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There’s a toy zebra in Griffith’s and Guts’s apartment. It was there before they moved in, a young couple and a fresh start, far from the gangs, the shootings and death. A stuffed toy, old and ragged, the fur more grey than either black or white. It sat on a mattress; the old one, the one they threw away, too suspicious of the weirdly coloured stains – the only piece of furniture left in the room by the previous owner.
Guts remembers even now, Griffith picking up the toy, holding it to his cheek, smiling that wide, toothy smile, saying he’ll be theirs now, in their new home. Weird, because Griffith was always all about “I”.
It caught the corner of his eye the first time they screwed on the new bed, the one Griffith bought because Guts couldn’t even afford to pay his half. It was mid-thrust when he saw it, having fallen of the bed, lying face down, and for no reason at all, it made him laugh. Griffith, who knew not of what he laughed about, had looked startled for a second, but then he laughed too, because, he said, they were a team.
It’s the only thing he takes with him when he decides to leave – a memento of some sorts. He doesn’t say goodbye and Griffith isn’t home yet anyway. It’s better this way for everyone, but especially for Griffith, who shines brighter than all of them, and who deserves better than this rundown apartment, this life, better than him, at least for now. That’ll change one day, Guts hopes, and they’ll be able to stand on equal grounds. And maybe then they could…
The old stuffed zebra feels heavier in his satchel than it really is when Griffith confronts him on the railway station, while squealing noises announce the imminent arrival of Guts’s train. Griffith stands there: tall, proud and beautiful, his eyes wide with disbelief and betrayal, Guts thinks, and so so much anger.