Awaken from a Dream Read online

  From the top of his head to the tips of his toes, he had completely transformed into Asaka Ai. But whatever had happened to his body on the outside, his insides all seemed to be in working order. In fact, he felt better now than he had as Toshihiko.

  What luck, he thought. What luck that I don’t have any friends. What luck that I don’t socialize. My parents—my only family—never leave the countryside. That means that I get to live the rest of my life here in this apartment with Asaka Ai.

  As soon as he came to that realization, shivers of delight ran through his body.

  Because he had little in the way of friends or acquaintances, hardly anyone ever came to visit his apartment. He would be able to stay there with her forever, with no one to interfere. His most beloved idol was his, and his alone, to do with as he pleased.

  Until this moment, he had wished someone would wake him from this dream. Now he wished that, if it was indeed a dream, no one would ever come to disturb him from it.

  In body, he was Asaka Ai, but in mind, he remained himself.

  Before long, he realized that he could play with her body however he wished.

  He only had one fear.

  What if Ai-chan (that is, he himself) were found by someone? He might be accosted by some strange man.

  He thought back to the suspicious figure he’d seen in the frosted glass window but shook his head vigorously to cast away his worry.

  He wanted Ai-chan to remain his forever.

  For now, Toshihiko thought in an attempt to reassure himself, I just won’t leave the apartment.

  Now was not the time to worry. It was the time to thank the heavens for bestowing him with such an opportunity—and to enjoy it as much as he possibly could.

  Slowly, Toshihiko began removing his pajama shirt. The dirty fabric slid away to reveal naked skin that practically shined in comparison. His shoulders carried a gentle, seductive slope, and on his chest were two pert breasts.

  Toshihiko ogled his naked form with all the greasy lust of his almost thirty-year-old male mind.

  Captivated by the beauty of his breasts, he cupped one in each hand and lifted them from below. He pinched his nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and felt the rush of a deep thrill only women could understand.

  With the perverse stare of a man, Toshihiko watched as the idol groped her own chest. He experienced the act from both sides at once, the woman’s physical pleasure and the man’s emotional thrill. He squeezed Ai’s breasts so hard the sensation edged into pain, and he let out a wordless moan.

  Driven by his ecstasy, he removed his pajama pants. Thrusting out from his yellowed briefs were the two athletic legs he had so thirstily watched on his television screen.

  Toshihiko traced his fingers up from his calf to the top of his thighs. When his hand reached his briefs, he yanked them off without pause. Toshihiko’s inner thoughts revealed themselves on Ai’s sweet face, twisting the charmingly cute features into ugliness.

  Toshihiko’s eyes fixated on a single point. With full intensity, his male gaze bore down upon the meeting point between Ai’s pale thighs. Toshihiko picked up the small mirror from beside him and drew it near the space between his legs.

  In whispered awe, he said, “This... this is Ai’s...” but the rest got caught in his throat.

  His fingers wriggling like spider legs, he fondled her hidden place with unbridled lust.

  Several hours later, his passion had ebbed. His body weary, Toshihiko lay on his futon.

  On the TV near his bed, Asaka Ai was performing her newest song, while he watched in the form of the fully naked Ai. A perverse pleasure ruled Toshihiko’s body.

  As if in sudden recollection, Toshihiko snapped his fingers. With a grin, he stood up and went over to his cheap, freestanding canvas wardrobe. He opened the zippered front and withdrew a paper bag from the back.

  Inside the bag was an eye-piercingly yellow mini dress with plenty of frills, a copy of one Asaka Ai frequently wore. He had bought it in secret, driven by his deep yearning for her.

  When Toshihiko was alone, in the middle of the night, he had sometimes dressed himself as her. He had pretended to be her, then anguished over his unrequited love.

  But now he really had become her.

  His passions stirred at the thought of being able to embrace the real Asaka Ai, in her real dress. Fresh waves of emotion coursed through him.

  Wearing the dress now, he spun in place. Its hem floated and danced in the air, exposing—for a brief moment—the naked form beneath.

  It’s beautiful, Toshihiko thought. Feverish shivers of delight ran through his body. He hugged himself, his arms crossing over his chest, and a new fountain of desire flooded through him.

  Ai, Ai, Ai-chan, he cried out inside himself as he lay back down on the futon.

  Suddenly, a feeling of dread came over him.

  His eyes went to the window.

  He could sense an unseen watcher’s intense gaze upon him.

  Toshihiko approached the window and looked through a small gap between the panes of frosted glass.

  It was now evening. On the street, he caught glimpses of salarymen hurrying home and housewives shopping, but he saw no sign of the figure that had frightened him.

  It must have been my imagination getting carried away, Toshihiko thought. He turned from the window and started toward the middle of the room.

  That’s when it happened.

  At the corner of his vision, he thought he sensed something that didn’t feel right. He put his eye up to the window.

  A tall electric pole stood beside a house across the street. There, lurking in its shadow, was a stooped-over man trying to escape notice.

  An indescribable terror gripped Toshihiko.

  Toshihiko knew the man hiding behind the utility pole would come back to peek through the window into his room. The man was like Toshihiko had once been—timid and afraid of strangers but filled with incredible lust.

  The thought made the soft, downy hairs of his body stand up on end.

  He must be another sick fan like me, Toshihiko thought with certainty. And not just a fan of any idol singer—a fan of Asaka Ai. He’s been watching me—watching Asaka Ai—through the gap in my window.

  Toshihiko’s right eyelid twitched. He won’t be able to contain his desire. He’ll come back to watch again.

  Or, he thought as the blood drained from his face, he might already be coming.

  Quickly, Toshihiko checked to make sure his door was locked. It was.

  He let out a deep sigh of relief and collapsed onto his futon. Deep down, he wished that he was worrying over nothing, that he had nothing to fear. But he knew better. All he had to do was look inside himself to know exactly what that kind of person was thinking.

  That kind of man was clever, if nothing else. He appeared meek but was capable enough of taking action.

  And so, Toshihiko knew the man was coming.

  He turned off the TV and made himself alert. He couldn’t know from where the man would come. He couldn’t allow himself to relax. He needed to watch, listen, and be ready.

  Toshihiko heard strange footsteps in the hallway outside his apartment. They seemed to drag miserably across the floor.

  It was him. Toshihiko knew it was him. The footsteps were not the product of an overactive imagination.

  There, listen. Just as Toshihiko had dreaded, they stopped outside his door.

  Knock, knock...knock.

  Even the way he knocked was hesitant.

  Hearing such a cowardly knock reminded Toshihiko of his former self, and the likeness sparked an angry irritation. The only thing to do to a man like that was to meet him head-on and tell him off.

  Toshihiko approached the door and spoke. “Who is it?!”

  It came out harsher than he’d intended. He felt as if he could see the man’s stunned reaction on the other side of the door.

  The man didn’t respond. Toshihiko could hear him breathing heavily through his nostrils.
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  Toshihiko pressed his attack. “Who is it? What do you want?”

  Still no response. The breathing became louder.

  Toshihiko raised his voice. “If you don’t have a purpose here, then leave. I’m calling the police.”

  Before he’d finished speaking, the footsteps ran off.

  The cowardly man had withered and fled from Toshihiko’s (Ai’s) threats.

  It was a relief. Exhausted from the fear and anxiety, Toshihiko slumped weakly to the floor in his entryway. There, he began to think.

  He pictured his terrifying stalker fleeing red-faced, and he tried to imagine what that man was feeling.

  What if that had been him—the man he used to be? If his beloved Asaka Ai had spoken to him like that, what would he have done?

  Toshihiko considered it carefully.

  First, he would have run away. He would have run, crying, as fast as he could.

  But then what?

  Filled with determination, the timid man had come to visit the idol in a once-in-a-lifetime act of courage. But he’d been flatly and coldly told off—and not just by anyone, but by his beloved idol. He wouldn’t have the courage to come calling a second time.

  The man was surely in emotional shambles now. He would never see Asaka Ai again.

  If that had happened to Toshihiko, what would he have done?

  He knew the answer without having to think about it.

  There was only one answer.

  I would kill Ai, and myself.

  The terrible phrase, almost forgotten, filled his chest.

  Toshihiko felt as if every pore on his skin closed up.

  The man would have no other options available to him. He would watch Ai for the right opportunity, and he would act.

  Slowly, quietly, the greasy man would come, knife in hand, with dreadful intentions.

  Toshihiko closed his eyes and tried to shake the mental image. But no matter how hard he tried to banish it, the vision remained seared into his mind.

  Resolving to protect Asaka Ai, and by extension himself, he stood and walked to the kitchen where he kept the thirty-centimeter-long kitchen knife he’d purchased to kill Ai, and himself. As he opened the cabinet under the sink, he grinned cynically at the strange irony that he would protect Ai with the very same blade he’d bought to kill her.

  Toshihiko’s heart froze. Cold sweat materialized on his forehead.

  The knife was gone.

  It had been there, but now it was gone without a trace.

  Toshihiko put his hands to his head. Someone had stolen his knife. And he knew who it was. That man. Who else could have done it?

  Skriiiiiikkk, came a noise.

  Toshihiko jumped.

  The sound had come from his window. Something sharp was scratching at the frosted glass.

  Toshihiko hurried back to his room and looked to the window.

  The tip of a blade was slowly scraping from left to right.

  It’s him, it’s him. He’s here. He’s come with the knife to kill Ai—and me!

  Toshihiko’s body froze as if bound hand and foot. He couldn’t even scream. His eyes were locked on the window.

  Following the knife’s path, a mop-like mass smushed and smeared against the glass. Toshihiko knew what it was—hair. The man was pressing his greasy hair against the window. Slowly, the knife and the hair moved right to left. The knife etched a thin, sharp gouge, and the oily hair left a wide slug’s trail.

  Finally, the knife and the hair reached the window’s edge and disappeared.

  Toshihiko wondered where the man had gone but quickly realized where—the man was going around to the apartment building’s entrance.

  His fear was not groundless. As proof, only moments later, those miserable, dragging footsteps returned to the hallway, before stopping right in front of Toshihiko’s door.

  Bang bang, came the knock. Bang bang.

  Even upon hearing that ominous sound, Toshihiko remained frozen, standing in the middle of the room. He was too afraid to move.

  The knocking became louder. Bang bang!

  The man outside was timid no more. He had come in unwavering conviction. He would kill Asaka Ai.

  Toshihiko needed to do something. The locked door provided no true safety. The man would break it down to come in, if that was what it took.

  Toshihiko knew this. And yet, he couldn’t move.

  The knife sank into the thin, flimsy wood of the door. The blade’s tip glistened as it jutted from the interior side. The man twisted the knife, widening the tiny slit it had made.

  A thin finger reached in through the door. A jagged splinter cut into its flesh. Blood began to form along the scrape.

  Undeterred by the injury, the man began prying at the board with nothing but his finger. More of his skin tore, and blood began dripping from his fingertip. Nevertheless, he kept pulling at the board.

  Soon, he had created enough of an opening to slide his arm in and undo the latch. The door creaked quietly open, and the man stepped in, bathed in the red light of the sunset outside Toshihiko’s window.

  The man wore a sweat-stained T-shirt and dirty jeans. His greasy, matted locks clung to his angular face and curled into points on either side of his head. Catching the sunset’s light, the two points shone like Astro Boy’s hair. The man’s hand gripped the sharp knife tightly.

  Toshihiko saw that the knife was the same one he had bought.

  The man took one step toward Toshihiko and then another.

  Toshihiko knew he was about to be stabbed. He knew he had to run. But his body wouldn’t move. The more he panicked, the more firmly frozen he became.

  The man spoke.

  “A-Ai-san! I... I...”

  His voice sounded as if it came up from the depths of hell. The voice was clammy and unpleasant, like that of a drunk and frustrated salaryman shouting unintelligibly at a karaoke bar.

  “Forgive me, Ai-san,” the intruder muttered as he bowed his head repeatedly. “This was my only option.”

  Then, with an inhuman wail, he rushed toward Toshihiko with intense speed.

  Toshihiko could see it in the man’s eyes—

  I will kill you, and me.

  The stench of the man’s body assaulted Toshihiko’s nose. In the next instant, he felt a burning pain in his side, as if he’d been struck by hot tongs.

  Blood began soaking through his yellow dress.

  The man withdrew the knife. White fatty tissue clung to the blade, then spilled out and dangled from the open wound.

  Toshihiko looked down at the yellow dress, the red blood, the white fat. He found a strange beauty in the colors.

  The man took the bloodied knife in a reverse grip. He plunged it into Toshihiko’s chest. The pain felt like a strip of tape pressed against his skin and then forcefully yanked off.

  Unable to move, Toshihiko was at the mercy of the man’s knife.

  The wound went deep into his chest. Blood sprayed out in a fountain. In an instant, his yellow dress was yellow no more.

  The man twisted the knife inside his chest.

  A numbness spread from the wound. Toshihiko began to cough; blood burbled from his mouth.

  As the man showered in Toshihiko’s blood, he said, “Ai-san, Ai... You’re beautiful. You’re so cute.” His voice rose into a crazed shriek. “You’re beautiful. You really are. Every day, I’ve touched myself watching you. I’ve done it more times than I could count. You understand how I feel about you, don’t you?”

  The man’s flushed face was right in front of Toshihiko’s.

  The man’s features, angular and bony, resembled the leftover parts of an amberjack fish, already gutted and filleted. His eyebrows were off-putting and scraggly like dried kombu flakes. His nose was bulbous. His lips were slug-like, with a vaguely oily sheen, and his eyes were round and pleasant.

  On the verge of unconsciousness, Toshihiko thought in sudden realization, So, that’s who he is.

  He understood.

  The ma
n had Toshihiko’s face.

  He had Toshihiko’s smell.

  He had Toshihiko’s personality.

  So, that’s who he is.

  He’s... he’s me.

  The man looked into Toshihiko’s eyes, then blinked in sorrow. Toshihiko felt an indescribable love for the man.

  I’m going to die soon.

  In those last moments, Toshihiko looked the man in the eyes with as much affection as he could and gave him a smile.

  The man smiled back at him.

  Still smiling, the intruder slashed his own throat open with the knife.

  As he coughed, fresh blood spilled from his mouth. He tried to say something through the coughs but couldn’t form the words.

  To Toshihiko, it sounded like he had said, “Thank you.”

  The man was telling him, Thank you for understanding how I feel.

  The two shared a blood-soaked embrace. They held each other tight for as long as their strength held out. Then, still entwined, they fell to the floor.

  The two became one.

  The sunset painted the room in deep, deep red.

  It was a terribly tragic sight.

  Why did it have to be so tragic?

  STORY 2

  Cry Your Tears

  On an ordinary wooden desk sat a picture of a cute young woman, dressed in a yellow beret and pleated yellow culottes. She posed flirtatiously in the picture, not a personal snapshot, but rather a collectable photo for her fans.

  Every bit as commonplace as the desk at which he sat, a man stared at the photograph. His expression was deeply intense, to the point of ghoulishness.

  Soon, the veins at his temples began to visibly throb. The large box cutter knife in his hand trembled in synchronized pulses. He ran the fingers of his other hand through his bristly, hedgehog-like hair and rustled it about. His face was broad and pudgy; his small, cowardly eyes seemed out of scale in comparison.

  Now those eyes flashed with anger.

  He raised the box cutter high. In the next instant, its tip sliced through the air and embedded in the photograph with a metal blade’s characteristic twang.

  Though no one was there to hear him, he whispered, “This time—and I mean just this time…” He trailed off, as the anger in his eyes built to a boiling rage, then said, “I’ll forgive you. But never again.”