Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

Pilgrimage

-Pilgrimage-

The shoe, it sits awkwardly. Slightly crooked, disfigured, jutting out at the wrong angle. Puzzling because out of context it seems to have no meaning. It exists and then it doesn't. Nothing could be contrived or interpreted. It reclines on the rail, lit from one side by a waning sun. On the other side, a long shadow stretches out, bouncing and skittering over rough rocks and sod, up and over the metal brim of the tracks. Like some photographer's morbid composition for a series of monochromatics. It's the unmistakable shape and colour of a black dress shoe. Oxford, tightly laced. Polished to perfection. But one end is crumpled, tousled by dirt and squashed flat at the toe. Inside its gaping hole, is a once-white sock. Half of it hangs limp and deflated as though it's a balloon that had lost its air. Now stained with deep crimson. It has been drying into dark ink and caking into crumbs. I stare and feel nothing. Shizuka turns away.

A few of the passengers glance over, wondering what we were looking at. It's against Etiquette however, so they slink back to their hiding places, hugging the weathered walls. But they're watching.

I put an arm around her clumsily and pull her against me. Our puffy jackets wrestle each other. It's the right thing to do. She stiffens but I feel her exhale and settle against my shoulder like a grieving widow. But we are only lovers huddling against the cold.

She tells me she's fine again. I hold her firmly, like the date I should be. My hand feels out of place on her shoulder. She is warm. But she shudders.

"You don't look fine."

"I've seen enough you know, this is nothing."

"Have you seen corpses?"

"No, not really. I spent most of my life outside of school in hiding, only going for daily necessities, like groceries. I've only seen dead corpses through visualization. You're lucky you have lost most of your emotional capacity."

I look at the shoe and its severed foot again. "It is one of Them isn't it."

"The shoe seems uncanny certainly, but I can't be sure. I heard his final thoughts. One of Them shouldn't be thinking at all."

"What did he say?"

"Fuck you; he said 'fuck you'. Before that, he said 'I know the truth. I can't do this anymore'. I'm not sure what that means. He died too quickly; the train was moving too fast, so I could only catch a glimpse of his thoughts when we arrived. I'm not sure if it was conscious or subconscious."

"Does this have anything to do with us?"

"Too early to tell. If it is a coincidence, it is a big coincidence."

"Does anyone else here know who it was?"

"The clean-up crew is trying not to think, like you, or they might lose their composure and control. They must maintain their detachment and professionalism. Quite a formidable kind of people really, to be in this kind of business." She tilts her head a little as if to tune into a different signal. Her hair bleeds over her forehead. "The police are analyzing the remains, body parts are all separated and mutilated from the impact. The windshield of the train is splintered. Some are thinking of their kid or wife and about what to eat tonight. That it's another inconvenient day at work. Wouldn't it be better if nothing ever happened? They believe that's the best kind of day, everyday in monotony. All of them have unanimously decided it is suicide, though they haven't acquired the proper evidence yet. It's funny because as soon as someone has made up their mind, nothing else could easily deter the result. Every evidence they find will point towards the conclusion they've already reached, even if it's contradictory."