opinios

She gritted her teeth and stepped forward. Despite the fact that the train already appeared to be well over capacity, she knew that at least ten other commuters behind her were as determined as she was to get home. Even if she wanted to step back and take the next train in three minutes time, she would be pushed on board anyway.

A tennis racket handle protruding from a young boy�fs bag prodded her in the arm and she squeezed out from between the two businessmen next to her to push it away. Her new orientation meant that she was now inches from an old man�fs armpit as he held tightly to the ceiling strap. The start of a humid summer was evident by the symmetrical sweat stain on his shirt, and although she tried to lean back, the train�fs acceleration forward launched her directly into the stale moisture. She grimaced and thought of the irony of the situation she was in. Night and day she craved the intimacy that she had lost, yet every day her privacy was invaded by strangers jammed in next to each other like bowling pins, waiting nervously for the next jolt forward to send them skittling as they all hurtled through the metropolis.

Mie managed to twist around to face the opposite door, and it was in this new position that she felt the brush of a hand against hers. It lasted just a moment, but it registered very clearly with her. She couldn�ft see the owner of the hand, but it had a subtle, warm roughness to it that seemed most definitely male, probably a young man. She had almost dismissed it as yet another incidental contact, when the train heaved left to round a corner and again she felt his warm touch. This time the press of the crowd meant that the back of her hand was pushed up against his, and she couldn�ft move it away if she tried.

Or could she? She wondered if she wasn�ft making contact with him on purpose, perhaps willing the masses to sway in her favour, �gaccidentally�h leaning on him against her own volition. Partly it was true - she couldn�ft really avoid it. But she knew she was lingering, staying to feel his warmth, and when the crowd leaned back again, her hesitation turned a brief touch into a signal, a sign of intimacy yearned for.

For three stations she let herself lean forward, supposedly unable to do anything about this circumstantial union of their hands. Mie closed her eyes and savoured the energy she was deriving from his touch. Images of kindness, warmth and happiness flooded her heart and she began to feel excited at the thrill of new prospects, new love, a new connection.

What was she doing? She didn�ft know this man! She couldn�ft even see his face! But his touch seemed tender and the kindness she longed to share with someone, to spoil them, seemed mutual. He wasn�ft showing any sign of pulling his hand back, of flinching in surprise or mistrust. She slowly raised her fingers and curled them around his thumb. An electric shiver ran down her back as she knew she had crossed the line and stepped past what could be interpreted as �gincidental contact�h.

She bit her lip as the train pulled up at another station and four suits pushed past them. For a second contact was lost and she wondered if she should wiggle her arm around in front of her and stop whatever it was she was doing. But even more commuters piled on, squeezing their way into gaps between people that weren�ft there, and she realized she couldn�ft move if she wanted to. A handbag from an old woman to her left dug into her ribs and she winced.

And then she felt him again. The woman with the handbag squirmed to get comfortable among the jungle of tightly pressed bodies and her hand was forced against his once more. Like shy lovers they tentatively clasped hands and cherished the moment, security among the rush hour chaos.

She dared not look at him now, as although she needed physical contact like this, she was ashamed to admit it and knew it was a substitute for someone who still had her heart. She tried to dream up his personality, extrapolating his soul through the warmth of his hand. But instead she dreamed of him.

The stranger�fs hand now guided hers, down, and she felt it brush against cotton. Again he guided her hand and this time she realised what he was doing. She felt his erection bursting through his trousers and realized how sad she had become. She was both disgusted and aroused, revolted that he would abuse the trust she had placed in a stranger but too lonely to let go. She closed her eyes and a tear trickled down her cheek as she curled her fingers into a cup. She placed it over the bulge and pressed against him. More tears streamed from her eyes but she couldn�ft bring herself to pull away.

It was only when the train stopped again and the crowd pushed forward that she broke free from his warmth, his perversity, his safety, his unknown world. It wasn�ft her stop but everyone else seemed to be getting off so she allowed herself to drift, like a body surfer in a mosh-pit. She felt him pull at her hand but she was propelled forward and out of the carriage. When her feet landed on the platform she broke into a sprint without stopping to look back.

Mie exited the ticket gate and suddenly realised the enormous significance of where she had alighted. She froze and looked up at the huge memorial watchtower in front of her. It looked menacing in the fading light. Mie felt sure it was mocking her, proclaiming to commemorate soldiers killed in the war, but responsible for the death of the man she loved. She hadn�ft come here since the accident, hadn�ft had the courage to face it.

Masa�fs funeral march had begun here, at the foot of the tower, and had continued the long hike up to where his powdered remains were stored at the top of the hill. But she had skipped the march, she didn�ft have the strength and wasn�ft invited anyway. She had gone straight to the cemetery and cried from a distance, well beyond the sight of his mourning family.

That was three weeks ago.

Mie looked around. Almost in answer to her prayer, she spotted a flower shop just by the station exit, and knew there was something she needed to do. She purchased a bunch of blood-red roses and ran with them to the watchtower entrance. The sunlight had all but dissipated and she saw the tourist guide ushering out the last of the tourists. She wouldn�ft be able to enter via the main gate, but she knew there was another entrance at the side. She knew because that was how the police had said Masa had gotten in at night.

She waited for the usher to lock up before ducking past him and slinking down the side. The tower was old and smelled of urine and moss. She looked up - it was really tall. Halfway up, a large smiling statue of Buddha clung to the side of the tower, almost beckoning her to climb up with smug self-knowledge. Once she had located the recess, she clamped the flowers between her teeth and steadied herself against the stones below. Wedging her hands into the crevice, she pushed and with one leap managed to prop herself up and over the ledge. The gap was small, designed only to let light in but still big enough for a young girl like her to wiggle her way through. She was astonished that the hole had still not been sealed up, three weeks later, but knew that she shouldn�ft be. She had dealt with the police before - things always happened slowly.

Mie felt her legs tremble as she jumped to the floor and began her way up the stairs. She wondered whether the usher had told the last group of tourists that came through about Masa. That he had a bright future ahead of him and a girlfriend who loved him beyond the grave. That he was troubled by demons that he shared with no-one, demons that eventually drove him to hurl himself from the top of this very tower.

Mie blamed herself. She had lost count of the number of times he had tried to share his concerns with her and she had brushed them off as being silly. She remembered vividly the last such conversation, Masa had begun to dwell on the futility of Japan�fs future. He was dismayed at how rude some school boys had been on the train that morning, how they hadn�ft gotten up to give an old lady their seat, preferring to pretend to be asleep. Mie had agreed with him but hadn�ft really been listening - she was too wrapped up in the trip they had planned to Disneyland the next weekend.

That trip never happened.

Mie learned of Masa�fs death from his younger brother, Hide. He was the only one in Masa�fs family that had known about her. His father had been adamant that the boys work hard to get into university, which meant no extra-curricular activities whatsoever. Masa had not even been allowed to join the baseball club because it cut into his study hours, so there was no way he would have approved of her. She remembered young Hide approaching her at school, his face devoid of any life or emotion. He dumped the news on her, and then he walked away. Mie had felt like the life had been sucked out of her, and had stooped on the spot and howled for hours. She was absent from school all week, convincing her mother that she had influenza.

Mie reached the top of the stairs and saw where Masa must have leapt from. The balcony projected about a metre out from the main building, and a coin-operated telescope that looked like it had not been used in twenty years must have provided the perfect stepping stone. She was determined to pay her tributes properly; this seemed like the most appropriate place.

But the balcony was closed off, the doorway was criss-crossed with barbed-wire. So they had taken steps to prevent it from happening again after all. Mie felt dizzy; suddenly her heart erupted in her chest and she fell to the stone floor, scattering roses into the dank floor. Emotion overcame her and she sobbed until it hurt, her tears merging with petals and dust and stone. If only she had listened, maybe he would still be here.

Fighting through the pain, Mie wrenched herself from the floor. Propping the flowers by the wall she tried to pry open the barbed wire barrier. Her hand slipped and a dark red streak formed in her palm, but it did not deter her. Leveraging her foot above the wire barricade she reached back for the roses and forced her tiny frame between the jagged spurs, ripping her white shirt on the way through.

Mie stepped onto the balcony and looked out at the town below. The wind played with her hair and she felt giddy from being so precariously close to the edge. Still sobbing, she stepped back and thought about what Masa had tried to tell her, how nobody respected anybody any more, how there was no sense of community and no hope for any of them. Everyone was so caught up in progress, continually advancing to what? Surrounding themselves in flashy gadgets, fast cars, boxing each other into tiny apartments and always impatient that there is never enough time, but being too scared to do anything with that time other than keep busy. Dear, dear Masa. Dusk turned to drizzle and clusters of ominous clouds gathered overhead. She looked down at the flowers, darkened by the blood from her cut hand, and thought how fragile they looked. How fragile she felt.

�gI�fm sorry I didn�ft listen to you,�h she muttered and closed her eyes.

With a resigned sigh Mie released the flowers off the edge, then her will, and finally when she had mustered up the courage to walk forward, her balance. She half expected to be able to continue walking on air, but indeed she fell. Visions of dark clouds mingled and overlapped with images of Masa: the two of them together at Disneyland, laughing as they spun round and round in slow motion on the carousel, completely ignorant of the troubles they faced and the hopelessness of it all while she tumbled. Buddha�fs shiny stone head snapped her neck on the way down and Mie died instantly, well before her tired body finally came to rest on the ground below.

Submitted by Matthew Magain