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Some nights, it’s easier to forget than others. Sorawo can’t exactly help it: she wants to forget, to leave it behind, but a small part of her that grows every night reminds her to remember. Because without her memory, what was she?
The rain outside hits Sorawo’s windows, rumbling thunder making itself known in the distance. There was a time when she was a child, when she used to tremble at the sound of thunder and cry out for her grandmother and father, getting no answer. But it was different now. She had grown up, but some things would always be the same.
Toriko is fast asleep beside her. Sorawo’s apartment had a couch that she could easily sleep on if she really wanted to avoid this, but there is a reason they’re both on the bed tonight. Without wanting to, Sorawo has to admit it’s easier to sleep with Toriko’s breathing behind her back, arms wrapped around her waist. It was weird, admittedly, but better than nothing.
Tonight, it’s much harder to forget than she would have liked. Before Sorawo lets Toriko’s mumbling lull her to sleep, she feels an incredible heat, burning her from the inside out as if she had swallowed kerosene. It’s happening again. It’s happening again because it was another one of these nights that led to the fire, and if Sorawo wasn’t careful, she’d be prepared to do it again.
The Red Person is here, and yet not here.
It’s dead. Toriko herself had hacked it to pieces. Sorawo knows that, because she saw it die. If that is true (and it is, she reminds herself) then why does it haunt her? Her eyes twist shut and she moves onto her side. She hated dreaming like this, when she knew it was a dream and yet couldn’t get out.
A realization that Sorawo knows is necessary but does not want to come to is that she misses it, sometimes. It’s a little difficult not to. After so many nights having to make sure the stool wasn’t too wobbly while she prepared an instant lunch, barely tall enough to reach the counter, it was hard to not want to feel wanted. It wasn’t like she didn’t try- sometimes, she’d listen in and try to make sense of the meetings her grandmother would hold at their house. Maybe then she would get a sandwich, cut with no crust and flower-shaped vegetables like the other kids would excitedly show off at school. But her grandmother never looked at her, not once, and mushy leftovers would be tomorrow’s lunch again.
At least that was the case before a man appeared at her school, waiting for her by the route she would usually go on to get home.
“Didn’t your grandmother tell you? I’m picking you up today.” As much as Sorawo hated those cult meetings, it wasn’t hard to remember who came in and out, mostly because it was always the same group of strange adults, eyes lost and glazed over. This man had a similar look, but she did not recognize him, or the smile on his lips that made her feel revolting. “I’m going to take you home.”
“I don’t know you.” She had said. Ever since her mother died, no one visited her at school, much less told her what route to take. “Excuse me.” She had tried to move to the side, but he held her wrist with an iron grip, smile becoming a frown. Without thinking, she turned back and managed to wring her arm out of his hands, running back to the school so quickly she couldn’t even stop to feel scared. She could barely breathe, eyes clouding over and her vision becoming dark as she sat on the steps, struggling to get her breath back. It became apparent to her that she could never go back home, not anymore. And she definitely couldn’t come back to school for a while.
Not once did her grandmother or father come looking for her, but that was okay. The hotel wasn’t so bad. Sure, the paint was peeling and the bed had some holes where the springs would poke at her when she tried sleeping, but it could be worse. She could be home instead, and sleeping with roaches was a better alternative. When Sorawo watches herself twist her eyes and lay on her side, she doesn’t say anything, only sighs.
The Red Person had looked her in the eyes, back when Sorawo was a little girl and she had first visited in a dream, not much unlike this one. Sorawo struggles to remember exactly how it looked, it was tall, and warm. It wasn’t so much a physical memory but a feeling, one that made her eyes water without knowing why.
“Do you need those people?” It asks. She looks at herself, young and frail and bony, and she feels like throwing up. That is her and yet not her; she can’t stop that little girl from coming to the conclusion that she had when she was her age.
“I don’t.” It did not have a face, but it did smile.
The walk to the store was awkward, but fulfilling. She was on a special mission! It was a little difficult to find- she had gotten lost in the store a couple times, but she had felt so much relief when she found the bright red jug in the hardware section. She counted all of the scraps she had been saving up in a jar, every single last yen, and had enough to pay for it. The Red Person was delighted, hugged her close, told her what a good saver she was. She had liked it, but remembers feeling a little sad she couldn’t get a popsicle instead. The Red Person promised her ten popsicles if she got this done tonight, so that was that.
The clerk didn’t give a second look when she lugged up a jug of lighter fluid, meant for gas lamps and stoves. Probably just on an errand from her mother. A part of her wants to get angry at this teenager who was probably an adult, with a family of his own, who didn’t care to ask why this little girl was so dirty and hungry. Why in the world would she be sent on an errand for kerosene? But she can’t help but think that if she were there, sitting at the register, that she would have thought twice about the same thing.
Regardless, she follows herself as she exited. It was so heavy to carry all the way back- when Sorawo had left her house, the sun was still up high, but by the time she came back, it was too dark to see. It would be easier, she remembers thinking, to see if I had a flashlight.
The first few times Sorawo had this dream, she had tried to stop it. But this was a memory, a lucid dream, and it would not change no matter how much she yelled and tried to get between herself and the Red Person. None of it changed. She would always set down the jug by the door, going inside despite the stench of rancid food and damp air.
“Is anyone there?” She called out. No one answered. Her grandmother and father were probably in the mountains again, so she just had to wait. She waited in the living room her grandmother would hold the meetings in, jug at her side, ready and waiting. And she did wait. She waited three days and nobody came. In her dreams, the Red Person kept urging her to do what she needed to- to make herself seen- when her grandmother and father were home. Because then, they would finally notice her, and love her the way the Red Person did. She had wanted to, but the days kept getting longer and longer. Her time was running out.
Finally, she gets to pick up the phone when it rings, prepared to answer another cultist or telemarketer the way she used to when she still lived there. “Who am I speaking with?” The voice was gruff, older, and Sorawo remembers feeling inclined to be honest.
“Sorawo Kamikoshi.”
The news would always feel strange, whether it was in a dream or Sorawo would remember when she was in the Other Side. The cult was wiped out. Her grandmother and father were wiped out. They were dead. A gas in the mountains, they said. They sent their greatest condolences. When Sorawo’s teenage self hung up the phone, she sighed. There were no tears. As an adult, she remembers the feeling well. It was disappointment. The only kind of disappointment a 14 year old girl could get at that kind of news.
What makes this different from a memory is the ending, which is always the same. Sorawo prepares for it, bracing herself as her teenage self untwists the cap of the kerosene jug and lugs it around the couch, the kitchen, the wooden floors. Her old room that was apparently lived in since she had left. She always had to watch as she poured the kerosene over herself in the mirror. And every single time, Sorawo would struggle with the matchbox that used to be her father’s when he smoked, back when her mother was alive. It would take three tries, not any more or any less.
Good girl, Sorawo.
Sorawo?
“Sorawo!” Instead of burning, searing pain, she feels a sharp pain in her back, and she winces. It isn’t until she is forced to turn the other way that she realizes she is no longer dreaming, when Toriko is squeezing her so hard that it’s hard to breathe. “Are- are you alright? You woke me up but you wouldn’t listen to me- are you okay?” She sounded choked up- was she crying?
“I…” Sorawo starts, still a little unsure of how to respond. “I’m okay. I mean it, so you can stop holding me so tight now.” Toriko doesn’t let go. “Toriko?” The other woman finally loosens her grip but nestles her face into Sorawo’s neck, breathing in and out as if to calm herself down. Sorawo lays there, still shocked by Toriko’s reaction and too stunned by her dream to do anything.
“I kept shaking you, and… and I was calling out to you. You were sweating so bad, I thought you had a fever- you’re burning hot, Sorawo. You scared the shit out of me.” Toriko’s voice is quiet, barely above a whisper and fragile in a way that Sorawo can’t understand. “Don’t scare me like that. You weren’t even breathing. I thought I lost you.”
After a few minutes of holding each other, Sorawo finds it within herself to do something about the silence.
“I’m sorry.” She says. Toriko doesn’t say anything in response, she doesn’t even move. But she’s not asleep, because her breathing isn’t steady yet, and Sorawo suddenly feels guilty. “I was dreaming.”
“...About?” Toriko’s voice is stable now, but still too quiet.
“My mother.”
And with that, Toriko breathes a sigh of relief, but she still doesn’t move. Sorawo indulges her, letting her hold her close like this for a little while longer. She’s still not used to the intimacy, which was a hurdle Toriko was willing to work with her on, but it doesn’t feel unpleasant. It’s nice, in a different way than the way that the Red Person had held her, and she still struggles to let herself enjoy it. Slowly, Toriko lets her arms loosen around Sorawo’s torso and snakes them up to her shoulders.
“I need you to promise me something.” Now, Toriko pulls back. She cups Sorawo’s face in both of her hands and before Sorawo has the chance to be surprised at the sudden affection, Toriko stares at her straight in her eyes. “If you need anything, and I mean anything, promise me that you’ll rely on me. That you will ask me for help.” Toriko pauses, but her eyes don’t leave Sorawo for a second. “If you can’t promise me that now, that’s okay. I can wait. But I need you to do that, whenever you’re ready, okay?” Sorawo blinks, swallowing as she processes what Toriko is asking of her.
“Okay.” She manages to say, and Toriko closes her eyes. She sighs and untangles herself from Sorawo, returning to her side of the bed. There is something she needs to say before Toriko falls asleep again, but she doesn’t know how to. “Thank you.” That is undoubtedly not enough, and Sorawo knows she fucked up by not saying what she meant, because Toriko gives her a smile that is nothing like her.
“You don’t have to thank me. I just… I care about you. And I want you to know that.” She rolls over and gives Sorawo her back. “You should get some rest. It’ll be daylight in a few hours or so, and we need to meet with Kozakura in the morning so… goodnight.” There’s a soft sadness in her words and the way it makes Sorawo’s chest heavy makes it that much harder to understand.
"Goodnight.” She replies, not knowing what else to say. She swallows whatever is left of words unsaid and lays on her back, staring at the ceiling fan before bracing herself to close her eyes again.
For the rest of the night, Sorawo did not sleep.