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It’s already late in the night when he steps out into the open, a large scarf draped messily around his neck and fitted comfortable in two sweats and a large windbreaker jacket. The night is silent, dark, empty – he meets no one during his ascend in the elevator of the hotel, and only the receptionist in the front acknowledges him.
He walks on the empty sidewalks, listening to the nothingness that rings in his ears. The streetlights are dull and yellow and sing a silent solemn song, and beyond the litters of dark hotels and houses, the artificial centres of shops and gyms, bus bays and train stations – lays the beautiful arrangement of trees and mountain scapes.
Mount Fuji was a sight to be held in hindsight, to be held up highly. From where he stood it looked only like the array of reds and greens and browns powdered and slopped onto thick canvases, a caricature of modernised contemporary artwork, so abstract. Only when he was so desolate in the dullness of the night, huddling for his own body warmth and in his lonely state of mind could he holistically appreciate what his kind called ‘nature’.
It was nature in the flesh – and so beautiful it was.
Forty and three minutes it took for him to manoeuvre the bleak mazes of superficiality, artificiality – disaster. But he forgave what mankind had done and destroyed when the tar and cobble at his feet fringed to dirt and more dirt, but beyond the dirt was lushness and greenness.
Trees loomed above him, their lanky arms greeting him and welcoming him, ushering him to come and play. They were the foreground, the interlude of an expensive concert that people secretly enjoyed but never really paid for – the Watson to Sherlock Holmes. Aokigahara was the only thing preventing him from stepping forward – whirling through all the breaking leaves and sawing, dusting bark to see his most beloved. It however was very much damaged, chaotic horror most evident in the cut and processed timber of the tree’s own – it could be seen as bestiality, cannibalism if looked into foremost – nailed acutely with iron and copper and signed with strokes of ink.
So many more surrounded the entrance, daring him to go in, daring him to leave. They read and sung to him in a luminous clarity – Turn Back Now – they mock – Suicide is Not the Answer – they taunt. They believe he is much of an idiot to take his own life, to leave the life without visiting the epitome of beauty.
But he never was much of what they call a ‘rebel’, and he always listened and obeyed his mother’s words. So from afar he watched, the layers and flora and fauna that only displayed their features as blurred colours and blobs, skit – burlesque – misrepresentation. Because nothing could be so astonishingly, to-the-whole appreciated and cherished and valued – from a distance four thousand trees away.
And as the day visits once again although he knows it will soon leave, the sun peaks itself from beneath the waves of trees, and beneath the beauty of cliffs and imperfections of Mount Fuji. Its rays rain down on the land and render everything awake and up and the animals of namely mice and owls reside into the darkness of burrows and holes.
He stands for hours more, he does not feel the vibration of anxiety and anxiousness – scarce panic of the phone long forgotten in his back pocket. Watching the sun rise and brighten the scenery of luxury and splendour – he felt high on elixir and a great felicity, pleasantness warmly spread amongst his body.
Then he leaves, albeit wretched to be parting such a sight that was created to be sighted. He grimaces as the uncultivated and pungent aroma of city-life hits him like a tremendous fluctuating wave of seas, overbearing his senses once more as the natural fragrance of florae leaves him to his own sorrow.
Soraru and himself sleep side by side – or not – it may be or is to be established by the view of perception. It is a small room, quaint and cosy and slightly pricey – the window woefully faces the array of metal and plastic buildings, tarred roads and parks built upon organics. If there were any window on the other side of the room, he thinks, then a perfect view of beauty could easily be seen and adored from so high up in the glaciers of the cities.
“Where did you go last night? You weren’t here when I woke up.” Soraru tells him when they are in the calm of the storm, standing and huddled between the faceless movements of beings.
He shrugs. “I went for a walk.”
Soraru is shocked, or maybe he is confused. “So late? So early? When did you even leave?”
He does not know: his tune on time had been lost solely because his heart was set on viewing perhaps the most beautiful thing in the universe.
He says nothing, and Soraru does not pry any further.
Later that night, he dresses once again in the same clothes as the night before – because even though the times have changed, the temperatures have not. He quietly exits the hotel without waking – or so he hoped – his companion.
There’s a shuffle and swift lurking behind him he does not notice. His eyes are only set on one.
Again he finds himself standing at the entrance of gloom, at the peak of the night despite there being no peak in the city at all. The signs taunt him merely, whispering their hallows and glutton.
He’s had enough – and he steps one foot in front of the other. In one week’s time, or maybe two – he had forgotten – he would find himself on the repulsive and sickening floors of the trains, rumbling and hastily sending him back to the heart of his country. He would be sent away from the peace of his hometown into a fighting war, with guns and bombs and death – except he’s not, but he cannot ever get bored of such glamour.
It’s set in stone – he decides: tonight or never – he will see it up close. Mocking, mocking – taunting, taunting – the timber sings in his face much more, seemingly so much more. But he’s ready to finally finish watching the interlude of the performance that he had paid half his life for, to finally cry out in joy as his idols enter the stage – ready, ready.
Because past Aokigahara was the main stage.
Silence is what had welcomed him, but it was silence no more a soft crunch crunch crunch tickled his earlobes and eardrums and everything in between, and rendered him frozen – he stood and stared at nothing and listened to what he did not know. And then as the crunching shot in amplitude, he turned – should he had cowered at the signs?
Then he feels a hard impact that roots from his stomach and shoots up and down through his entire body like adrenaline – but there was no adrenaline in his body at all, only calmness that had soon replaced with fear. He lurched and a cry left his mouth, echoing against the silence and crickets – branches moved closer as they listened to his shock. He had sprinkled the trees with his glee, and now showered them with apprehension, distress – fear.
Then he recognises his attacker – recognises the paleness of skin juxtaposed with dark hair the colour of under-seas. Thin and almost-frail body and skimpy, boyish pyjamas that he had been exposed with not even mere hours ago. Strong arms wrapped around his waist with no intention to let go, holding onto him as if holding onto dear life – the delicate and short excuse for a life. But he did not recognise the deep and affectionate sorrow apparent in orbs – it was something that came as such rareness to him.
Soraru wept.
“Don’t even think about it, Mafumafu.”
He doesn’t think about it: because he doesn't know what he shouldn’t think about. Soraru doesn’t let go of him for a long while – it could have been mere seconds or minutes, or even hours (but he knows it isn’t hours: the sun has not yet risen) – but he doesn’t let go.
The forest is again quiet apart from quiet weeping.
He looks around, looks at the signs that surrounds him and they do not taunt him anymore – maybe for they were scared of the new presence, he was unsure. But a realisation hit him too late as he read ink, a sudden and inaudible oh leaving the roots of his mouth.
“I wasn’t going to kill myself, Soraru-san.” He speaks and feels tingly and weird to say such words he never thought he would be saying. The intention of giving his life of never reached his mind even before the difficulties of prior events.
Soraru was not convinced.
“I wanted to see Mount Fuji up close.” He assured. “I wanted to see it’s glamour, beauty from up close. From here the forest stretches miles upon miles and blocks the view. At the base it would be so much more stunning.”
Soraru sits up from his position, the leaves rustling as he moves.
“I hope you’re telling the truth, Mafumafu. Because you gave me a heart attack.”
He laughs and not joylessly. Standing, he pulls his companion up with him and the trees suddenly seem so much pleasanter, friendlier – smaller.
“If you want to see Mount Fuji, we can go by bus. I know you hate public transport, but its much better than travelling through this forest. It’s a ‘suicide forest’ for a reason, so there will be a lot of unpleasant things that you might spot while walking through.”
He nods in agreement. “That’s a good idea.”
And then they walk together, side by side.
“You… really didn’t want to kill yourself?”
“Definitely. I just want to see Mount Fuji.”
Soraru hums, and takes his fingers, intertwining them.
“You scared me a lot.”
He apologises, and they continue to walk slowly through the streets. He notices that it was much brighter, the sun making its expected appearance slowly beyond the buildings. And he also notices that the buildings are much less repulsive – the street lights were yellow and warm and sung a melodic hushed song, and although the shops and gyms and stations were still artificial, it did not sneer and affront him as much.
Maybe it was because there was a warmness intertwined in his hand – but he would never be sure.
They take the bus to the base of Mount Fuji and stay there until sunset.
He admires his love finally, taking in all its imperfections and perfections. It was like a contemporaneous canvas artwork – not abstract at all and clear and beautiful.
Soraru sits and admires and understands. Mount Fuji was surely the epitome of glamour, he thinks.
As the day ends, Mafumafu thinks that maybe Mount Fuji could stand clear second on his list of loves, because Soraru makes his heart flutter and awe even more – but he could never be so sure.