Jon Athan - Am I Beautiful?

Then he realized it was his cell phone’s ringtone. He went back to the room. The caller ID read: Dallas R . It had been nearly an hour since their last call.

“Hello?” Adam answered.

“It’s done, man.”

“What’s done?”

Dallas huffed, then he said, “The flight, Adam. I booked the flight you were begging me to book. You remember that? Are you all right, man? Did you hit your head or something?”

“I–I’m fine. I’m sorry. I was just… Never mind. What time does it depart?”

“I think it was around 9 in the morning. I’ll send you all of the details in a minute.”

“Nine in the morning,” Adam repeated. “You couldn’t get anything earlier?”

“Come on, don’t complain. I’m doing you a favor here. Listen, nine o’clock was the earliest flight available. I can’t cancel, either. It was expensive as hell and it’s nonrefundable. You really owe me for this one.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, Adam, stop apologizing and stop complaining,” Dallas said. He laughed and said, “You’re making me feel like the asshole.”

Adam said, “Yeah, yeah, I’m, uh…” He chuckled, realizing he was about to apologize again. He said, “Thank you, Dallas. I’ll call you when I get back home.”

“All right, bud. I’m going back to bed. You call me if you need anything else. Don’t leave me out of the loop, all right?”

“I won’t. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Talk to you soon.”

The call disconnected. A few seconds later, Adam’s phone buzzed. He received two messages—a picture and a text message. The picture was a screenshot of his flight itinerary.

The text message read: Good luck, pal. You’ll get through this .

Adam assumed Dallas suspected Amber had somehow found out about his affair. It explained his lenient, pitying attitude and his supportive message.

He stayed awake throughout the night, constantly peeking through the front door’s peephole and looking out the window. He expected to find cops preparing to raid his room and police helicopters circling the building. He was afraid Miki would show up, too. He replayed the violent attack in his head over and over—and over and over and over .

At sunrise, he checked out of the hotel and called a taxi. He was concerned about his appearance—the scratches and bruises on his knuckles, the pitch-black circles under his eyes, the bright red veins surrounding his irises, his disheveled clothing. But upon arriving at the airport, he discovered his concerns were unfounded.

Most of the tourists at his terminal looked like him, exhausted and bedraggled. They had long nights of sightseeing, partying, and jet lag.

While checking-in to his flight and dropping off his luggage, he was questioned about his trip by a young airport employee. He was asked about the purpose of his visit, where he stayed, who he stayed with, where he went, and if he enjoyed his trip. Adam answered every question honestly and confidently, although he felt like vomiting throughout the conversation.

After checking his luggage, he made his way through security. He didn’t have to take off his shoes or answer any questions. It was a breeze. He went over to his gate and waited for them to call his boarding group. His flight was scheduled to depart in less than an hour and a half.

Time moved at a snail’s pace at the airport. He kept glancing over his shoulder, expecting a cop or a security guard to tackle him from behind. A few police officers patrolled the terminal, but they paid him no mind. He started thinking of excuses in case he was questioned again. He wondered if he could find asylum at the international airport.

He considered doing some research, he had time to kill after all, but he didn’t want to incriminate himself. Phones are easy to track , he told himself. Don’t make it easy for them .

He boarded his flight forty minutes before departure time. He was given a complimentary cup of sparkling wine before takeoff. Most of the other passengers looked tired but happy. He chatted with his seatmate, a young Japanese student on his way to California, for a couple of minutes. No one knew about his crime, no one really noticed his presence on the plane, but he felt like everyone was gossiping about him.

He saw Miki’s face on the seatback screen in front of him, the window to his right, the plastic cup on his tray table, his seatmate’s eyeglasses— everywhere . The afterimage of her mutilated face was burned into his retinas. He successfully escaped from Tokyo, but he couldn’t escape from Miki. It was a strange sensation—to be haunted by a living person.

He didn’t sleep a wink during the eleven-hour flight.

“ Yurei house shitteru? ” Kaito, a 10-year-old Japanese boy, asked as he pointed at an apartment building across the street.

It translated to: ‘ Do you know about that haunted apartment? ’

His classmate, Yuuto, sat at the top of a slide at the small park and peered at the three-story apartment building across the street. It was an old building with a rusty, discolored exterior, inhabitable but undesirable.

As he slid down, he nodded and yelled, “ Un! ”

‘ Yeah! ’

Riku, their female classmate, climbed up to the top of the slide. She squinted at the apartment. She saw an old lady sweeping the narrow road in front of the building.

“ Zenbuno heya? ” Riku asked

‘ Every room? ’

“ Iya, ” Kaito said. “ Shitano kai dakeda. Ano madogamieru? Houkagoni yureiga mieru. ”

It meant: ‘ No. Only downstairs. You see the window? You can see a ghost there after school. ’

Riku slid down. She sat at the bottom of the slide and repeated, “ Houkago? ” She observed the building and asked, “ Ima?! ”

‘ After school? Now?! ’

“ Un, ” Kaito said.

Riku spotted the window on the first floor. The curtains were closed. The old woman hobbled past it with her broom, unafraid. The place didn’t look haunted.

“ Usoda, ” Riku said as she sprung to her feet.

‘ You’re lying. ’

From the top of the slide, Kaito said, “ Hontoda. Otoutoga mitanda. ”

‘ It’s true. My brother saw a ghost there. ’

He ran his fingers from the corners of his mouth to his earlobes and said, “Kanojo no kuchiwa bakemonoda. Nazeka shiritai?”

‘ She has big cuts on her cheeks, like this. You know why? ’

Riku shook her head. Kaito recounted the story his brother had told him about the ghost in the apartment. He claimed the woman was disfigured by gangsters from a Yakuza gang because of her husband’s gambling debt. Then her husband, fraught with shame and disgusted by his wife’s disfigurements, killed her and himself. Her ghost was said to approach children after school, asking them the same question: ‘ Watashi kirei?’

‘Watashi kirei’ translated to ‘Am I beautiful?’

Yuuto disagreed with Kaito’s version of the story. He recounted a story his neighbor—a girl of the same age—had told him. The girl was heading home late one night after a session at a cram school when a woman in a cloth mask came out of the supposedly haunted apartment. The girl had told Yuuto that the woman spoke to her about her study session. Then she asked her a question: Watashi kirei? When the girl said yes, the woman took her mask off, revealing the gruesome scars on her cheeks.

The girl told Yuuto that the disfigured woman then repeated the question: Watashi kirei? When the girl failed to respond, the woman chased after her with a large knife.