The backwater fishing town of Minato-gake was brimming with ports and harbours on the Kawa, an endless bustling river that ebbed into the horizon. My home. It was a common tradition that boys matured to men by fishing with their fathers. Legend has it that in the depths of the ocean swum a giant catfish known as Ōnamazu. My father, Takashi, was nicknamed 'catfish' by the townsfolk, not for the whiskers on the sides of his face, but for his ability to land nets overflowing with bass, bluegill and carp. Strangely, he never entertained the prospect of fishing with his son.
I convinced myself that it was just because he was busy, but it felt like I lacked something. The tales of helmsmen and fishers envying my father's gifts were almost like legends.
I don't remember being scared of anything as a young child. All until the day I was pulled from class, motioned into the car where father drove in ominous silence. All until we stood in the hospital room. All until mother had fallen gravely ill, her voice quivering while trying to say she was alright. At that point I had felt something worse than fear. I saw terror, painted in my mother's eyes, in her ghost-white skin, in the wrinkles on my father's face, in my reflection in the mirror.
We visited almost every day. One night, the spring festivity of Haru matsuri flooded the streets outside with sparklers, fireworks and elaborately woven floats. Mother's emerald eyes and cut short hair seemed to dwindle like the flame to a candle each day. She held my hand, told stories of her as a child, the Kawa, my father and the mischief they'd get up to. I dozed in the comfort of her hand, rode the river of memories downstream in my dreams. My mother slipped away with the current that night.
It was from that point I began to see the puppet.
Each bump on the road from the three-wheeled truck jolted me out of my hibernation. My brain was whirling unceasingly with the world glistening by like an illusion. Mellow rays from Japanese lanterns flickered on a harbour ripe with the salty smell of Ayu fish. The Kawa constantly in view no matter what alleys or streets we descended down. The truck lazily trailed off the curb, cutting its engine in a burst of fumes. Father unlatched my seatbelt, and gestured me out onto the footpath.
Before us, lay a thatched wooden roof sheltering a hut of clay and bricks, the bones of a dying bonsai tree hanging over the entrance. I tugged at my father's sleeve, pointing out how the pebble garden looked like a puppet they sold in the markets. Father laid a hand on my shoulder, but moved towards the door without response. We unpacked the little luggage we had, Father's fishing rods wrapped in bamboo folds and my mother's books stacked higher than me. Father whispered a feeble 'Arigato' to the driver as he departed.
The puppets face, a mask painted with blood red and a cheshire grin, appeared everywhere, hiding in stall windows, below cupboards, over people who didn't notice. The more I came to ignore it, the more persistent the whispers echoed in my head. Want to, need to, want to, need to.
Talk and gossip in this harbour town wasn't as discrete or praising as it once was. Townsfolk now turned up their noses and averted their gaze everytime I caught them staring. I didn't know what they saw, cause none of them talked to me. In my eyes, windows reflected an undersized boy, frizzled curly hair, with opal eyes who was always wearing shirts too long for his arms. I asked father why people did this, but he simply closed his eyes as if in deep thought, and did no more. I felt a hollowness swirl within my stomach.
I soon realised that only I could see the puppet. It would hover with black limbs, following me with crimson red eyes. Once it vanished from behind and reformed directly before me. Want to, need to. It's whispering whistled like chimes, echoed like softly banging drums. "Leave me alone" I told it again, as I yanked my jacket hoodie over my head. I turned blindly, grabbing my bike and sped down a sloping alley.
"Freak!" a shove from nowhere twirled my bike into an unsteady frenzy, vaulting me off and tumbling onto the cobblestones. I uncurled to see a group of boys loom closer, led by a long necked boy with a greasy unshaven face, dressed in dark blue blazers with ties loose around their necks.
"Look what we got here, it's the mute" sneered Longneck, puffing his chest out like a dragon ready to breath fire. He bent down to eye level. "Father says your dad is bad news, says he's a drunk now with no control" he sneered, unnervingly amused by the whole ordeal. I flinched, baffled about what he was talking about. Longneck's bellowing laughter was manic, but instantly culled it with a devilish gaze. "You tell your father to stay out of the harbour, he's not welcome after the trouble he's caused" with that, he spat in my face, holstered my collar up like I was nothing but a toy and ruffled my dusty hair.
I wrestled out of his grasp and scurried back to my bike, pushing it into motion in embarrassment. I pedalled as the obnoxious laughter and insults were slowly replaced with the roar of cars along the bridge. Yet, the mocking lingered like an unscratchable itch as I barrelled toward my house. I hightailed off my bike straight for the door, but stopped suddenly on seeing my father. He was hunched beside the water cooler, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. The stench of fish reeked from his faded teal haori. Our eyes met, but our words hung in limbo till he opened his mouth. Whatever response lay unspoken on his lips vanished quickly as if it was never there.
I didn't realise I was crying until I stumbled into the bathroom. Dried blood had oozed down my knee. My hands gripped the rim of the sink, my breathing laboured as if my lungs were full of bricks. I lifted my eyes up to the mirror. And amidst the tears from my opal coloured eyes were the crimson eyes of the puppet.
***
Dinner scraps of yellowtail with daikon radish graced the empty table. The window curtains thrashed violently from the belting wind outside. I snatched up my yellow raincoat. I was sick of being alone, avoided, painted as something to gossip over, laugh at, blame. Not one of them understood, not one of them even cared. I had made up my mind. I reached for the door handle....
"Kaito" a voice slurred by spirits groaned from the living room. I paused and turned to see my father swaying slightly. I prayed he would say something to change my mind. We stood in silence, a chasm of loneliness between us. Just an old husk of a man staring with tired eyes. For the first time ever, I felt ashamed to be his son. I lunged out the door towards my bike. The rain poured in blistering sheets, obscuring a foggy mist. What had I done wrong? I skidded along footpaths, offroading around quarries of mud. Why wouldn't anyone hear me? The monstrous hiss of the river Kawa droned louder as the river stretched out before me. I dropped my bike onto a pile of bamboo, and made my way to the edge of the harbour. The dense smell of rotten fish emanated from the overturned Tosa Wasen, the entire dock abandoned and desolate.
"Boy?"
What was a soft fall of rain had descended into nothingness. The following quiet felt icy, lifeless yet was ominously pushing down on me from all sides. Beneath the water wavered the puppet, it's steady blood moon eyes glistening despite the ripples.
"Why!?" my voice screaming but cracking in desperation, tears beginning to swell in my eyes.
The puppet stared back, lifted from the water and floated face to face with me.
Want to, need to.
"Please!" I casted my hand out to the apparition, the only shadow that seemed to pay attention to me.
"I want to be seen!" With that, the air electrified as a blackness encased my hand, sending a bone-chilling coldness into my veins. Weeds and moss sprouted between the cracks of the boardwalk, waves of evil emanating from an oily black chrysalis slowly engulfing me. I panicked, trying to yank my arm out of its grasp. The puppet's mask cracked in two, fading into dust. I began to scream but almost choked on the blood curdling in my mouth. Staring back, was a small boy with frizzled curly hair, opal eyes, who always wore shirts too long for his arms and a cut lip. It was me. It was terror.
