A private + independent “Hikaru Indōu” of Mokumokuren’s The Summer Hikaru Died. Written lovingly by—

Immature as it was, I was never prepared for the ripe wound that followed— even when it was my hand that’d been carrying the knife. The silence that bled was like a sinkhole, a morbid and invisible coffin to keep everything unspoken between us buried.

I’d never once liked quiet corners as a kid. Somehow, whether it’d been due to the hyper-active agent of paranoia, or perhaps the simple activity of a child’s imagination, the shadows that lingered in the hallways or my bedroom walls had always bent to the fold of Miss Ichi’s head, a revived hand grasping my cotton neck-collar during the bruised blanket of night.

I never knew what the silence carried, when it would carry me, and when Yoshiki would surrender to it, tongue-biting and turbulent, my mind would erupt like fireworks with what he could possibly be thinking. Sometimes, when I felt sick and claustrophobic and oddly old in spite of my teen age, I craved his honesty like scraped knees begging for a balm. Other times, though, most times, I wanted him to hate me, too. (But this, I knew, was as impossible as staring into the sun. Yoshiki, gentle to even the ants that’d pilfer crumbs from his bread, could never summon something so intense, so passionate, as to hate. No. He was too soft. Too cowardly.)

Following the black drongo’s journey, my gaze landed on a tiled roof many blinks away, its red undulations almost vibrating with the sun’s heat. The drongo’s chirps were lost in the cicadas’ buzz. I didn’t realize that I was clenching my jaw the entire time, waiting for Yoshiki’s ready scoff and hand swat that he always brought at the topic of girlfriend. But, where before he might’ve gone sheepish and dismissive of the subject, now it never came— only the shape of my name on his lips that made me realize, admittedly, for the first time, that perhaps I wasn’t the only one carrying the knife. He was tearing into me, too, soft, sweet, almost cloying to the touch; tender enough to be cruel— and gross, too, if I really wanted it to be. Disgusting, if I hated him enough. And I did. Of course I did. Why, elsewise, would I get nauseated at the thought of a realized saccharine between us? A kind of honey where our laughter is not at the expense of how close we’d gotten over the years, but because of it? I shook my head, as if the brief movement could dispel the turn of my thoughts and mitigate the migraine that always followed this pondering line, a telephone wire long enough to reach me during the late hours and leave me humming, desperately, anything else in the dark. 

Gathering my wits, I pressed my fingernails into my palm, already feeling the imprint of four crescents moons, and was relieved to know that my previous reprimanding headshake could be dressed as something conversational, as disappointment, even, at Yoshiki’s poor cajoling. I laughed, seemingly the only thing I knew how to do these days. ❛❛ Yer gonna have t’do better ‘an that if yer tryin’ t’persuade me t’go to Tokyo with ya. Throw in a little somethin’ nice for me, say, an unlimited pass to Tokyo Disneyland. ❜❜

Not knowing what to do with my hands, I closed the bento box sitting lazily between us, its manufacturing so precise and uncompromising that the task took all ten of my fingers instead of five. I thought about chancing another look at him but decided against it— last time, at the river stream, when Yoshiki had spoken about leaving town, a sudden indescribable force swelled and broke within me, a cataclysm that called— strangely— for tears, even against my better judgement. I had no explanation for it, and honestly it alarmed me just as much as it would him, if not more. I was able to laugh it off, then, blame the tears on exacerbated humor as I shoved the pinching claws of a sewagani crab in his face— but there were no crabs on the school rooftop, just us two schoolboys, dry-mouthed and sunkissed. I kept my gaze on the bento box.

The cicadas were incessant, continuous and evermore. “Hikaru” bit the inside of his cheek, a nervous tic undoubtedly inherited from a stranger that carried more bad luck than she did good. He looked oddly small in this moment, boyish, feeling a guilt that’d never kept space in those bones before and yet wearing it in such a way that wasn’t his, wasn’t him, the sudden teething a spastic jolt of a revenant’s harsh awakening. It felt like borrowing a dead man’s jacket: warm in all the wrong ways. 

“Hikaru” glanced at Yoshiki— this time, a habit surely of his own— and understood very briefly, then, how flimsy time was. Yesterday and today could have blended together. The sun and moon could’ve been left to their own devices, and Yoshiki still would wear the same concave shrug that he sported at the konbini cash registers, at the buildings with stained glass windows and lopsided X’s perched right outside the door. “Hikaru” never knew what the sigil meant, or what it did, only that it carried enough weight to make Yoshiki flinch. He wondered if his monstrosity would perpetuate the boy’s recoil, if Yoshiki, in that moment, also saw him suspended cruelly in time— yesterday, a crosshair; today, X marks the spot. (WHAT SHOULD I DO? WHAT DO I DO? IF I BREAK OFF ANOTHER SHARD OF ME, CLOSER TO THIS HEART, WILL YOU BELIEVE ME— THAT I WANT TO BE GOOD? WILL YOU STAY—?) The double-headed lamb carried a mouthful of emotions itching to be translated, near desperate, only for it to scatter in an exhale as Yoshiki finally spoke. He hadn’t even known there was a breath waiting in him. (HE AIN’T MAD? ‘BOUT— ‘BOUT MY 𝐵Ǝᴵᴺg?) …

With the same serrated edge of a knife, the red of “Hikaru’s” gaze went hungry, as if trying to permeate through skin. ❛❛ ‘S not? ❜❜ Tentative, tail tucked in, only to transfigure into disbelief. He almost wanted to laugh, odd and familiar like the pale hands in his lap. ❛❛ But Yoshiki, yer…  yer kinder than the rest of ‘em. An’— no, listen— I ain’t sayin’ that just to say it. I mean, Maki don’t ever double check ‘bout steppin’ on bugs like ya do— matter o’ fact I saw him squish a spider for bein’ on the corner of his homework— ❜❜ he winced, darling and apologetic, like carrying the news alone would be enough to tarnish Yoshiki— ❛❛ An’ Asako— well, Asako can’t find it in herself t’stay ‘round an’ be my friend no more. ‘Cause, ya know… ❜❜ “Hikaru” scratched the back of his neck. The guilt of wearing someone else’s skin never became any more forgiving. He’d look in the mirror and see a graveyard, and he’d feel a phantom flinch of betrayal when reaching for persimmons instead of watermelons, but yet, yet— ❛❛ Yer still here, though. With me an’ the bugs. ❜❜ Nevermind the trial and error, nevermind the pearly shard of yesterday’s blade. Twisted a certain way, it was an act of kindness, of moving on to the next world before reinventing life again on fair grounds. But isn’t there another kindness in having survived it all?

❛❛ Ya didn’t mess up, ‘cause I’m still here, fine an’ dandy if ya ask me. An’ ya ain’t got t’worry ‘bout messin’ up, ever. How could ya— when yer soul’s bright as a flashlight? Like those sparklers we lit up at the sleepover. Don’t make no sense t’me. ❜❜ The sound of wind pressed against the window, alone and trying.

Even from the rooftops, the mountains were inescapable.       They stretched along the horizons in blue-green splatters,     as if a tidal wave had frozen mid surge and paused eternally on the village’s still corners. It loomed over the town in the same way it did my bloodline—      quiet and peripheral,     a haunt that could hide beneath the mundanities of schoolwork and chores and even the wooden clothespins of washing lines—     but it never fully purified into the waiting indigo of night, never found forgiveness in the cold hum of nocturnal air.       

I wondered,   remotely,   if Kubitachi could be more than stunning if it weren’t for this curse;      if it could be beautiful,     breathless,     all the worlds I ever dreamed of suddenly in reach—      a professional athlete with my name in magazines,    an aviator that goes by the faithful name captain,    a college student in Tokyo with Yoshiki by my side.      

The thought was lovely and lonesome though I knew I couldn’t dwell:      Pa had made it clear that we throw funerals only for the dead,    not impossible possibilities,     and anyway a dog never wins when biting the leash. 

Unable to shoulder the afternoon heat,    I unfastened the first two buttons of my shirt with an exaggerated groan,     masking my half-mourning for simple heat exhaustion.     My hair was sticky,     my back, igneous.      I wiped my forehead of sweat like I did when we were boys, brawling and brazen in our backyard game of samurai.       The watermelon sogged just slightly in the heat.      I found it in me to laugh, anyhow.       ❛❛   Ha!     Now wouldn’t that be a sight?     Reckon the metal w’ld jus’ eat ya up.   ❜❜       The image of Yoshiki in over-spacious armor flickered behind the white screens of my eyes, clanking and teetering and earnest still en guard,     though he’d never so much as hurt a fly.      (AGAIN: MY SWEET BOY.)       ❛❛   ‘S fine, though.     It ain’t like it’s the armor that makes the knight.    ❜❜      And I only meant it as a joke—     hell,    I meant everything between us as a joke,    but when I looked over and met the pulp of his gaze,     the earthy light of his eyes,    it was almost devastating—     that gentleness,     bruising into me so marvelously that I nearly went breathless.      Everything sweet had condensed and shattered and suddenly turned sour.      I hated him for it.

As quick as the glance lasted,    I turned away faster,     the motion so spastic that I had to feign a sudden swinging in my legs as subterfuge. My heart flinched a violent kick.      I realized,   then,   that there was never truly a line between us.       I’d poke at him,   tease him,     and all the while waited for him to tell me to stop—      except he never did.        Now childishly I found myself running with a knife in my hand,    clutched and unmerciful,     carving that line once and for all lest either of us stray too close.         

Studies have shown the present and very possible instances of personality changes after organ donation. Participants have shown to develop new preferences in food, music, art, sex, etc., while also experiencing new memories and waves of euphoria or delirium depending on the donor’s experiences and convictions during their lives.

In a similar vein, I want to explore the same concept of merging through (soul) consumption when it comes to “Hikaru.” When consuming a soul, “Hikaru” often carries a little piece of that person in him, whether that be through a sudden appreciation of new music, a memory of theirs manifesting through dreams, or even a bad habit now infused in “Hikaru’s” being. He’s more resistant when it comes to religious/delirious bouts, and instead becomes an observer to it happening rather than feeling personally connected to it. When it comes to consuming other lost children/impurities, “Hikaru” is prone to feeling bouts of hopelessness and hunger.

More often than not, these personality changes are fleeting, lasting a month or two before sizzling out. There are instances, however, where personality changes integrate into his own self (some changes that have stayed: smoking, an appreciation for classical music, mouthing silently an unknown word when reading)…

The double-headed lamb, both grotesque yet almost innocently pure in its accidental occurrence, is commonly seen as a symbol of duality, uniqueness, and even a warning of disaster. In addition to its differing biology from others, the two faces more often than not portray a conflicting sense of identity when in the realm of literature.

Aside from the front porch of my house, watermelons tasted best on school rooftops with our legs dangling from the ledge. Kubitachi looked gorgeous from here. She wasn’t all diamond and riches like the city, but where she lacked industry and urbanism she made up for in quiet intimacy: mothers lined the streets wiping sticky-sweet children with their newest handkerchief, every diner and supermarket was known by heart even without neon signs blinking their names. Kubitachi was stunning, haloed in by the mountains, and I think some deep, buried part of Yoshiki might have thought so, too— because what else could've pushed this sudden sentiment from him, direct and unabashed under yellow countryside sunlight?

I hummed, surprised and delighted. The watermelon tasted sweeter in my mouth. ❛❛ Naw, the mountains really ain’t too bad. Pa’s always talkin’ ‘bout how the trees’re callin’ ‘im an’ he’s just gotta go, ya know, like an itch he’s gotta scratch soon as he gets ‘em. An’ when he gets ‘em, he always drags me along. Says the itch runs in the Indōu bloodline. I don’t mind the mountains, don’t get me wrong, but t’be honest with ya, I just wanted t’ stay home an’ play Gachi Gachi-kun… ❜❜

I reached for another watermelon in the blue bento box between us, keeping my eyes still on Kubitachi’s streets. The truth was that my Pa hadn’t gone with me at all, and I wasn’t so sure about his love for the mountains so much as I was about his respect and duty towards them. Like every other Indōu man before me, I was to go to Nisayama with Miss Ichi’s head, apologize in ritual for a sin that stained my bloodline much more than that itch did. But my Pa, he’s careful as he is devoted. Yesterday was just a test of my memory for direction. He wanted to make sure I could make it to and from the mountains without getting lost, if I could make it back untangled from the leafy maze. And I did. I was to go back next week. If everything went smoothly, I wouldn't have to perform the ritual again for another five years.

The watermelon in hand dripped a line of red down my wrist. When I looked back at Yoshiki, I spotted the same worry on his face that he'd opened the conversation with. I grinned.

❛❛ Hey, what’re ya so serious fer? Ya upset that ya couldn’t be my knight in shining armor? That it? ❜❜ I found sunsets on the apples of his cheeks and laughed, almost doubling over in this precarious position on the roof’s ledge. It was sweet, he was sweet, and though I’d made promises to myself before about holding my tongue in regards to such teasing, somehow that discipline always disappeared whenever I faced him, my sweet tooth too swollen to be denied.

❛❛ Huh? Whaddya mean? ❜❜ “Hikaru’s” gaze flitted from his copy of Hunter X Hunter to Yoshiki, heavy with surprise. If the cadaver he was inhabiting had retained its mechanical workings, he was sure he’d feel its heart stutter and sink with concern. Instead, there was only a hole of silence as his mind took on the weight of Yoshiki’s imminent absence. How long those days will be— Japanese summer heat and mosquito bites by the minute. In those scorching dregs of August, who will “Hikaru” share his ice cream with? (…)

Placing the worn volume down, “Hikaru” leaned forward and studied Yōshiki with a quiet, growing urgency. He looked both worried and unsure, hiding behind his black curtain of bangs and determined to avoid “Hikaru’s” gaze all the while. It was a familiar habit, an old one, one that “Hikaru” wasn’t fond of at the moment. He couldn’t help but feel the distance it placed between them, leaving him lonesome in trying to close it. ❛❛ What’re ya leavin’ fer? I told ya already— I ain’t mad. ‘S already healed, fer the most part. ❜❜ As he spoke, his left hand instinctively lifted the bottom corner of his shirt, revealing the day-old wound to them both. He remembered it a bit too clearly, the cold metal, the visceral flinch after having offered half of himself to the pale altar of Yoshiki’s palm. How his eyes had finally held “Hikaru” in them, then, aching if only honest. (AND YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO KEEP YOUR EYES ON ME. ONLY ME. ALWAYS ME. WHO ELSE AM I KEEPING THESE HANDS FOR? WHO ELSE AM I LEARNING THIS HEART FOR?)

“Hikaru” studied Sayuri in the same way a five year old boy studies an ant under a sunlit magnifying glass: deadly curious and pristine, god-like if only cruel. He wondered when Sayuri will start to twitch, scatter in every way away from the danger— but the only movement in the forest was the slow rustle of “Hikaru’s” white cotton shirt, and, much to his dismay, he found Sayuri unmoving in spite of the fear coursing through her veins. Half bored and half impressed, “Hikaru” shifted his weight onto his right leg, observed, with quiet intensity, the sharp line of her chin held stubbornly straight, a bravado forced through her visceral tremble which was, in its own special way, quite savory.

The tangible silence that shrouded them transfigured into a hollow pocket that seemed to render things in slow motion. The impurity moved closer, undeniably so, but somehow with a dawdling gait that left too spacious room for suspense, sleep walking on the patchy green bedsheets of the earth. (If I listened closely, I could hear it chant MINEMINEMINE with salivating greed, a cadence that— both spontaneous and regretful to myself— I recognized in my own unspoken gaze I held on Sayuri all this time: MINE TO POKE AT, MINE TO PROD; MINE TO MEASURE HOW MUCH MONSTER I AM ALLOWED TO BE BEFORE I UNKNOWINGLY CROSS THE LINE.)

In the folds of quiet, “Hikaru” thought about the bloody mouth he and his brother must have come from— always hungry, always ravenous. An inherited starvation passed down in the bloodline. One that made “Hikaru” indulge in the scene before him as if it were an obliging sweet treat. He hummed.

❛❛ Ya sure about that? ❜❜ The timbre of delight was unshakeable in his voice, berries and sugar and almost sticky in its drawl. ❛❛ They may not have teeth, but I promise ya they ain’t so nice about it. No one ever comes here, y’know. They like t’take their time, chomp ya piece by piece. Romantic, yes, but not so forgiving. ❜❜  “Hikaru” reminisced how he’d been urged to do the same a few years ago, when that white haired boy had stumbled panting into his sacred grounds. Would Sayuri really give herself up to this? Would she utter a dying wish? Offhandedly, the white haired monster wondered if Sayuri had anything to beg for, to live for; if she had been able to moor herself to anything or anyone in the waking world of man. It nagged at him, these unanswered questions, floating untethered in the dark back corners of his mind. Yet he remained, on the outside, unfazed.