Fuminori Nakamura - The Gun

Instead of replying to me, she said, “I feel like I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ugh, it’s nothing. Just that, I feel strange today. Sorry. I can’t stop apologizing.”

“I’m the one who should apologize.”

“For what?”

“Hmm?” I was so sleepy, I don’t know how many times I stifled a yawn. “Anyway, this kind of thing happens, I mean, no matter what you do, sometimes you feel bad. So don’t worry about it.” My head felt muddled, and I couldn’t quite grasp the words I wanted to say. I headed for the vending machine again, this time buying an iced black coffee. I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. Yuko eyed me, repeatedly asking if I was okay. I couldn’t think of an appropriate response, so I just tried to laugh it off.

“Hey, it’s kind of cold,” she said. “Do you want to come to my place? It’s a mess but. .”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s getting cold out, and well. . my apartment is near here.” She looked at me as she spoke.

I hesitated a little — I wanted to say something clever in response. I was a little nervous thinking about how she might react, and I enjoyed the feeling. I put on a troubled look, and told her that I would take a pass.

“I don’t think I could control myself, if we went to your apartment. I’m weak, you know. And with you in a fragile state, I mean, I might try to take advantage. Cowardly, aren’t I? That’s what I mean. Maybe you should reconsider. I’d like to think I wouldn’t be like other guys, that I could take care of you. I get the feeling you know what you’re saying, but still, this is serious. That’s why, well, think about it. When you’re feeling better. You can let me know anytime.”

I looked at her as I finished speaking, and she seemed to be a little taken aback. The expression on her face gave me a feeling of satisfaction. She said something briefly, but so softly that I couldn’t really hear her. I was worried that my face may have revealed my glee, which for whatever reason I didn’t want her to see, so I had looked away mid-sentence. She grasped my hand and leaned into me as we started walking again. I was again overcome with drowsiness; it took effort for me to remain alert.

As we descended a stone staircase, she chattered away randomly. About how she couldn’t abide cheating, about places she wished she could travel to — those kinds of things. Struggling through my stupor, I managed to smile and respond to her. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, suddenly she pressed her body against mine. I was a little caught off guard, but I didn’t lose my balance. She put her arms around me, so I put mine around her. At that moment, I caught the scent of her hair. There was something familiar about it, yet for some reason, I felt uneasy. As that uneasiness gradually spread throughout my body, it seemed to make me forget all about my drowsiness. I felt a dull ache in my heart, and I was seized with an inexplicable desire to flee — the sensation seemed to take my breath away. Dazedly, I just kept holding her in my arms. As I stood there, I felt the oddest sensation — I can’t really describe it — as if I were in limbo and I couldn’t move.

“I feel like,” she started to say, and apparently she was already in tears. “Sometimes, I just feel like crying. I don’t know why, all these feelings well up inside. But, right now, I guess I feel better. No doubt you’ll see this side of me again, but hey, thanks.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t really thinking about anything. Then I walked her back to the building where she lived, and left her there, hoping it wasn’t too awkward. Along the way, for some reason, I broke into a run. As I ran, the gun in my jacket jostled up and down. Each time it did so, the gun struck up against my left lower torso. It hurt, but I didn’t do anything about it. In an attempt to calm myself down, I stopped and smoked a cigarette, inhaling repeatedly as I mindlessly ran my hand over the leather pouch that contained the gun.

I took the train, getting off at the station near my building. The entire time, I never let go of the leather pouch, reassuring myself of its weight, occasionally putting my hand inside the pouch and touching the gun itself. My mind was almost completely blank. I just kept touching the gun, making sure that it was at my side.

I took the gun out of the leather pouch and put it directly in my jacket pocket. Within the pocket, I gripped the gun, relishing the feel of it there. Something about that action was incredibly reassuring to me. The metal of the gun was cool — no matter how much I handled it, it still didn’t warm up — and yet it felt like a part of me. I had put my finger on the trigger, but the trigger offered up its own resistance. I worried that the gun might fire even without the hammer being lowered, so I stopped fingering the trigger. At that moment, I realized that I still didn’t know much about the gun. The thought saddened me for some reason, yet I did not release my grip. It seemed as though I had never held onto anything so tightly in my life. I squeezed my hand even more firmly, as if I wanted the gun to like me, but the gun showed no reaction. This was to be expected, and yet for some reason it pained me. Nevertheless, I felt the gun remain at my side.

I went up the stairs to the pedestrian bridge, walking across it slowly as I looked down on the street below. The path on the bridge was enclosed on both sides with plastic fencing, obscuring me from view from the waist down. So I took the gun out from my pocket and walked along with it in my hand. It made no difference, but I carried it all the way to stairs on the other end, where I put it away, and it gave me a little jolt of satisfaction. I walked slowly, and when I could see my building, I turned and went in the opposite direction. For some reason, I had no interest in going home. I don’t know why, but that was very clear to me. I bought a hot coffee from a vending machine and, as I drank it, I figured I would walk around until I was tired. I felt like I was in a daze, but not from drowsiness — this time it seemed like something different. I walked slowly though the hushed and darkened streets, gripping the gun inside my pocket. I passed through a residential area, then went over the railway tracks at a crossing and walked along a street beside a park.

At that moment I heard a sound, like the grass rubbing intensely against itself. I thought it could have been a cat or a dog running through a clump of bushes, but the simple thought occurred to me that it might be another dead body. I had nothing else to do, so I headed to the other side of the park fence where I had heard the sound coming from. If it was another dead body, I might find a second gun, but the idea didn’t really interest me. This gun was enough for me — the fact was, I didn’t need another gun. As I was walking I thought, there was no way I would just happen upon another dead body, and I laughed to myself a little. And, if it was a dead body, there was no reason to think it would have made a noise.

I went over the fence and entered the small park. It was pretty typical, with swings and a slide. I could still hear the sound. I walked around, and realized that I had passed where it was coming from. Just in front of the fence, a part of the rough and overgrown bushes was moving slightly. The sound was coming from there. It gave me the creeps, but I had come this far, and I was curious to know what was making that noise. I approached slowly, trying to determine what was moving within the grass. I was a little nervous, but it was nothing compared to the intensity of how I felt before, when I approached the man lying by the Arakawa River. Based on the way it was moving, I tried to imagine what could be in the grass. Trying hard to pay attention, I moved closer and gripped the gun in my pocket, just in case.