Brave Story - Miyuki Miyabe [97]
Wataru heard the news from his mother, and couldn’t help but remember Kaori Daimatsu. Just as quickly, he forced the connection from his mind. Kaori and Kenji in the same thought was just too weird.
What happened to Kenji and his friends? And where was Mitsuru? Was he even still alive? Everyone wanted to know, and everyone was worried. Only Wataru knew the answer—Wataru Mitani, the only person on earth who knew everything that had happened.
But when he went to bed that first night and then the night after that, even those vivid memories began to fade. Everything about Vision, about what really happened, was slipping away. Like before, it didn’t disappear completely or suddenly. Instead, the memories wore away like a watercolor painting abandoned in the sunlight. The pigment becomes washed out, the lines blurring into indistinct shapes. The memories were still there, but they had become slippery, elusive things, impossible to grasp.
But the emotions remained. Fear, and anxiety—as though he had to find something, or someone, before it was too late. In contrast to his failing memories, those feelings of impending doom grew stronger with each passing day.
Wataru was confused. He was quick to anger. Sometimes, he would wake with tears streaming down his face, and during the day he was turned completely inward, not caring about anyone or anything around him. During mealtimes he would only peck at his food.
But there is a limit to how much a boy Wataru’s age can take, and he reached it on a morning exactly one week after summer vacation began.
Being afraid of the dark, he had crawled under the bedcovers the night before. He made doubly sure to keep the lights on. The moment he closed his eyes, darkness pressed in around him and he plunged headlong into its dreamy depths. That nightmare was swift in arriving. A winged monster was bearing down on him. Running, he screamed, but no one came to his aid, and there was nowhere to hide.
He ran and he ran and when it felt like his chest might burst from exhaustion, he heard a voice calling his name. Mom! He shot out of the dream, like a shell fired from a cannon.
His mother’s face slowly came into focus. She was ghostly pale, and she was covered with scratches. Her lip was cut, and there was a bruise under one of her eyes. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest. She was wearing a short-sleeved pajama top, and her bare arms were covered with scratches.
“Mom—what happened?”
She began to cry deep sobs of relief. “Oh, Wataru, you’re back. It’s you, it’s you,” she said, rocking him in her arms. She was holding him like a baby. Wataru looked over her shoulder and gasped.
My room…
The bookshelf had fallen over, and the window was cracked. His comforter had been ripped to shreds, and there were tufts of something white floating in the air—the remnants of a feather pillow. The books and papers on his desk had been ripped and torn until they were barely recognizable. He counted at least three dents where someone had kicked or punched the walls.
But who?
Me. I did this.
“Mom? Did I do this?” he asked, dreading the answer.
“You were dreaming, Wataru. You had this horrible dream and you went wild. You didn’t do it on purpose. It’s not your fault,” his mom said, wiping away her tears. She patted him on the head, and gave him a firm hug. But then Wataru realized something else and his body went stiff.
The scratches on her arms. Her face. I did that too.
—Wataru, you’re back.
I’m going crazy.
I’m going crazy, and I hurt my mom.
“I-I’m sorry,” Wataru whispered, and his mom sobbed again, and assured him it wasn’t his fault at all. “We’ve put you through so much—this is my fault, and your father’s too. I’m so sorry. Please forgive us.”
No, Mom. I know something, something you don’t know; something terrible. That’s why I’m going crazy.
“No, it’s not you or Dad,” Wataru said. “My friends—what happened—I got scared, that’s why I…” Wataru spoke in short, clipped half-sentences.