at the front of the house. It is a quiet morning. The apartment across the street is casting a long black shadow on the pavement in front of me. The trumpet vines planted in the hedge are rustling in the breeze, and whispering to each other in a way that human cannot decipher. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the sound of the long-distance trucks scraping against the road surface. And there is a corpse in the middle of the stairs in front of me.

In any case, to our eyes, a corpse is always a strangely exaggerated presence. But this time it is different. This corpse blends in with the landscape, becoming one with the everyday peaceful morning scenery. After a while, I realize the reason. The corpse’s chest is moving up and down faintly. It is not a corpse, it is alive.

I look at the young man. He is all black. A high-collar black cloak, a three-piece suit, a black tie. The things that are not black are his button-down shirt, and the bandages around his head. This one is a mottled color of white and red. This color pattern reminds me of some ominous Chinese prophetic characters. The place he is lying, is the middle of the stairs that leads to the front porch. The blood stains continuing down the cracked concrete stairs looks like he has been crawling.

Question. What should I do with this nearly-corpse in front of my eyes?

The answer is simple. If I touch him with the tip of my toes and put some weight on him, he will just roll down to the ground below. If I do so, then he will not be on my premise anymore. He will be on a public road. The country’s territory. All those who are in trouble within the territory of the country should be saved by the mercy of the country. An ordinary postman like me should go home and have breakfast.

I am not doing that because I am a cold and heartless person. I am doing that because it is a survival necessity. The young man’s wounds are clearly from gunshots. He has been shot multiple times. There are probably more holes in his body than I can see from here. And to top it all off, he is holding a bunch of new notes in his left hand.

What can this mean? Nothing. It means nothing, except that his existence is a huge trouble, and that nothing good will come out of getting involved with him. In other words, he is clearly not someone that an average citizen should get involved with. A normal person in his right mind should have fled to the next city at the sight of him. Just like Jonah in the Bible would do the second time he runs into a giant fish in a stormy sea.

I look at the young man, at the road, and the sky, and at him again.

And then I start to act. First, I approach the guy and lift him up by his sides. Then I drag him by his heels into the house and lay him down on the wall-mounted bed. He is much lighter than he looks. Carrying him alone is not that much of a trouble. I check his wounds. There are many deep wounds, and the bleeding is not usual, but if he receives immediate proper treatment, it is not like he will die.

I take out my medical kit box from the back of the closet, and give him some simple first aid treatments. I put a towel under his upper body, cut his clothes with a pair of scissors to expose the wounds, and check if there is any bullet left inside. In order to stop the blood flow, I apply pressure on the pressure points: below the armpits, inner elbows, ankles, backs of knees, and tie them tightly with a clean cloth. Then I put disinfected tourniquets to the wounds to stop the bleeding. Fortunately for him, I can do this kind of first aid even with my eyes closed.

After I am done with the treatments, I look down at the young man and cross my arms. His breathing has stabilized. His respiratory system and bones seem to be intact. But he does not seem to be waking up. “It’s fine already, just kick him out.” I can hear the voice in my head. There is nothing more stupid than treating a suspicious guy like this. I guess I should listen to that voice. That is what a wise man would do.

Before following the angel’s advice, I take another look at the young man. I don’t recognize his face. Probably not someone I know. I say probably, because the bandages covering half of his face makes it almost impossible to make out his features. But he is much younger than what I first thought. He is probably young enough to pass as a “boy”.

Then I remember the wad of cash he was holding. He is still holding them. If it is actually as much as it looks, it must be a fortune for someone with a miserably cheap wage like me. In this situation, it should be okay to have some of them gently transferred to my pocket as a thank for saving his life, right? Thinking so, I pick up the wad of notes. And now I finally realize that I am the biggest idiot in this town.

I feel a bitter taste spreading inside my mouth.

That is an unused bundle of notes. There is some blood on them, but the paper strap, the proof that they are new, is there. There is no bank’s name printed on the strap. There is no printing of any kind. And the notes are neatly lined up by serial numbers in ascending order.

I feel like someone just punched me in the stomach.

There are two possibilities that I can think of. First, this bundle of notes has been taken out of the Reserve Bank of Japan Mint, before it hits the market. That would mean this man is a plague. There is no chance that an ordinary person could get his hands on such a thing. The notes printed at Japan Mint are first sent to the Ministry of Finance, where their serial numbers are scanned to become usable notes. Then they will be sent in cash transport vehicles to branches of the Reserve Bank. From there, they continue to be subdivided and distributed to city banks. At that point, the straps will be switched with those of the city banks.

However, there is no printing on his trap at all. The only way to be able to carry out a wad of notes in that state is to steal it from the Reserve Bank. The most likely way is to attack a cash transport car. Could it be that he just returned from a raid like that?

But if so, I will just stroke my chest in relief, and go back to making coffee in my kitchen. The cash car robbers are violent guys, but only violent. Violence alone cannot make a storm.

There is another possibility.

These are counterfeit notes. I take out a magnifying glass from the back of the room, and carefully examine the wad of notes in my hand. I become completely chilled that my fingers are tingling. I try comparing them with the notes in my own wallet. I can’t tell the difference at all.

A supernote.

I feel dizzy.

If that is the case, the thing in my hand right now has become as dangerous as a small nuclear warhead. Counterfeit currency is a tool of warfare that has been used way before bows and arrows. If one can bring an amount of well-made false currency into an enemy country, the value of that currency will drop due to the increase amount of money in circulation, leading to inflation. A country is, in a sense, its own currency. By skillfully fueling distrust in a country’s currency, it is possible to destroy the economy and bring down a whole nation. For that reason, the National Security Agency is always on the lookout for counterfeit notes. If this level of a note is to be brought into the market, it would not be the city police’s business. It is much higher. The National Security Agency, or the Military.

I put the wad of notes on my desk as if I am throwing them away. I don’t want to leave my fingerprints on them anymore. I head to the phone. If I report the incident right away, I might be able to argue for some extenuating circumstances with the authorities. There is no time to waste.

When I pick up the receiver, I hear a faint voice. It isn’t coming from the phone.

“Put the phone down.”

I turn to the direction where the voice came from. Before I knew it, the young man has opened his eyes and is looking at me with those eyes. I look at the receiver and the youth in turn. Then I say, “What if I don’t?”

“I kill you.”

Those words are as mediocre as the unsold leftover packs lining up in a deli, at least to this young man. I can tell from looking at his eyes. When he utters the word “kill”, it is nothing more than an ordinary, everyday word for him. Just like cutting your nails, or going out to buy more cigarettes, those kinds of words.

“How?” I put down the receiver, but I have not returned it to the base station. Then I say, “You’ve got holes all over your body. You can’t move anything. You’re dying everywhere. You don’t even have a gun. To kill me in that condition, it would take two hundred of you.”

“I don’t need that much.” He says with a chilled voice. “I’m Port Mafia.”

Those words only are enough.

“Port Mafia”, I carefully choose my words before saying “Then I have no choice but to obey.” Then I take my time and quietly put the receiver down.

“That’s good,” he chuckles.

If he really is from Port Mafia, I would have to be careful even about lifting or lowering a spoon in front of him. When the opponent is the Port Mafia, the synonym of darkness and violence, even if I report this and manage to escape today, there is no telling what will come later. A human being has a total of about two hundred bones. But it would not be strange if I will be shredded into just as many pieces of flesh.

I stare at him for about three seconds. Then I go to the kitchen. I keep the door open so that I can watch him from there. I start making coffee in the kitchen. I put the kettle on the fire and wet the rod with some water. I add the coffee powder, and pour boiling water in.

“If I’m not allowed to call the police, what about the doctors?” I say, keeping my eyes on the water.

“What I’ve done is just emergency first aids at best. If you don’t get checked by a proper doctor, you will die soon.”

“No need to worry.” The young man speaks with a slightly stretched out voice. “This much is no big deal. I’m used to injuries.”

“Is that so? Then I will obey.” I stir the coffee and set a timer. “In any case, there is no way a normal postman like me can go against the Port Mafia demons.”

“Being obedient is good. So next…”

Suddenly, the young man starts coughing and vomiting blood. I quickly run up to him and turn his head to the side so that he will not choke on his own blood. I check inside his mouth. I can’t tell where the bleeding is from in this situation. It could be just a cut inside his mouth, or it could be an internal injury. I don’t know.

“Go to the hospital. Get treatments. You are really going to die.” I state.

“It’s perfect then.” he speaks like whispering. “Just let me die like this.”

I feel a chilled wind passing through me.

I look at the young man. He is just staring at the ceiling. No emotions, no intents. Just a flat expression, like one who is just telling his age. I cannot believe my own eyes. I don’t even feel like there is a human there. If it was late night instead of a refreshing early morning, I would think that he was a ghost or a hallucination.

Crazy things keep happening today. My life is about to get screwed up it seems.

“Fine then.” I say. “If you want to die, just die. It’s your own life. I won’t stop you. But I will be in trouble if you die here. If you die here, no one will be able to testify that I am not the one who caused your injuries. I might be arrested.”

“To be arrested, or to be killed by Port Mafia later, which one is better?’

I stare at him while saying, “That’s a hard question.”

I go back to the kitchen, wait for the timer and turn off the fire. I then take out the cream can and ask, “You want some coffee?”

No answer.

“How did you collapse in front of my house?”

Still no answer.

“What the heck are those notes in your hand?”

No answer for this one of course.

I feel as if I’m talking to a wind fairy. A character from a picture book who suddenly came to my house on a peaceful morning. Just that he is covered in blood, and he wants to die.

I pour coffee into two cups and add in the cream. I watch the steam, wait for some time and start stirring. Then I notice that I can’t feel the sign of anyone in the next room anymore. I can’t even hear him breathing. No hint of death drifting either.

I poke my head out of the door, the cups still in my hand. The young man is crawling towards the front door. If he could move his legs, he would just walk out. But it looks like he hasn’t got that much strength back, so he just has his arms hooked on the floor and slowly creeping forward. Just like a prisoner escaping from cell in those old war movies.

He notices my gaze, and then as if he has given up, a mocking smile appears on his face.

“You don’t want me to die in this house, do you? Then if I leave, you’ll have nothing to do with it. No need to help me. No need to ponder anything. Just stay there and watch.”

I ask him, still holding the coffee, “Do you want to die that much?”

“Of course I do. I joined the Port Mafia, but there was still nothing.” replies the young man in a voice that sounds like a soul-deprived gasp. “The only thing I want now, is death.”

Then he starts crawling again.

I take a sip of my coffee while watching that. His progress is pathetically slow. I take another sip. He keeps moving without a rest. He has no intent to look back at me anymore.

There is only one thing to do.

“It’s no use to stop me.” The young man seems to notice my movement. He says with his eyes looking forward, “No one can go against the Port Mafia. And no one in the Port Mafia can go against me. In other words, no one can whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!??”

He is pulled backward.

I wrap him with a bed sheet and lift him up. I then twist the two ends to close it. Like a candy wrapping paper. Then I turn him upside down and carry him back.

“It hurts it hurts it hurts! My wounds are opening! What the hell are you doing, you blockhead. You want to be killed?”

“I don’t want to be killed. But I don’t want to let you die either. If you go out in this state, you will definitely die. Just make up a death story without me in it when you get better.”

As it looks like he is going to let out more complaint, I shake the lump of cloth.

“Ouch ouch! Stop it! I hate pains!!”

“Then will you give up?”

“No!”

I try to come up with a way to deal with it and I get one. Let’s tie him to the bed.

I put him down on the bed and open the pack. I bring in a big towel and wrap it around his arms, which are crossed in front of his chest, altogether with his torso. I take the decorative cord from the door way to bind his legs together and tie the ends to the metal fittings of the bed. I raise the pillows, change the blanket into a new one, and open the window to let the fresh air in.

“For the time being, until your wounds have healed, I will have you stay like that.” I look down to the young man and say “Is there anything you want?”

“My nose is itching.” He looks at me resentfully while wriggling his two arms that are no longer free.

“Poor you.” I go back to the coffee in the kitchen.

The young man’s insults are echoing behind my back. But this neighborhood is sparsely populated, so there is no need to worry about disturbing the neighbors. I enjoy my morning coffee.

And so begins the strange and short communal life of me and Dazai together.