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The fog seeps into his open wounds. Rain pierces through every pore.
Isn’t death supposed to feel like nothing?
Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the end. If he had enough strength to prove it, he’d leap to his feet (as beat-up as he looks) and make one final stand on shaky, broken legs.
When the car first veered off the road, he was ready. His seatbelt was on too tight, though, and the steering wheel was just barely out of reach. Even through slurred protests from the driver’s side, Nikei practically leapt for the wheel. His brother swatted him away. Then, there were
no hands
on the wheel at all. So the story goes.
He tries. God, Nikei tries, even as the blood-and-mud-drenched sweater weighs his tiny frame down. Just enough life is still in him to know it, to feel it. But not enough to recoil, or to move at all. Not even the raging bonfire (that used to be a car) can thaw the boy, frozen solid as he is.
How gullible. His classmates fooled him; his own brother fooled him. He even fooled himself.
The adults in those documentaries about death lied, too. There’s no sweet release, and nothing to numb the pain. His only consolation: a fever chill to wash over every nerve, and the blaze of hot embers on his tongue.
(Here’s where it gets good.)
The hand holding his own is warm. Not in the way of love, and not fire or frostbite; it’s just body heat.
It’s the two of them: Nikei, who for all he knows still looks like a walking corpse, and some redhead in a sweater vest.
They walk hand in hand through a vast span of cold, black nothingness. Hundreds of papers slowly rise through the ‘floor’ and float away, like lanterns illuminating the deep, open ‘sky.’
Out of sheer intrigue and instinct, Nikei leaps forward to try and grab one. It turns to smoke in his grasp.
“You need to stay close.”
He steps forward and takes hold of the younger boy again. As if there’s more pain and punishment to come, Nikei tries to pull away (no use) and braces for impact (no need).
“YES,” he squeals. How embarrassing. “I-I’m sorry.”
The other man doesn’t even respond. They just keep walking, no end in sight. Nikei, already the shortest in his fifth grade class, struggles to keep up with the gait of someone so much older. (Maybe his brother’s age. High school? Hard to tell.) This man wasn’t slowing down, but he still kept a firm grip on Nikei’s hand.
Purgatory, believe it or not, lasts a while. A kid’s gonna have questions eventually.
“What’s your name?”
“Utsuro.”
“Uh, okay. I’m Yomiuri Nikei.”
“I know.”
“Huh?! How?!”
“Your student ID card fell on the ground beside you.”
“AH! I need that! For school! Unless- unless I’m really dead now, and I don’t get to go back to school?!”
“No. You’re not. You’ll get your card.”
“Oh.”
“Did it, uh. Did it get dirty? My mom will really kill me if it did.”
“She won’t kill you.”
“You don’t know her! She cares about the most stupid things! Like her makeup, and my hair, and her car, and and and- and when Hiromu tells her about all this, I-”
“He won’t tell her. He’s dead.”
“No he’s not. If I’m not dead, he-”
“He’s dead, Yomiuri. He’s not coming back.”
They both stop walking at once. Utsuro’s gaze (which could only be described as dead itself) meets his own.
“When someone loses enough blood or gets hit hard, their heart stops. They die.”
“I KNOW that! But I’m pretty sure I died too, Mister! And if I’m not dead, what makes him MORE dead than me?!”
Utsuro doesn’t move- he just keeps looking at the kid, like maybe he’d tire himself out eventually.
“C’MON! What even IS this place? Doesn’t look like heaven!”
“I told you. You’re not dead. This is the haze.”
“I’ve never even heard of that.”
“You’re not smart.”
“NOT TRUE.”
“Then pay attention.”
Their stroll picks up again; Nikei’s meek silence speaks for itself.
“If you were smart, you would know he was too drunk to drive.”
“He always says he’s fine. And how else was I gonna get home…”
“...WAIT. How did you know that!?”
“I saw you crash.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“So when we’re done, I’ll be back where I was before?”
“Yes.”
“Why can’t my brother come too?
“You have good luck, and he didn’t.”
“Oh.”
He has something, for the first time, Yomiuri Hiromu doesn’t.
“Can I share?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Luck doesn’t work like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t.”
“How does it work then?!”
“No.”
“Fine! But when will you tell me?”
“When you wake up.”
“Huhhh?! No way. Is this a dream?”
“Wake up, Nikei.”
That’s a first.
“Nikei! I said, wake up!”
“Agh! Is he gonna be okay?”
“Yeah. Dumbass just fell asleep on the floor.”
“He’s burning up. Come on, Nikei, or Hajime will lift you himself.”
“You’re really just gonna sign me up for that?”
“Do you have a BETTER idea?!”
Right at the best part, too. Once he’s pulled out of the dreamy haze, Nikei slams right back into the world, as if hit by a truck (again).
There are a million different kinds of cold- he learned it that day, and he’s learning it now as another fever chill strikes where he lays. A raging fire sits in place of his stomach, and Nikei is contorted so tightly inward that his elbow stabs into his thigh. At least these people are shading him from the ceiling fan’s breeze.
“Yeah, man’s got a fever, bad.” The wind shelter disappears as one of the figures crouches down. At least his hand, unlike the first, isn’t icy cold. “You there, Yomiuri?”
Uuuugh. It takes everything in him to swat at the group, hand eventually falling above his eyes so he can get a better look through the brain fog and blinding light.
“yeah yeah was fine till you fffucks came in”
“In sickness and in health, I guess,” Emma sighs. She’s backed off him at this point, and Hajime’s really close now.
The boxer’s hands feel so nice- one drifts along Nikei’s back, the other resting on the backside of his knees. He’s warm. Not in the way of fire or frostbite; and maybe it’s not love this time either, but that’s much closer. Care, maybe.
“One - two - three!”
The whole world spins and drops as he’s hoisted upward. Not much he can do about it.
“Havvve you always been so strong, Haji...?”
“He’s cooked,” Hajime calls out to the other two before turning to meet Nikei’s absolute wreck of a face. No telling if the shiny wet stuff was sweat, tears, or both.
“Let’s get you to bed. Can’t have you dying.”
“Get m’ ID, or… Mmmmom’s gonna gill me.”
“Are you sure he’s fine, Hajime?"
“Oh, yeah. Probably the flu, but I’ll make him test for it tomorrow.”
“Good, good. As much as he can piss me off,” Emma starts carefully, “I would rather him be head honcho of here than hell. And Iroha, I’m grateful you saw him.”
“Y-yeah! Me too!” The girl jumps up, obviously happy to take whatever win she can get. “I know, uh… eavesdropping isn’t good or anything, but that time it worked out! Maybe I should do it more often! Hehee…”
“Don’t even think about it! I don’t want some rando looking at me through the ceiling!”
“I’m not a rando, I’m your friend!”
“That’s almost worse, listen to yourself-”
“EEP!” Iroha’s face is hit with a splattering of cherry red. “I-I didn’t mean it like that! Promise! No no no that’s gross!”
The three exchange hushed jabs and laughs in the hall. Any other day, they’d be at risk of a few curses and a slammed door from Nikei.
“Anywho, what now? Do we… let him rest? I can make us all a delicious soup tomorrow!”
“Sure- but first things first, go wash your hands,” Hajime says, like he’d been thinking it the whole time. “I probably can’t catch whatever he has, but you two can.”
“You’re overpowered, Hajime.”
Utsuro granted this poor boy the impossible. For once, Nikei could have something that was only his. He was lucky.
Nothing lasts forever. Nikei chatters on (accompanied by intermittent responses) for a long, long time, but eventually the papers disappear and the black void fades to grey. He can make out dull outlines of the trees and lines on the pavement. The man is still there with him, unflinching, as they near the unmarked path’s end.
“This is all my fault.”
“No.”
He pauses to look up, but apparently, that’s the end of Utsuro’s sentence.
“Hmph. Yes it is. None of this would’ve happened if I stayed home.”
“The boys tricked you, right?”
“Yeah, I guess. They said if I could beat them all in a fight, I’d be part of the group.”
“You believed that.”
“Mmhm.”
“No wonder you lost.”
“I should’ve made Hiromu stay home. I could’ve walked.”
“Or called an ambulance. You were in bad shape.”
“But if I did that, they were gonna put those photos of me all over the school!”
“Is this better?”
“...”
“So he’s really dead, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Mm.”
Finally, they stop. It’s raining again, but the car is still on fire. Sirens ring out in the distance.
“No one’s ever gonna trick me again.”
“Never?”
Utsuro’s question doesn’t get answered. The boy already broke out into a sprint. He barreled toward a mangled corpse hanging out the driver’s side.
To be taught, death must first be felt. Too bad Utsuro doesn’t feel.