Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

When I come to I'm in thick brush, lying there on the damp ground like some log. I can't see a thing, it's so dark.

My head propped up by prickly brambles, I take a deep breath and smell plants, and dirt, and, mixed in, a faint whiff of dog crap. I can see the night sky through the tree branches. There's no moon or stars, but the sky is strangely bright. The clouds act as a screen, reflecting all the light from below. An ambulance wails off in the distance, grows closer, then fades away. By listening closely, I can barely catch the rumble of tires from traffic. I figure I must be in some corner of the city.

I try to pull myself together and pick up the scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces of me lying all around. This is a first, I think. Or is it? I had this feeling somewhere before. But when? I search my memory, but that fragile thread snaps. I close my eyes and let time pass by.

With a jolt of panic I remember my backpack. Where could I have left it? No way can I lose it-everything I own's inside. But how am I going to find it in the dark? I try to get to my feet, but my fingers have lost all their strength.

I struggle to raise my left hand-why is it so heavy all of a sudden?-and bring my watch close to my face, fixing my eyes on it. The digital numbers read 11:26. May 28. I think of my diary. May 28… good-so I haven't lost a day. I haven't been lying here, out cold, for days. At most my consciousness and I parted company for a few hours. Maybe four hours, I figure.

May 28… a day like any other, the same exact routine. Nothing out of the ordinary. I went to the gym, then to the Komura Library. Did my usual workout on the machines, read Soseki on the same sofa. Had dinner near the station. The fish dinner, as I recall. Salmon, with a second helping of rice, some miso soup, and salad. After that… after that I don't know what happened.

My left shoulder aches a little. As my senses return, so does the pain. I must have bumped into something pretty hard. I rub that part with my right hand. There's no wound, or swelling. Did I get hit by a car, maybe? But my clothes aren't ripped, and the only place that hurts is that spot in my left shoulder. Probably just a bruise.

I fumble around in the bushes, but all I touch are branches, hard and twisted like the hearts of bullied little animals. No backpack. I go through my pant pockets. My wallet's there, thank God. Some cash is in it, the hotel key card, a phone card. Besides this I've got a coin purse, a handkerchief, a ballpoint pen. As far as I can tell in the dark, nothing's missing. I'm wearing cream-colored chinos, a white V-neck T-shirt under a long-sleeved dungaree shirt. Plus my navy blue Topsiders. My cap's vanished, my New York Yankees baseball cap. I know I had it on when I left the hotel, but not now. I must have dropped it, or left it someplace. No big deal. Those are a dime a dozen.

Finally I locate my backpack, leaning up against the trunk of a pine tree. Why in the world would I leave it there and then scramble into this thicket, only to collapse? Where the hell am I, anyway? My memory's frozen shut. Anyway, the important thing is that I found it. I take out my mini flashlight from a side pocket and check out the contents. Nothing seems to be missing. Thank God the sack with all my cash's there.

I shoulder the backpack and step over bushes, brushing branches out of the way, until I reach a small clearing. There's a narrow path there, and I follow the beam of my flashlight into a place where there're some lights. It appears to be the grounds of a Shinto shrine. I'd lost consciousness in a small woods behind the main shrine building.

A mercury lamp on a high pole illuminates the extensive grounds, casting a kind of cold light on the inner shrine, the offering box, the votive tablets. My shadow looks weirdly long on the gravel. I find the shrine's name on the bulletin board and commit it to memory. Nobody else is around. I see a restroom nearby and go inside and it turns out to be fairly clean. I take off my backpack and wash my face, then check out my reflection in the blurry mirror over the sink. I prepare myself for the worst, and I'm not disappointed-I look like hell. A pale face with sunken cheeks stares back at me, my neck all muddy, hair sticking out in all directions.

I notice something dark on the front of my white T-shirt, shaped sort of like a huge butterfly with wings spread. I try brushing it away, but it won't come off. I touch it and my hands come away all sticky. I need to calm down, so consciously taking my time I slowly take off both my shirts. Under the flickering fluorescent light I realize what this is-darkish blood that's seeped into the fabric. The blood's still fresh, wet, and there's lots of it. I bring it close for a sniff, but there's no smell. Some blood's been spattered on the dungaree shirt as well, but only a little, and it doesn't stand out on the dark blue material. The blood on the T-shirt is another story-against the white background there's no mistaking that.

I wash the T-shirt in the sink. The blood mixes with the water, dyeing the porcelain sink red, though no matter how hard I scrub the stain won't come out. I'm about to toss the shirt into the garbage can, then decide against it. If I throw it away, some other place would be better. I wring out the shirt and stow it in the plastic bag with my other rinsed-out clothes, and stuff the whole thing into my backpack. I wet my hair and try to get some of the tangles out. Then I take some soap out of my toilet kit and wash my hands. They're still trembling a little, but I take my time, carefully washing between my fingers and under my fingernails. With a damp towel I wipe away the blood that's seeped onto my bare chest. Then I put on my dungaree shirt, button it up to my neck, and tuck it into my pants. I don't want people looking at me, so I've got to look at least halfway normal.

But I'm scared, and my teeth won't stop chattering. Try as I might I can't get them to stop. I stretch out my hands and look at them. Both are shaking a bit. They look like somebody else's hands, not my own. Like a pair of little animals with a life all their own. My palms sting, like I grabbed onto a hot metal bar.

I rest my hands against the sink and lean forward, my head shoved against the mirror. I feel like crying, but even if I do, nobody's going to come to my rescue. Nobody…

Man alive, how'd you get all that blood all over you? What the hell were you doing? But you don't remember a thing, do you. No wounds on you, though, that's a relief. No real pain, either-except for that throbbing in your left shoulder. So the blood's gotta be from somebody else, not you. Somebody else's blood.

Anyway, you can't stay here forever. If a patrol car happens to spot you here, covered with blood, you're up a creek, my friend. Course going back to the hotel might not be a good idea. You don't know who might be lying in wait, ready to jump you. You can't be too careful. Looks like you've been involved in some crime, something you don't remember. Maybe you were the perp. Who knows?

Lucky thing you got all your stuff with you. You were always careful enough to lug everything you own around in that heavy backpack. Good choice. You did what's right, so don't worry. Don't be afraid. Everything's going to work out. 'Cause remember-you're the toughest fifteen-year-old on the planet, right? Get a hold of yourself! Take some deep breaths and start using your head. Things'll be fine. But you gotta be very careful. That's real blood we're talking about-somebody else's blood. And we're not just talking a drop or two. As we speak I'll bet somebody's trying to track you down.

Better get a move on. There's only one thing to do, one place you gotta go to. And you know where that is.

I take a couple of deep breaths to calm down, then pick up my pack and get out of the restroom. I crunch along the gravel, the mercury light beating down on me, and try to get my brain in gear. Throw the switch, turn the crank, get the old thought process up and running. But it's no go-not enough juice in the battery to get the engine to turn over. I need someplace that's safe and warm. That I can escape to for a while and pull myself together. But where? The only place that comes to mind is the library. But the Komura Library's shut until tomorrow at eleven, and I need somewhere to lie low till then.