Chapter Text
“And I another
So weary with disasters, tugg’d with fortune,
that I would set my life on any chance,
to mend it or be rid on’t.”
— Shakespeare, Macbeth
Sousuke sees Ririka again at their favourite café.
It’s early in the morning, and he’d only been trying to kill time until his shoot started. The barista was polite, their brief conversation pleasant; he’d ordered his usual — small latte with almond milk, two sugars — and shuffled down the counter to wait for his drink. He’s leaning his back against the counter’s ledge, scrolling through his phone, skimming his new messages. He looks up as the barista shouts a name, and that’s when he notices her.
She doesn’t see him at first: she’s sitting some few tables away, facing slightly off to the side. She’s wearing a baseball cap and a hoodie that swallows her, her dark, red hair curling into its neckline. She’s scrolling on her phone, her mug half empty. She must’ve noticed that someone is now staring at her, because she whips around to look at Sousuke, who hasn’t moved since.
Dread seeps into Sousuke’s body as their eyes lock, the sickly feeling of anticipation catching in his throat. The café’s warm lighting bounces off her eyes, sharp and forewarning. He’s had many ideas of what to expect the next time they see each other: her contempt; her anger. Lingering resentment. Unimaginable hurt.
Ririka quirks a brow at him, the slightest movement on her otherwise neutral face, before she turns back to her phone. Sousuke takes it as another of her roundabout cues, and moves towards her.
“Ririka,” he says in greeting.
She looks up at him, displeased.
He takes a sharp intake of breath, bracing himself. “Um, so, how have you —”
“Look,” Ririka cuts through, direct and unapologetic, “you’re cute, but I don’t give out autographs or handshakes or whatever you’re looking for in my off-time. Thanks for the support and everything, but that’s what I have meet-and-greets for.”
“What?” says Sousuke, baffled, “I’m not — why would I —”
“And if this is a scouting offer, I’m already with an agency,” she says, looking back at her phone again. “I don’t take any gigs without my manager’s approval. I’m not an industry-virgin.”
“Ririka,” Sousuke tries again, more urgently now, his head spinning, “it’s me.”
She looks at him, her mouth twisted into a grimace. “Am I supposed to know who you are?”
He stands there, blank.
“And stop addressing me so familiarly,” she spits, as if he’s ever addressed her as anything else, but why is she — this isn’t — “You don’t know me. It’s disgusting.”
“Shima-san?” the barista calls distantly from the front of the café, “Small latte with two sugars and almond milk for Shima-san?”
Ririka doesn’t flinch at his name, doesn’t sneer at his order like she always would. She doesn’t cry for the entire café to witness or curse him to hell. Instead, she turns back to her phone, her acrylic nails clacking as she types furiously. She’s done with conversation, brushing him off like he’s less than nothing.
That’s how Sousuke learns that something is very, very wrong.
Chris explains what happened over dinner that night.
“Have you heard of Kenketsu? They’ll erase any memories you want to forget, like, surgically. They’ve been getting lots of coverage for the past few months.”
“I don’t keep up with the news,” says Sousuke over his rice bowl, clacking his chopsticks together. “Is that even possible? Or legal?”
“They make you sign this super long waiver, and it’s ridiculously expensive,” Chris reasons, poking his burger steak with his fork. “As far as I’ve heard, the only people who get it are obscenely rich or desperate. And honestly, if you’re at the point of considering a psychological lobotomy, you probably don’t even care about legalities anyway.
“As for whether it’s possible — you said she didn’t recognise you at all?”
Sousuke shakes his head, perturbed.
“Hell,” says Chris, slicing through his burger steak, “there’s your answer.”
“So, what?” Sousuke presses, still reeling from psychological lobotomy, “she erased all her memories of me?”
“I guess so,” concedes Chris, uncomforting. “She never fully explained what exactly she was erasing. Just that her therapist said it’d do her plenty of good.”
“And you were fine with that?”
“I told her not to,” protests Chris. “Said she needed a new therapist and that she’d mess her brain up doing something that dangerous. She told me to go fuck myself.”
“Ah.”
“It’s not as if it’d stop the media from posting whatever they want about her, anyway,” he continues, “but she’s never listened to me before.”
Sousuke looks down at his chicken cutlet. “How’d her management take it?”
“She convinced them it would benefit her career, fix her attitude. They’re supposed to control what articles she reads, the interviews she’ll sit for — make sure she isn’t exposed to anything that she’s now erased. It’s not like she had much freedom before the procedure anyway, so her work-life’s barely changed.”
“Shouldn’t they have told me about it?”
“You two haven’t been on speaking terms in years,” Chris reasons, “they probably didn’t think it was necessary.”
“Still,” Sousuke continues, grasping, “you should’ve told me, at least.”
“We’re all adults now,” Chris says, “I shouldn’t have to play mediator for the two of you to vent about our exploited childhoods. Though,” he takes his knife and slices through his burger steak, clean and methodical, “I suppose now I won’t ever have to.”
After Chris pays for dinner, they step out into the frigid night. Sousuke’s coat feels heavy on his frame, his hands fiddling in its pockets.
“How are you dealing with it, then?” he asks, his breath puffing from his mouth. “With memory-erased Ririka?”
Chris shrugs into his thick scarf. “Like usual, I guess. I haven’t spoken to her all that much since. She called me a few days after her procedure, so she still remembers me, I think. But it’s different now.”
“Different how?”
“She acts out less, speaks more kindly. And she smiles more, it’s scary. Remember when she wouldn’t smile for a group photo unless we paid her two hundred yen each?”
Sousuke smiles. “Maybe that’s one of the memories she erased.”
“Maybe,” Chris chuckles, his hot breath flickering in the air. He raises a hand and waves into the dark. “But really, she does seem to be doing alright. Happier, even.”
“Huh,” says Sousuke, as Chris’s ride pulls in beside them and they part ways.
For the next month, memory erasure consumes all of Sousuke’s waking thoughts.
The procedure itself is easy to grasp: Kenketsu will erase all memories related to the patient’s request by accessing their cerebral cortex through state-of-the-art technology. The patient is unconscious during the erasure and should wake without knowing they’d even undergone it. It can take between three to ten hours depending on the number of memories queued, and it’s promised to be painless.
Sousuke reads hundreds of articles on the subject, from medical papers to transcribed interviews to the nichest of trashy tabloids. The coverage is incredibly mixed, each article contradicting the last. He reads about a woman whose debilitating PTSD was cured after undergoing the procedure. He reads about a man being trialled for arson for the third time, who swears under oath that it’s his first offence. He reads about relationships collapsing; relationships coming back stronger. He reads about patients changing, for better or worse.
‘It helps,’ an acclaimed psychiatrist writes in one paper, ‘patients who have undergone this procedure have reported feeling whole.’ Sousuke finds himself tumbling the paradox of that in his head every quiet moment.
What’s bothering him so much about this is that he and Ririka have carried the weight of their scandal for so long that it’s come to shape them. Sousuke’s twenty-six now, has dealt with more than he ever did as a kid, but karaoke rooms and the scent of alcohol still make him feel icky. Ririka had felt the same, had always complained loudly whenever someone so much as opened a beer around her, and that’s what made it so bearable. Knowing that someone else lived with your pain.
But now — now, Ririka doesn’t even recognise him, the living silhouette of her life’s grief.
Sousuke has felt many things towards Ririka throughout his life: guilt; pity; responsibility. All of her resentment towards him, all of her cruelty, he knows he deserves, has never blamed her for.
But when he thinks back to that morning and how she’d looked at him — sweeping and vacant, less than nothing — he thinks he might really, honestly hate her.
He’s on a grocery run a week later, having run short on deodorant and vegetables. He passes by a magazine stand while he moves between aisles, and sees her there on a front cover.
She’s smiling. Honest to god, smiling. With her mouth, not with her eyes or through the tilt of her head or in all the other bullshit ways he’s ever heard from her. She’s smiling so wide that her dimples show and her glimmering eyes curve into crescent-shapes. The magazine’s leading title reads, in large, bold letters, ‘A DARLING IN RENAISSANCE.’ The cover’s glossy finish under the store lights lends to her glow.
He comes closer to the stand and takes a magazine, flips to her section. The heading is a quote they’ve pulled, printed across the spread in a dainty, serif font. ‘Nothing’s in my way now.’
He remembers what Chris had told him after their dinner. Alright. Happier, even.
He pays in self-checkout, and makes up his mind.
The lobby of Kenketsu’s clinic is ordinary, if not a little upscale. The receptionist’s desk faces the door, with couches lining the other three walls. There’s a small table at the centre with a healthy-looking plant, and a short bookcase stands in one of the corners. It spooks Sousuke more just how normal it is, as if he’s here for a dental check-up and not to clear out his brain.
There are three other people waiting in the lobby. On the couch to his right, there’s a middle-aged woman, timid and dressed conservatively, her thin, light hair sweeping across her face; and a little boy, supposedly her son. She has a clipboard resting on her knees, head hanging as she fills in the forms. The kid is starry-eyed and alert, kicking his feet back and forth, craning his neck and gasping to himself as he takes in the room. The sight of them stirs Sousuke’s stomach; he looks away.
The other person to his left is a man in his forties who looks as if he’s never slept in his life. He’s hugging a briefcase close to his chest, creasing his dark suit in the process. He’s staring at the plant intensely, drawing circles on the briefcase’s leather casing with an idle finger. He must’ve finished work for the day, or has come in during his break.
Sousuke’s agent hadn’t been pleased to hear about his week-long break, but wished him luck and to stay safe. “Don’t forget how to act,” he’d joked during their call. Sousuke had laughed along at the time, but now sitting here, he’s become aware just how much he’s risking.
The alternative, though, is to live with it: to carry this weight and know it means nothing to Ririka. And ultimately, it just isn’t fair. He’s lived long enough in this shape to grow tired of it. He deserves to forget everything too.
If Chris wasn’t pissed at him for going through with this, he thinks he’d quote something at him. The turnaround he’s had on memory erasure is almost comical, but, well.
“Shima Sousuke?” someone calls.
The little boy turns to look at him as he stands. Sousuke gives him a smile before following the assistant into the next room.
Fujisaki-sensei is younger than he’d imagined, a sturdy woman in her thirties. Her sleek hair already has some grey strands, her glasses dainty along her round nose. She watches Sousuke like he’s a data sample, a problem she can parse from a well-informed glance.
“So, Shima-san,” she starts, “you’re looking to erase someone?”
“That’s right,” says Sousuke.
“Saijou Ririka,” she reads from her clipboard, spinning her pen. “You’ve written here that she’s a childhood friend?”
“We’ve known each other since elementary school,” he clarifies. “We met on set for a TV show.”
“Had a bad falling out?”
Sousuke shrugs. “She’s forgotten me,” he says simply.
Fujisaki-sensei stops spinning her pen and hums under her breath, looking at him. He smiles back patiently.
“We’ve dealt with many cases of erasing estranged persons,” says Fujisaki-sensei, “your request is something we’re more than capable of fulfilling. While the procedure typically lasts a night, we’ll need to prepare your stimuli, which could take a few days, give or take.”
“Could it happen by the end of the week?” asks Sousuke.
Fujisaki-sensei nods. “As soon as Thursday morning, we can guarantee you a new life.”
The thought of that makes Sousuke’s head spin. “What do you need to prepare?”
“If you could, please bring all the belongings you associate with Saijou-san. Photos, clothes, gifts,” Fujisaki-sensei starts spinning her pen again, “Voicemails and text messages will also help. We’ll use these mementos to map Saijou-san’s presence in your memory, and then determine the route for erasing her.
“In your case, any publicity around you and Saijou-san will also help. I imagine you spent most of your time together on set? An outsider’s perspective might allow us to access a richer dimension of your relationship, and thus erase your memories more thoroughly.”
“Do you keep these things afterwards?” asks Sousuke. “I probably shouldn’t hang on to them, right?”
“You can decide what to do with your mementos,” says Fujisaki-sensei. “We won’t need them after we’ve completed the map, so throw them away if you’d like, or keep them. A mug she’s given you will just become an ordinary mug. Though I suggest you discard anything too personal, like photos and text messages. You’ll risk confusing yourself post-procedure.
“Some patients have given their mementos away to others to have, or to store away for them.” Fujisaki-sensei spins her pen. “You wouldn’t remember doing that, but the sentiment’s sweet.”
“I see,” says Sousuke, nodding.
“The time it takes to draw your memory map will depend on how many mementos you have with you,” Fujisaki-sensei continues, “but the more you bring, the clearer the route will be, and we can be more thorough with the erasure.”
“It won’t take me long to gather everything,” says Sousuke. “How soon can we start mapping my memories?”
“Hmm,” says Fujisaki-sensei. Sousuke shifts in his seat. “I’ll let the receptionist note you down for tomorrow morning. Would that work with your schedule?”
“Yes,” says Sousuke, swallowing air, “that works perfectly.”
“Fantastic,” says Fujsaki-sensei, writing something down on her clipboard. She looks up at him, the ceiling light glinting off of the frame of her glasses.
“Shima-san, I’d like to commend you for choosing to undergo this procedure with us. It takes strength to live with one’s grief, but it takes sense to reach out when it’s time to let go. You’ll find yourself feeling lighter once we’ve finished our work. More… present.”
“Thank you, Fujisaki-sensei,” says Sousuke.
“That should be all I need from today,” she says. “Did you have any questions for me before we begin?”
“Well, uh,” says Sousuke warily. “This isn’t… dangerous, is it?”
Fujisaki-sensei does something that might be a laugh. “It’s about as dangerous as a nose job,” she responds lightly. “You’ve signed the waiver, correct? There’s always a risk with these surgeries, but we have your wellbeing and best interest at heart. We haven’t had an incident before, and we don’t intend to anytime soon.”
“Alright,” says Sousuke, standing to bow. “I’ll be in your care, Fujisaki-sensei.”
Fujisaki-sensei smiles kindly as he shuts the door, the first since he came in. “See you soon, Shima-san.”
Sousuke finds himself at the mercy of Fujisaki-sensei’s assistants and an imposing, head-probing machine for the next few days. Aiuchi-san explains it to him as he’s connecting wires to Sousuke’s head: they’ll track his brain activity as he looks at each presented memento, and use it to map his memories of Ririka.
“The more norepinephrine we observe being released, the higher the memento’s sentimental value. It’ll give us a clear direction in queuing your memories so that we can erase them accordingly.”
“Please relax, Shima-san,” Hajime-san chimes in after Sousuke keeps shifting in the machine’s seat. “We’ll be observing your neural activity when erasing your memories anyway, so there’s no need to be embarrassed during this.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” Sousuke insists, even if his brain activity tells otherwise. “It didn’t occur to me until now just how… invasive this was going to be.”
“Aiuchi-san and I will be incredibly professional as we carry out your request, so please don’t fret. Just ignore the weirdness of this situation and focus on each memento as they come.”
“It’ll be your last chance to cherish them,” Aiuchi-san adds cheekily, “so make sure to say your goodbyes.”
It’s a long and quiet process, only punctuated by the machine’s beeps and Hajime-san’s typing. Sousuke’s biggest trouble is staying awake, which would completely disrupt his only given task. He isn’t even shown each memento for very long, only for a minute or so; it’s because he’s brought in so many, a natural consequence of knowing Ririka for almost his entire life.
There are boxes’ worth of Ririka-related things. Magazines she’d left at his apartment across the years; articles of clothing she’d gifted him only to steal whenever she visited. Birthday cards with her swirly handwriting that she’d stopped giving once they’d reached high school. An ugly knick knack she’d bought for him, saying it was his long lost twin. A half-empty bottle of cologne that she picked out for him on one of their hostaged shopping trips. Polaroids upon polaroids from various photo booths, some with Chris, some that’s of their old friend group. She’s smiling in two or three of them, the younger ones, but scowling otherwise. A ring she left in his pocket once that he wore until he grew out of it. Scribbled-in journals and bottles of nail polish and plushies won from rigged vending machines, among other things.
There’s the digital footprint as well: photos and videos, inflating his photo gallery and his Snapchat Memories and his Instagram’s archive. Some videos are two-second blurs, only noted relevant from his recognising her hair; others stretch to five, ten minutes from when Ririka would pretend she was a lifestyle vlogger. There are voicemails that were sent past midnight, always of her whispering to call her back. Songs she’d make him play whenever he lent an earphone. Threads of text messages from years ago where they’re coordinating where to meet. Long walls of text from whenever they fought, followed by one-word apologies. Even his ringtone that he’d never bothered to change, she’d chosen for him.
And then there are the articles that Aiuchi-san and Hajime-san present to him, only as small excerpts. He vaguely recognises some of them, like a review of his performance as Kanade and a behind-the-scenes insight on the show’s set. Then there are the many articles about Ririka, enough to qualify for an anthology. Many were published during the scandal, where her name became dirt and her parents her tragic victims. Excerpts discussing her modelling career never fail to mention the scandal either, as if it’s a blemish no amount of concealer could cover. Some articles are kind to her, but the heap is so overwhelmingly negative. When Sousuke asks not to read any more, Aiuchi-san and Hajime-san gracefully acquiesce.
It’s surreal being confronted with so much physical evidence of Ririka’s imprint on him, just how fiercely she’d bled into his life. He wonders what will become of the inside jokes and images he’s also learned to associate with her, things that don’t have any one vessel but remind him of her whenever he sees a new version of them. Like Autumn, and holding hands, and the colour red. Like monospaced fonts and Tokyo at night. There’s just so much that Sousuke’s giving up, too much he’s now realising he’s taken for granted, which is what makes Ririka doing this first all the more devastating.
Ah, Aiuchi-san and Hajime-san can probably tell he’s distracted. Focus on each memento, breathe in and out, release all his norepinephrine, or whatever.
There was a period where Ririka had binged a bunch of home-making documentaries and became obsessed with minimalism. She’d said it was cathartic, called it the most affordable form of meditation.
In a way this is an exercise in minimalism, though one that extends to his brain. But this’ll be good for him. He’ll be lighter. More present. Like after this pseudo-nose job, he’ll be able to breathe more easily.
It helps. Patients who have undergone this procedure have reported feeling whole. He wonders what version of himself can exist without Ririka and still be breathing. If he can recognise himself once this is all over.
…But anyway. This isn’t going to matter. He won’t even remember. Just focus on each memento, breathe in and out. Let himself go. Say goodbye.
The evening of the procedure, he steels himself and calls Chris.
He picks up on the third ring. “What? You still remember me?”
“I haven’t done it yet,” says Sousuke, following the lack of greeting. “They’re coming in a few hours.”
Chris clicks his tongue, a cracking sound. Sousuke sighs into his phone deeply.
“Look, I just wanted to let you know it was happening, in case I,” Sousuke fumbles for the right words, “In case I go weird.”
“You’re seriously a pain, you know that?” Chris bursts, his voice ruthless. “The both of you are. This is the stupidest shit I’ve ever had to deal with, second only to Ririka doing it first. You realise I remember the scandal, too, right? I was there, too, with you guys. Am I supposed to erase my memories as well? Is this some kind of new age suicide pact?”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” replies Sousuke, “and this isn’t only about the scandal.”
“Yeah, it isn’t,” Chris sneers. “You’re doing this to get back at her because she forgot about you.”
“Well, yeah,” says Sousuke, swallowing air, “that’s — I think that’s true.”
Chris groans into the mic, and takes a pause. “What the hell are you doing? I thought you grew out of this. Hasn’t therapy been working well for you? Don’t you go brunching with your little high school friends?”
“Chris,” Sousuke starts, “I know you’re not okay with me doing this. And really, I have been getting better, but…”
He looks at the ugly-twin knick knack on his shelf, one of the very few Ririka-related things he has left.
“Ririka doesn’t want me in her life anymore, so this is for the best.” He steps closer to his shelf, picks up the knick knack and traces it with his thumb. “I burdened her when I ran into her, and if we’re going to work in the same industry, I don’t want to put her through that again.”
“You have the worst kind of saviour complex,” says Chris, before he takes a big breath. “Look. The two of you had it especially bad growing up, and I honestly don’t think I’ll ever get it. So if this’ll help you process your baggage and reconnect with your inner child or whatever, then I’m in no position to stop you.
“But, like I told Ririka, you don’t know what’ll happen to you after this is over. The doctor has to say it’s safe, Sousuke, it’s their livelihood.”
“I know, but I’m willing to risk it. I really do think it’ll help. Thanks, Chris,” says Sousuke, smiling at the knick knack, “for worrying about me.”
“…You’re impossible. Whatever. Don’t remember me either, asshole; save me the headache.”
Sousuke laughs; he can tell that Chris has forgiven him without him having to say it. “I’ll try not to,” he promises, before he hangs up.
Hajime-san and Aiuchi-san make themselves at home in Sousuke’s bedroom, unfolding their machinery and abusing his power points. Aiuchi-san straps a multi-wired helmet onto his head and instructs him to lie down on his bed, as Hajime-san types into one of their monitors.
“So, what exactly is going to happen to me?” asks Sousuke.
“Once we’re ready, Hajime-san will send an electrical signal to your brain to release melatonin, helping you fall asleep. When you hit REM sleep, we’ll start going through all the memories we’ve queued and wipe them from your head. Sort of like uninstalling apps from a laptop.”
“We’ll be monitoring your neural activity the entire time, so if an issue arises, we’ll work to resolve it immediately,” adds Hajime-san. “All you have to do is sleep as you would normally, Shima-san. We’ll handle the rest.”
“Am I going to feel anything throughout this?” asks Sousuke.
“Not externally, though while you’re asleep, you may experience vivid dreaming. Since we’re communicating with your cerebral cortex, you’ll most likely find yourself reliving these memories. Again, if there’s any complication, Aiuchi-san and I will be here to help you.”
“Thank you, Hajime-san,” says Sousuke. He hears a series of beeps, followed by a quiet thrum. “Will I see the two of you once this is over?”
“If we’ve done our jobs properly, you won’t even remember we were here.” Aiuchi-san answers. Sousuke hears the flipping of switches, Hajime-san’s diligent typing, other digital sounds that are unbeknownst to him.
Sousuke swallows. “Then: thank you, both of you, for doing this.”
“We’re only fulfilling our duty,” says Hajime-san, but Sousuke can hear her smiling. “Are you ready then, Shima-san?”
He takes a deep breath, tries to conjure every thought he could possibly have about Ririka in a few seconds, and exhales. “I suppose so.”
“Alright then. Please excuse us. This will take a few minutes.”
For a while, it feels awkward as Sousuke stares at his ceiling, knowing he’s being watched. But soon his eyelids feel heavier, his thoughts more delayed. Slowly, as slow as dribbling honey, the world fades to black.
Take my hand–in–yours
and pull me deep into the sea.
Become its salted rocks
lodge (yourself) in my throat
So I can taste reverence and
drown;
meet Heaven on the floor,
some liminal existence.
I’ve seen its gates in your mouth
pearled with your teeth.
Shuck my soul — from its flesh
and mutate (me.)