Sakura Sweet chapter 1: Fish Salad.

Fish Salad (1)

He was running. He was always running.  Away from his chance at victory, away from his chance at love, away from everything, everything, he didn’t care, he didn’t want it. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t the one that decided to run in the first place; rather, it was his other self. 

Emile.  She was there. Always there, watching him, taking care of him—or so she said—but in reality she was not; she hated herself for that and pretended not to care that Johnathan knew at all what was happening. She hated herself too much to care about herself anymore—she hated herself.  Hated herself! What was she going to do about it, then? Was she going to try harder to win Jonathan’s love?  Was she going to know things, to find things, to look up at the stars and ask them for help?

Jonathan thought not.  Not at all was she going to change to love herself at any time in the near future, the far future, the near-far gap of a hole that he had gotten himself into. The middle future was his place. It was where he belonged. 

In the city of Diafoneus Macs he would run down the alleyways and look at all the paintings on the walls—the graffiti, other people called it graffiti but he saw it as it really was. Art. Art he liked to call by its name, which was something only he knew, for he was a sorcerer of information. A sorcerer who dealt with the magical art of inflation—that beautiful infinite complex from which his love grew. His love, his love for her would grow and grow until he saw it as beautiful, and then she would kill him just as he killed her for loving him too much.  In the end they both died a little bit when she passed—he was now alone in the world without a love to love him anymore than she had loved him. 

He wanted her back. He really, really, really wanted her back. His heart raced every time he thought of her. His thoughts raced, faster than his heart, and his legs raced fastest of them all. He wanted them to race--:what, then did he want to really do? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. All he wanted to do was bring her back. Bring her back into the living plane of existence where everything would be right once she awoke from her sleep. 

Her long sleep.  That sleep which only he knew the true cause of.  It was him.  It was him that killed her, he killed her when he meant to love her. And as such the cops were after him.  Of course they were after him. Not for his murder but for what god had given him—a gift, the gift of information sorcery applied to the universe where people would see him and bow down to him. But they did not bow down out of subservience; they bowed down because they were afraid of him. 

They did not exist. Schizophrenia. That was what the doctors called it when they diagnosed him. Paranoid schizophrenia. What was he going to do about it? He didn’t know. At all. None. No where did he or could he find a place to worship in peace. Who did he worship? He didn’t know. Did he care? No, not really. He didn’t care at all what happened to him. 

Rain. The rain fell on his shoulders and sloughed off his back where it puddled into pools against the wall at his feet while he leaked his life blood onto the ground. Piss mixed with blood both of which he drew shapes in on the walls as he died slowly in a corner of the Diafonous block one hundred kilometers exactly from where he had killed her. A nice coincidence. One that he did not understand, wished to understand, but could not. What was it besides a string of coincidences that brought him here? He didn’t understand—again! He didn’t understand! Why was it that he couldn’t? Where did his understanding go? What was it even before he knew it, before he found it and lost it? 

Where was he? Why—why did he have to die?

Please, God! He thought.  Please, let me live! Let me see her another time—I want to wait before she has a chance to kill me again! End thought he. Of course it was the end, the end where he died. Why did he have to die? He didn’t—he didn’t want to! No way—no way!!!!!!! NO! Please, God. Don’t let me die. He gripped his handle—the handle that he placed himself on within the building with which he was now sharing his life. All of his life, he shared. All of it. It hurt. A lot. A whole lot. It, it hurts.

Where was he shot? Was he even shot at all? Where was the blood coming from—no, it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t his. Then why—why was it there? No—it couldn’t be. It wasn’t his but it was his—he was dead. He looked at his dead body from above. Now what? He thought. Now what do I do with myself?

And then she came. Emile. With a smile on her face and with her both arms, extended out to hug him or to perhaps squeeze the life out of him. To squeeze the life out of his death just as she had squeezed the life death out of his death life, in which he had mumbled his way about for the past fifteen years and some odd months. Some odd months meaning the time he had spent in jail before he had been released on parole. Fat lot of good that had done him. If only he had stayed. If only he had remained on parole. Without the thought of revenge.

Because it was revenge that motivated him—and then she touched him and lifted up his chin.

“Hello.”

She said. And then Johnathan looked into her eyes and saw kindness.  Where was the kindness coming from? Where? How did it work? Where was he, where was she, when they were both dead? They had to be somewhere special.

The Astral plane. Socrates. Were they the same? In his head Johnathan knew it was right. He was dead. He had been dead for a long time. Hours, maybe. Even a day was possible to explain his love for her in terms of dead logic. I mean, what is dead logic? That was the thought that bothered him as it ran through his head.

That was it. That was what he was supposed to know. Who was she? Was she someone he had met before? Was it her? That thing that he saw, that non-human presence? Was she dead too?

Of course she was dead. She had to be dead. Otherwise he would have never been able to see her.

“Come,” she said. “Let us be friends.”

Johnathan laughed. He laughed out loud. Loud enough to catch the attention of a passerby—two of them—but they did not know what they heard and only looked away after a second or two or perhaps three. Where were they, even? The Diatronubicedefs had not told him of this. Legion upon legion of men like him were trained for this exact moment. Should he kill her? It all came back. His training. The people he had killed, men, women, children, the unborn fetuses of the woman he had killed while they were pregnant with the children he had inseminated in them. All of them dead. One after the other.

Just desserts. What he deserved.

Fuck it. I don’t want to do this anymore.

He dropped to the floor. Then he took out his gun. It worked. Where was it? In his hand. His right hand where he kept his suicide tablets—under the skin of the left wrist. Where he had hidden them a long time ago. He had never thought of using them like this before. Perhaps it was for the best.

He bit into his hand and swallowed them along with a chunk of his own flesh and the blood that squirted out of his wrist’s artery. Stupefied, Emile watched in horror. No. No. No. That is what she thought. This can’t be real because it’s not! Hello there. You have entered the diaphonius zone.

Gah! Thought Johnathan. Gah! Gah! I’m not dead—but I am out! OUT!

Fist pump for glory. That is what he thought. He did not move his physical body because he could not. No legs. They were gone. When had he lost them? And yet he did move, eventually. And then he died. Not because he was wet with blood but because he had no blood. Out of the frying pan and into the fire—he went there because he had to. He swallowed the tablets. The tablets were gone. Not in his hand. No longer in his hand. They had never--:they had never been there. Where was he? In a dream?

In a dream, answer. It must have been. That was it. That was what he felt. Where was he then? In bed? In his birthday suit? In his—in his own mind? Dead? Not dead? Where was Emile? Was she still there—she was, she was not. She was not where she was supposed to be. Where was she?

“Where are you?” he said. He shouted it again. “Where are you?!” He tore at his hair. “Where—“

Someone cut him off. A voice. In his head? No, at the door. Who was at the door? Nobody. It had to be nobody. It wasn’t anybody. Not anybody you know.

Not anybody you know?

“Are you okay in there?”

A voice he recognized. Emile? Was it really her? Was she—did she come back to life? Aahh!? Big—butts—I—cannot—lie—help—me! Help me!? Who needs the help? Me, I’m not me! I’m her! I’m Emile! Ha! You can’t trick me, reality! There she goes. She’s gone. The door is shut. No one may enter. No one may enter Mordor without a free chicken pass. Shicken path. Stricken path-monster. Shikano. Sai-kano. Sai. I like Sai. Is he a real person? Hello—

“Hey!”

“No!  Shut up!  Shut up!”

He tore at his hair.

“Shut up!”

No. He couldn’t answer the door. He could not. He would not. What would happen to him if he did?

“He’s crazy.”

“He’s just a schizophrenic.”

Shut up. Shut up. Grab at the ears. Now. Shake the head. Back. Forth. You calm now?

Shut it. I’ll go answer the fucking door. Shut the fuck up. Get out of my head.

Ha-ha-ha. Very funny. As if you were one to decide when I leave.

He got up and went to the door. Opened it. There she was, Emile. His wife.

“Hello there?” he put on a brave face. Not brave enough. She noticed it.

“Did you take your meds this morning?”

No. You didn’t. You forgot, didn’t you, you fool? You’re a fool. A fool. A fool. Fool-stool-pool-mool-phool-pool. Ha look at that I embedded a torus. Embedded.

“Johnathan. Speak to me. Johnathan, stop staring like that. You’re creeping me out.”

Look at you. She think’s you’re so creepy. Why is she married to her? You can read her thoughts, right? Stop reading her thoughts. She’s thinking about you.

She slapped him.

“Johnathan! Will I have to take you to the hospital again?”

No. No. Not that. Not that place that evil place the place where they gave me electroshock therapy cerapy merapy derapy derp. He laughed a little on the outside and a lot on the inside. Derp.

Emile sighed. “Look, honey. We gotta take you somewhere safe. It’s another episode. Just, follow me.”

She’s going to kill you. She’s going to take you into a forest and kill you. But there are no forests around here. She’s going to make one. She’ll use her superpowers she has them to, doesn’t she? Doesn’t she? Then why doesn’t she use them?

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

Johnathan shook his head. “Your mom.” He laughed.

Emile frowned. She picked up her Iphone and dialed a number—the hospital number, right? That hospital!? That one? Why—no, why? Stop!

Johnathan grabbed at the phone. Emile jerked back her hand. The phone fell. Twisting. Twisting shmisting dissing pissing cracked. Cracked all to hell you did that didn’t you. Cracked. You idiot. She hates you now. Get down and apologize. Apologize shmologize poligist poltergeist. A ghost. Is she a ghost? She’s a ghost. None of this is real. It’s all a dream.

She slapped him.

“Out! I say out! Shit, I can’t take this anymore! Johnathan. Johnathan, you know what?”

Johnathan shivered. He looked aside and then at the ground and finally made eye contact and then looked away and then a tear appeared in his left eye.

“Please.”

Emile snarled. She looked away. She brought up her hand. “You take it off.”

“Take . . . what . . .” Johnathan swallowed. He blinked. The world went fuzzy.

Just a dream. Just a dream. Please don’t leave me. “Please don’t leave me.”

Another slap. The sharp edge of the diamond cut a slash across Johnathan’s face. Johnathan puked. Onto her blouse, then coughed up a goblet of phlegm. It landed on her nose.

Emile grimaced and took the ring off herself. She threw it on the ground. Then she stomped on it. She turned around and waved her hand.

“You take care of the mortgage payments for me, won’t you, dear?”

She walked away and out of his life for good. For good. Shmood. Shood. Would. Could. Would stop it if you would. You will, won’t you?

Bring her back. Bring back your superpowers you can do it can’t you? Where is she? She’s—she’s over there I can’t see her anymore. Where is she? Where did she go? She’s not real,--not real,--not—she’s real, no, isn’t she, no, isn’t she not, no, she’s—she’s—blood. Shumud. Gud. Where is she now? Stupid. Stupid idiot.

Ring. Ground. Shiny. Gold. I pick it up. He picked it up. Ha look it’s not even real gold is it. You never got her real gold. She knew. Not real gold. Shumuld. Where. Is. It., it’s here. Your superpowers. Bring her back. Control her mind. Kill her with your mind. So she doesn’t escape. She. Escape. No. She, escape. Don’t let her. No. Let her. No. Don’t let her shut up my voices you are still there shut up.

No.

He sat down. It was raining. And cold. The weatherman said low thirties. Celcius? No, this is America. Am I—he turned around. The house. It’s locked. She took the key. She took the shumiki. Ki. Tree. Butts and I cannot lie. Where. Where am I. Who. Who am I. Where is my superpowers. I can’t kill her. No. Don’t kill her. Kill her. Don’t kill her. Die first. You pig. Pig. Shumig. Grig. Blib. Baby bibs on a treetop spiral tree three yi ki. Yi ki. Yi ki. Ki. Ki.

I am so stupid. Shumupid. Where. Where am I. Outside. So my voices say. My voices. That’s all they are.

He hung his head. Low. To the ground.

“That’s all they are.”

He looked down the street. Could he see? No, because his glasses were wet. Where is she. She. He. Emili. Emile. Where are you. Emile. Why. No that’s not the real you the real you is inside or at work or is dead she is dead are you dead I am dead help. Me. I love you. Please don’t go. Please don’t go. Please don’t shumo. Go. The game of go. I can beat you. I can beat you you know at the game of go I am a grand master go player shumayer I have never played go before in my life shut up. Shut up. But I am. I can play go. I can beat you at go. My voices they say so. Go. It’s all a game of go. The universe is a game of go.

The rain continued to fall. Wetting his shoulders. His glasses. He shivered. Locked out of the house. Locked out. House. Shumouse. Mouse. Computer mouse. PC Apple Microsoft I am a windows 7 man who likes windows eight shumaight where is she why can’t I see her I can’t see her because my glasses are wet they are very wet wet het wet het my bet is that they are wet

“Het bet wet quet my name is Quet” side to side, rotate the hips. “Quet ny name is Quet.”

Back and forth he rotated. As the rain fell he rotated back and forth. A car drove past. The passengers looked out the rain-streaked window and saw a man lying on the ground in front of his own house. Who was he? They wondered. Probably a homeless squatter, they decided. They drove down the street and disappeared.

Forever shurever Denver Colorado. Where I am living. Is this Denver? I want to get to CERN so they can hear my life’s work life’s smuwork it is my life’s work in CERN shumerm white hole black hole big hole little hole white black chessboard shumessboard. Physicist in training. I am a physicist in training with superpowers supershumowers showers are hot and cold at the same time they are superimposed! Superimpositionary! Expeditionary! Shumary! Canary! Where is my

“Canary!  Shumary! Hello there, canary!” He looked at the yellow figure in front of him. It was a Canary. A canary, right? “Canary! Shumary! You will listen to me will you not?” He cried. Out of the rain and into the frying pan. No key. Left the key in the house with my wallet and my pants. Locked the door. The door autolock. Ed. Autolocked. Why did she put that there? Emile—she’s out—no she isn’t—it’s Emile! Secret service Emile! “Wheee!” he thought to himself. And said to himself. “Whee! Whee! Whee!” He said. “Wheel of fire! Fire shumyer!”

He moved his hands in motion with the rain as if he were both conducting a symphony and directing airplane traffic. Perhaps he was directing an airplane. A real airplane. This was an airport. He was at an airport. Lots of planes. Shumanes. Bang drang pang planegorious glorious shyumorious laborious men in the coal mines in Japan during world war two. Two. The number two is “Pretty! Pretty funny shumuny! Get me to CERN! Right now, get me to CWERN! SHUMERM!” Me, me, me! Superpowers! Ha! Yes, superpowers! I can fly! Fly! Higher than planes! “Fly high! Fly high in the sky where my key—no, key . . . no, no key . . .”

I’m cold. It’s cold out here.

He shivered.

The weatherman. He said low thirties.

He hugged on his jacket. It was cold so he hugged it tighter.

Emile, Emile, where are you Emile I would like to marry you Emile you are my love I love you you can’t be gone can you.

You can’t be gone you aren’t gone.

Ahah.

Caught you.

Caught you with my mind. Come back. Shumack. Hit me again shumack.

Because I love you, Emile.

“Where are you, Emile?”

The rain did not answer.