Episode 66: The Sea and Dynamite

Through sleep-deprived, blurring vision, inside the basement practice room with its walls of grey concrete on every side — the moment Shion’s piano rings out, I’m awake.

It’s hard to believe she was dozing against my shoulder only minutes ago. Now she plays with a vividness that fills her whole body, as though trembling with joy. As though the grand piano — so much larger than she is — were simply an extension of herself. As though it existed for one purpose only: to make Shion more beautiful.

I can’t look away. Without noticing, all my drowsiness has gone, and I’m bewitched by her.

Shion’s sound, unbroken, was like waves rolling in and pulling back. The seamlessness of her phrasing was astonishing — her fingers minimised every join between notes while keeping each individual sound clear and full — and the fluency of it was relentless, unstoppable. And yet the rhythm had an irregular bounce to it, like fireworks blooming in a night sky, with flashes of dissonance as accent, brightening the smooth, ordered surface of the music into something luminous.

The stability of the sea. The delicacy of spray on breaking waves. The splendour of fireworks. This performance unfolding in front of me was the distillation of the entire summer. Her playing had always been as complete as anything I could imagine — and yet Shion’s sound knows no ceiling. Throughout summer break it had kept climbing, and now it felt as though it had bloomed at the very peak of its ascent.

And this person, scattering beauty in front of me right now — I kissed her. That thought, and my heart leaps in time with Shion’s fingers. The warmth won’t leave my body. Shion’s sound, brighter and hotter than any fireworks, scorches me — body and soul — with its beauty.

It had always been like this, I realised. Not once during the summer had I had a moment’s peace. Shion had been at the centre of me the entire time. Day after day, her violet nerve-toxin — her solanine — corroding my heart. Over the course of summer break, I had become thoroughly, completely addicted to her. And everything that had taken root in me through those days — every feeling — I had turned into words, pressed into the form of a novel, vacuum-sealed so it wouldn’t rot, preserved in something that lasts. That was my reason for living now. Every reason I had to write was Shion. Without Shion, there was no reason to write, no reason to be alive — and the unbearable beauty of the performance in front of me made me feel that with a clarity that hurt.

But it would all be over soon. The melody spinning itself out now would reach its final note eventually. The end of summer, and the competition — both were almost here.

As though winding back the hands of a toy clock to make time run a little slower. To let myself feel Shion for even a little longer.

In the end, I spent almost the entire remaining days before the competition without sleeping, thinking of nothing but Shion.

◇◇◇

The day of the competition. The performance is in the afternoon, so Shion’s call comes a little later than usual. I come to with a jolt when the ringtone sounds — I must have passed out at some point without realising.

“Uta, morning.”

Her voice bright and bouncing, just as always.

I answer the same way I always do.

“…Morning.”

There’s something sluggish in my voice, for some reason. My throat burns like it’s on fire, and the words won’t form properly.

“Uta — your voice — what’s wrong…?”
“Nothing at all. I’m fine.”

I say it in that scraped-bare voice, and to show Shion — and above all myself — that everything is perfectly fine, I throw back the duvet and try to sit up. Try to.

My body won’t cooperate. My arms and knees ache at every joint. My whole body is burning, heavy. I can’t move.

Still, I drag myself up piece by piece, lever myself to standing, and walk unsteadily around the room with nowhere in particular to go.

That doesn’t last long either. Gravity wins. I go down. The dull sound of my body hitting the floor. My phone skitters away across the room with an absurdly loud clatter.

“Uta!? Are you okay?”

Through the phone, Shion screams in a voice I’ve never heard from her before.

And then footsteps, heavy and hurrying through the house.

“Uta — what happened!?”

Mum comes in without knocking. She finds me on the floor and pulls me to her. Then she presses her hand against my forehead.

“…You’re burning up.”

I feel her rough, cool palm against my skin, and it comes to me vaguely — oh, right, it’s this time of day. Mum is home. Somehow, that settles something in me, just a little.

“Uta…! Uta…!”

Somewhere nearby, from the phone lying on the floor, a voice calling my name, desperate. The dearest voice in the world, shaking against my eardrums.

That violet sound — it was too dear, too much.

My body had been eaten through, it seemed, by that sweet poison entirely.

And then I let go of consciousness.