Ryu Murakami - Piercing

But who was she? And where was she? That was the question, but the answer didn’t really matter. What mattered was that she needed to be punished. And the one who knew she needed to be punished was the real her. Chiaki was just a name. There was nothing in it. Chi-a-ki — three empty little syllables. Die , said a voice. And it was her, the real her, moving her lips and using her voice to say the word. She was the one telling herself to die — that was all she could be sure of right now. Die, why don’t you? Why don’t you just drop dead, Chiaki?

How proud I’d be if I could actually kill her, she thought. Stab her in the thigh and hear the skin puncturing, like when you spear a sausage with a fork. But then things get hazier and hazier, and finally you wake up in the hospital. Somebody always takes me there. Kazuki said it was him who called the ambulance last time, but that was a lie. It’s someone I’ve never met, and it definitely isn’t You-know-who. All You-know-who ever did was lick me down there and suddenly start yelling at everybody. I’ve always wanted to meet him, the one who takes me to the hospital. I’ve always hoped to see his face just once, but I never really thought it would happen. He’s somebody very special, a very important person. It’s not so easy to meet people like that.

And yet, this man just might be him. That’s what she’d thought when he opened the bathroom door, but of course there was no way to be sure. Maybe it’s someone completely different, she cautioned herself. A bad person. Someone who hates me and wants to get rid of me. But she’d asked him who he was, and he hadn’t answered. That was a good sign. A bad man would’ve made up some lie. At least she knew he wasn’t a liar. And now he was saying her name to someone on the telephone. Who was he talking to? The hospital?

‘Yes, Chiaki is here. She’s hurt. I want to help her, but she still doesn’t trust me. What? Is that so? All right, then, I’ll put her on the phone.’

The man held the receiver out to her. Who could it be? She rose unsteadily to her feet, and all the blood that had collected in the wounds washed down her leg.

The moment the girl was within reach of the receiver, Kawashima made his move. He snatched hold of her right wrist with one hand and prised her fingers open with the other. The Swiss Army knife clattered to the floor. The girl stared blankly at the hand that held her wrist for some moments, as if unable to process what had just happened, and then, suddenly, she was twisting and thrashing and kicking. With a flick of his shoe, Kawashima sent the knife skittering over the tiles to the far corner of the bathroom. He then pivoted behind the girl and threw his arms around her wet body, pinning her own slender arms to her sides. She glared at him over her shoulder with wide, wild eyes, opened her mouth, and took a deep, wheezing in-breath.

Kawashima clamped his left hand over her mouth before she could scream. There was so little of her that he needed only his right arm to keep her more or less immobile. She was kicking his shins with her bare heels, but feebly, and he scarcely felt it. The problem was the hand on her mouth. Curling back her lips like a cornered dog, the girl bit into the base of his middle finger, where it met the palm. She was biting as hard as she could, squeezing her eyes shut and scrunching up her face, and her teeth broke the flesh and severed a nerve. A sickening chill shuddered through Kawashima’s body, but he fought off the impulse to pull his hand away and began whispering in her ear:

‘It’s all right. It’s all right, it’s all right. I would never hurt you, I would never hurt you.’

This isn’t my pain! he was shouting inwardly; but it wasn’t working — his finger hurt like hell. He had to hand it to this girl. She was worthy of the ice pick, and she was going to get it as soon as she calmed down.

‘Don’t be angry,’ he whispered gently. ‘Don’t be angry. Don’t be angry, everything’s all right. It’s all right, OK? Everything’s all right. You don’t have to be afraid. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

The man’s voice was deep and soft and nice, but he was holding her from behind, and all Chiaki could think was that someone was trying to take control of her. There was a coppery taste and the sticky texture of blood in her mouth. The voice in her ear saying ‘Don’t be angry’ never varied in tone or volume. Don’t be angry, don’t be angry. You don’t have to be afraid. You don’t have to be afraid. There’s nothing to be afraid of . And slowly, as the words were repeated again and again, they began to sink in. It was true: she really was angry, and afraid of something. No one had ever pointed that out to her before. She decided it was all right to relax her guard and promptly wilted in the man’s arms.

Kawashima carried the girl to the sofa and laid her limp body down. Her eyes were half-closed and bleary, her mouth open, her lips and teeth flecked with blood, her breathing faint and slow. He dried her with a bath towel and inspected the scissor wounds. The skin of her thigh was punctured in ten or more places, but the cuts weren’t deep and some had already stopped bleeding. It’s not too late to murder her, he thought. She was lying before him, perfectly still, and the knife and ice pick were right there under the sweatshirt in his open bag. He lightly touched one of her wounds, and she didn’t react in any way. She’s all numbed out, he thought. Stabbing someone in a state like this would be like stabbing a mannequin. She probably wouldn’t even try to scream if he cut her Achilles tendons; she’d probably greet death with this same out-of-it expression on her face. And besides, he ruminated, balling a tissue in his left fist to stop his own bleeding. .

Besides, she’s one of us. A kindred spirit. Are you going to stab a woman who’s hacked her own leg into a bloody mess and who’s lying there looking like death warmed over? Best to give up on the whole idea. The plan had gone completely awry. His suit was wet, and there was blood on the cuffs of his trousers. He’d taken off the gloves, his fingerprints were all over the place, and his left hand was gouged and bleeding. It would be impossible to hide the wound, and bits of his skin would be stuck to her teeth. No, he’d have to abort and start all over again from scratch.

He took off his shirt and used the knife to cut out a long strip of cloth. Doubling up a clean face towel, he placed it over the wounds on the girl’s thigh, then wrapped the strip of cloth around it. He was fairly sure this would stop the bleeding. As he changed into the jeans and sweatshirt, he shook his head ruefully: he’d bought a combat knife with a blade as long as his forearm and ended up using it to slice through a cheap shirt instead of a pair of Achilles tendons. The girl’s eyes were closed now, and her naked breast rose and fell slowly with her breathing, but he couldn’t tell if she was actually asleep or not. He got a blanket from the closet and draped it over her.

After devising a smaller bandage for his left hand, Kawashima wrapped up the knife and the ice pick again. The bundles were fairly bulky, what with all the layers of cardboard and paper and duct tape, and surprisingly heavy. He had to dispose of them somewhere — the farther away the better, ideally, but these weren’t ideal circumstances. Maybe he could just dump them in one of the trash receptacles near the elevator, though on a different floor of course. Then he’d call the S&M club and have them come get the girl. They probably wouldn’t report anything to the hotel or to the police. But since there was no way to be sure of that, or of what sorts of characters they might send to retrieve her, it would be foolhardy to have weapons in the room. He didn’t want to throw away the notes, though. They’d cost him a lot of time and effort, and the thought of starting all over again was daunting. Anyway, having notes was no crime. He’d be all right as long as the knife and ice pick weren’t found in the room.