Death Prevention

Neo-Tokyo

Slow drips of rain trickle in between cracks in the pavement below my feet. A steady rhythm of water tapping on cobbles and roof tiles is painfully apparent as I sit outside, body exposed to all the affects of the brutal Neo-Tokyo wet season. A dry, low hum of machinery buzzes all around me from where I am seated. The city streets glow ominously with the neon lights, the night owls strolling past, eager to meet their dates for a night on the town. I sit alone, cold on an empty cardboard box. The water pooling at my feet seeping into the corrugated fibres, soaking my only shelter through completely. The consistent pitter-patter of the raindrops is inescapable, filling my head with thoughts of home, of the family that never loved me. Water drips from the gutters above my head, over flowing and gushing out into the street, soaking some passers-by. Fluorescent light floods the cobbled streets, casting uneven shadows along the broken path. A car tries to drive up behind the night crowd, its red headlights making me squint. I stand up. My shelter is gone, there is nothing for me here. 

I pick up my hat from the floor and take what little money was in it from the puddles congregating inside it. I place my hands inside my coat pockets, the cold leather freezing the skin on my hands, the wet season is deathly cold. I keep my head down and walk with the crowd, not wanting to be recognised by the street chatter. The streets wind onward in front of me, the smells of fresh Neo-Tokyo street food fill my nostrils. The inviting aroma of fresh fish invites me towards a stall in the centre of the market. I glance halfheartedly at the prices. Nothing I can afford, as per the norm. The usual midnight crowd jostles me towards the middle of the foot traffic once again and I have no choice but to continue further down the street. I recognise some of the buildings ahead, tall cubic office blocks and apartment complexes lining the sides of the street. Their revolutionary modern design once heralded by magazines as the new age of architecture resembles nothing more than human brain farms in the hazy glow of advertisements, the corporate masters harvesting human good will and creativity in the name of money and profits. 

A bedraggled man steps into the rain, huge glasses hiding his face. He strides confidently into the bustle of the night market, hiding his insecurity behind a briefcase and a fresh suit. I hear him sigh over the racket of the crowd and watch him argue with a vendor over the price of food, his angry expression reminds me of how irritated I used to get with my superiors over the pettiest of things. 

A brightly coloured poster hangs on a brick wall, emblazoned with the image of a happy post-nuclear family sitting at a table for dinner. The happiness of it's models is disconcerting, nothing about that mindset fits within the dark alleyways or illustrious red light district here, no-one dares think tat way anymore. The words "FOOD SHORTAGE. FARMLAND CRISIS" aggressively scrawled over the original in red spray paint. Even the graffiti artists here have a hidden agenda. 

The road ahead branches into two different routes, the bustling night crowd continuing down further into the commercial district. My mind guides me aimlessly down the path of least resistance. 

I wouldn't want to do it in such a populated area.