#cell.

     funny how much taller those stairs look when she’s breathing through a couple of cracked ribs.  she’s been contemplating her ascent for an hour now  —  at least,  she thinks it was an hour;  maybe it was six  —  and the whole thing seems on the same level of difficulty as summiting everest.  breathing is touch and go.  she can get in small sips only,  like her lungs don’t know how to inflate any further.  part of that’s the pain,  white hot,  every time she tries.  her lip is split in two places and she has a jackhammer of a headache.

     had it been anyone else to come through that door,  she would have gone straight for her knife.  but she knows the tread of those boots.  she knows what frank’s footsteps sound like.  he drops down into a crouch in front of where she’s leaning,  half - slumped against the wall,  and what he’s asking is almost too much to process.  almost makes her want to hush him because it’s doing nothing for the throbbing behind her eyes.

     “i’m workin’ up to it,”  she says,  through clenched teeth.  “quit fussin’.”

     his second question goes unanswered,  and she’d have better luck convincing water to flow uphill than convincing him not to worry.  a sharp breath is pushed out in a near - hiss,  her fists balled so tightly that her knuckles are white.

     “loretta  —”

     “—  ‘m fine.”  it’s an old lie.  he never falls for it.  that’s when she reaches for him with one hand,  the other braced on the floor beside her.  “you gonna keep gawkin’,  or help me up?  there’s a bottle’a bourbon upstairs with my name on it.”

Here I am with another part of the themed week in “Throwback Thursday”! Today’s subject is the sixth full album by the visual kei band Plastic Tree, entitled Cell. and released on 25th August 2004. As for each their release, there’s always a basis image which all the songs take inspiration from and in this case it is the most basic one. The cell, the unit of each organic being, animal or plant, represents an idea, strictly linked to Plastic Tree’s concept, meaning that it is eternal and unchangeable and it relates to everyday’s life, as the single songs represent. And now... let’s review!

-Cell. [existence of an idea]: the title-track introduces the album, where some confusing noises open the theme, with a fast and rhythmical rock sound, built in a pretty unpredictable structure (a strong feature of this band’s sound) and Ryutaro’s voice which goes even to nasal tones; a decent introduction for the release. ---> 8.5/10

-Melancholic [melancholy which can be defeated]: the track coming from the eighteenth single is introduced by Akira’s piercing guitar, in a balanced rhythm, helped by Tadashi’s relevant bass lines; Ryutaro’s voice is cutting and developes up a well structured song, which is simple and enjoyable. ---> 8.5/10

-Harusaki Sentimental (Sentimental blooming of spring) [melting love letter]: coming from their seventeenth single, this song is introduced by a soft piano melody, where Ryutaro’s voice goes on fleble, flowing soft in the melody; then the rhythm becomes stronger and the vocals are more intense, for one of the most appreciated songs by this band. ---> 9/10

-Danse Macabre [senseless dance]: some noises open a distorted song, where Tadashi goes strong with his bass, developing a sound with dark shades, as by title; Ryutaro’s voice is strong and quite dim, for an energetic dark rock song. ---> 8.5/10

-Kaibutsu-kun (Monster friend) [uncertain reality, which brings to madness]: a raging guitar retakes the style of the previous track, where the bass lines are even more powerful; this time Ryutaro uses more limpid tones, making his interpretation quite distinctive for a rapid song like this one. ---> 8.5/10

-Crackpot [in life, the real destination is always unclear]: an electronic melody opens this song, with a soft melody, driven by Akira’s relevant guitar and Ryutaro’s simple vocals, with a peculiar attention to the rhythm which makes it more and more interesting inside the album. ---> 9/10

-「Yuki hotaru」(Snow firefly) [nothing is totally black or white]: this track, coming from the sixteenth single, is introduced by a vibrant melody, leading up to a slow theme, along with Ryutaro’s warm and passionate vocals; then this ballad kicks off a more relevant rhythm, for an engaging and deep track, even thanks to the awesome guitar. ---> 9/10

-Comic Youth [irony of human life]: this time the guitar is more living in this song, inside a more dynamic and beating theme, helped by the drums; the vocals go on with a great energy and the guitar accompains them until the final second of the song, for a whirling perfomance by Akira; a really catchy theme. ---> 9/10

-Harienju (Black locust tree) [seeking the death as a way to escape]: this song represents the peak of Cell., where the guitar, with intense touches, open the theme, in a steady and extreme rhythm, empowered by strong riffs; Ryutaro, as in his best moments, start soft and relaxing, becoming more and more energetic, where the instruments build up a complex and structured atmosphere; a great song, in pure Plastic Tree style. ---> 9.5/10

-Uwanosora (Distraction) [a memory which distracts from reality]: a rapid rhythm opens the song, in a cheerful rock sound, enriched by electronic effects; the vocals are quite standard, as the melody, which has some upbeat vibes, for a simpler and anyway catchy track. ---> 9/10

-Yume no shima (Dream island) [not belonging to a single reality]: the classical guitar introduces this song, in a more melodious and slow paced theme, where Ryutaro shows off his best tones, in a dreamy and enjoyable rock theme, where the instrumental part is really fundamental. ---> 9/10

-Untitled: the album ends up with a bonus track, where the guitar kicks off in an adrenalinic sound, helped by the extreme bass lines and the pounding rhythm; then some confusing vocals join the theme, for a track which, in my opinion, appears out of context and a bit useless. ---> 7.5/10

Final Vote ---> 9/10

The visual kei scene and in general the Japanese rock has been always famous because of those acts which created a peculiar image, which often is quite hard to untie. Probably Plastic Tree can be considered one of the most relevant examples, as their style has been always object of discussion, especially for the meaning of some songs or whole releases. In Cell., the third most sold out full release for them, we can assist to a unique development, made between a simple but fundamental image, surrounded by the songs, showing off their remarkable and eccentric sound, where the slower and more passionate ones are likely the most worth of note. Because the feelings are the main device this band uses for creating astonishing melodies, with particular vocal interpretations and sometimes refined instrumental performances, which will always make them the band that many people love and admire. An album for who needs to know better Plastic Tree, with all their shades and variations.

That’s all folks! See you for the final part of the themed week, in “Focusing on”!

Thanks for the reading!

     “why th’ hell  wouldn’t  you?”

     she scoffs that line first,  abrasive and biting,  like her teeth couldn’t grit hard enough to hold it back.  what he’s doing,  it’s a kindness.  she isn’t used to that.  kindness is strange,  foreign,  unfamiliar.  she doesn’t know how to trust it,  because every time someone’s ever shown her a shred of it they’ve taken it away just as fast.  ripped out the rug from under her feet.  heart bruised until she’d learned to shield it,  defend it from behind the bulwark of her ribs and the miles and miles of armor built with her bare hands.  armor made of dirt and rock and steel,  leaving her knuckles scabbed and her fingernails torn bloody.  his sincerity threatens to crack through all of that  —  only two other people,  her whole life,  have ever managed to break their way in.

     all that labor,  gone to shit like everything else.

     she doesn’t mean to be cold.  she doesn’t remember how to be warm.  there’s a faint memory of that,  itching under her clothes like the grime of filth and sweat,  but it’s distant.  out of reach.  she thinks it has something to do with her mama.  her mouth presses into a line,  lower lip pulled between her teeth to bite at chapped skin.

     they’re a whole group out of atlanta.  women,  kids.  one of them’s his,  rick’s;  a boy she’d peg at maybe ten years old,  give or take.  they don’t have any more of a plan than she does,  but the difference is that it’s  they.  that they’re in it together.  she’s never had that.  even before the dead started getting back up to eat the living,  she never had that.  and here’s this former deputy,  who might’ve once seen fit to arrest her for possession with intent,  holding out a metaphorical hand and that simple,  baffling kindness:  stay.

     “…  we don’t even know each other.  ain’t but strangers whose paths just happened t’ cross  —  you don’t owe me anything,  ‘n i don’t make a habit outta bein’ in somebody’s debt.  shit,  for all you know,  i could be waitin’ for cover’a darkness t’ make off with your supplies.”  fleetingly,  she glances over at him.  “kiddin’.  but y’ gotta admit i had you goin’ for a second there.”

     the breeze,  hot as the air from a blast furnace,  gives no relief.  but at least the sun is starting to set;  it’s crowning the horizon,  streaking cornflower blue with washes of peach and lavender.  maybe she’s tired of walking.  maybe she’s tired of looking for the closest people she has to a family and coming up with nothing,  coming up emptier than before,  coming up scared and hopeless and completely,  utterly,  bottomlessly alone.

     palms land flat above the bend of each knee so that she can leverage herself into a stand,  sweeping unkempt hair back from her face.  she’s tired.  that’s all this is.

     she levels a steady look at rick,  one that  stays  this time.

     “—  put me up for tonight ‘n i’ll help you clear out that traffic jam ahead.  whatever we find,  i get a third.  then we’re square.”

     “peachy keen,  officer.”

     quick as her smile forms,  bright and innocent and distinctly fake,  it drops again.  she isn’t glaring,  isn’t scowling;  really,  the most noteworthy part of her expression is the lack thereof.  it’s been half a day since frank left with shane to scout for supplies.  half a day isn’t much.  she’s antsy regardless,  jitters that show in the twitch of fingertips against denim and the restless tap of her boot.

     she’d wanted to go with them.  that much was obvious.

     rick’s okay,  objectively speaking.  doesn’t press or pry or overstep,  doesn’t give off the kind of vibe that’d have her reaching for the blade at her hip.  it’s military - grade,  a gift from before.  from frank.  something to which she’s sentimentally connected,  a utility she understands.  the look he’s leveling her with,  it tells her that he’s not pushing for an answer,  maybe not even expecting one.  that she can choose to say nothing and that’ll be the end of that.  and maybe  that,  in itself,  is why she chooses the opposite.

     “don’t much care for warmin’ the bench,  is all.  ‘m sure they’ll be pullin’ up any minute now,  no worse for wear.  well,  maybe some.”  her mouth twitches.  “frank’s got a real knack for that shit.”

     she pauses to look up at him,  eyes at a half - squint,  shielded from the sun’s glare with a lift of her hand.  mid - afternoon means the hottest part of the day;  in the shade,  of which there’s precious little,  she’d wager it’s easily over hundred degrees.  growing up where she did,  she’s used to it.  most of these people are.

     a second’s consideration tempts her to leave the conversation there,  but she was getting tired of listening to nothing but buzzing insects and rustling leaves.

     plus,  loretta’s kept worse company.

     “so you ‘n shane,”  she starts,  gauging the reaction,  “y’all close?”

     "no shit.” there’s a lot more built up behind those two words, and she can feel its pressure climbing her throat to kick at the backs of her teeth. her chest hurts, like it’s full of rocks, because she knows her options and she hates every single one of them.

    frank had called the guy a friend. that’s the only reason she isn’t arguing as much as she could be. a friend, someone he trusts, somewhere she can hole up for a few days until he straightens this out for her. she gets it; that doesn’t mean she likes it. her composure cracks like old clay and she wants to tell him no and i can handle this and i don’t need anybody’s damn help and she never quite gets the words out. she wants to ask why she can’t just crash at karen’s place instead.

     what comes is a demanding, “why can’t i just stay with you?”

     he’s sitting adjacent to her on the couch, fixing her with that infuriating, unyielding stare. “because it’s not safe, that’s why.”

     “’n what, this curtis guy’s got bulletproof walls? hidden arsenal behind the bookcase?”

     “c’mon, don’t start that shit —”

     “nowhere’s safe. don’t start that shit.”

     she folds her arms and draws her knees up, already knowing she’ll be at curtis’ this time tomorrow no matter what else she says today. he doesn’t say anything for a while. prompts her with a hey when he finally does, and when she looks at him, ready to be disappointed, he says, “i’m gonna come back for you, you know that, right?”

     yeah, she knows that. like he knows it’s exactly the right thing to tell her. she considers trying to push this over the cliff’s edge anyway, because that wasn’t a fair play, but ultimately decides against it.

     “fine,” it’s a grouse and a sigh rolled into one, but that’s mostly for show. he’ll come back. he always does. “guess i can play nice for a couple days, if it’ll stop you gettin’ all ornery on me again. that’s the best i got. you satisfied?”

     he’s amazingly calm for somebody who’d killed a man,  pulled a kid out of a car trunk,  and taken an elbow to the face,  all within the last forty - five minutes.  in contrast,  she’s like a feral cat  —  skittish,  bristling,  tucked into the corner of the room’s only chair.  it’s a wonder she’s not hissing with bared teeth.  regardless,  he keeps his distance.  kept it the whole walk back,  before and after she’d told him,  point blank,  i know who you are.  as if the skull decal isn’t enough of a tip off.  she watches the news.  what he’s doing all the way down in the ass - end of kentucky,  she still doesn’t know.

     no hospitals.  she’d made that clear.  she isn’t hurt,  not really;  a bruise or two,  marks on her wrists.  nothing serious,  nothing she can’t handle.  how ‘no hospitals’ turned into this,  she doesn’t know either.  holing up in a shitty motel room with the goddamned  punisher  isn’t quite the turn she’d pictured her night would take,  but then again,  neither was the car trunk.

     five or ten minutes ago,  he’d asked if she wanted to go home.  she told him there wasn’t much of one to go back to so there was no sense in hurrying.  why rush,  she’d said.

     “for starters,  you’re alive.”  that’s what he came back with.  that’s why she’s looking at him strangely,  like the sentiment is somehow lost on her.  she has a matched set of crescent - shaped shadows beneath eyes rimmed with pale red,  mouth a little swollen,  hair forming a halo of frizz at her temples and the crown of her head.  you’re alive.  she doesn’t know what to do with that.  how to make it fit in her mouth when her tongue feels too big.

     “that s’posed t’ mean somethin’?  prompt a catharsis,  moment’a clarity  —  gimme a new lease on life?”

     don’t misunderstand;  she’s grateful.  there was only one solid ending to all this before he showed up,  and it didn’t involve a motel.  or,  maybe it did.  maybe they would’ve found her body in a room just like this one,  only it wouldn’t have been a  room,  it would’ve been a crime scene.  maybe they wouldn’t have found her body at all.  she’s accustomed to the smell of dirt and grit,  and that earthy,  rotten darkness drifting up from the bottom of a mine shaft.  she’s kissed death on the mouth twice before this,  and that’s twice too many times for someone who’s barely pushing sixteen.  so,  she’s alive.  so  —  ?  so what?

     there’s something in his eyes like understanding,  like  i get it  without the pity.  she hates pity.  she got enough of that after her mama died,  and then her daddy,  and it makes her want to swing.  but he isn’t giving her that.  he’s giving her something genuine,  stripped clean of any bullshit.

     it unsettles her,  only because it’s unfamiliar.

     she squirms,  repositions,  draws the sleeves of her flannel down over her hands.  the loud bray of her heartbeat reiterates what he said.  you’re alive,  you’re alive.

     “…  whatever.”  swallowing,  glass and grave dirt,  she drops her gaze.  “y’ don’t have t’ do that.  talk me through it  like that.  this ain’t the first time some asshole tried punchin’ my ticket,  it comes with the territory.”  so much of that is wrong,  on an intrinsic level.  so much of her life up ‘til this point has been one long line of wrong.  part of her wants to tell him,  how she was fourteen the first time and she went quietly because they had a gun on her daddy,  and she was scared,  and she’s still scared,  and she thinks she’ll go through the rest of her life scared,  but she doesn’t.  it’d be easy to tell him,  and that unsettles her,  too.

     instead,  she looks at him again.  her throat’s as dry as her tone,  but her tone doesn’t shake like her hands.  “—  reckon your timing was on point,  though.  thanks for that.”