Bow-wow
You take the phone off of the desk and turn on the screen. This looks to be a high-end device– brimming with contacts, phone calls, texts, emails, all seemingly business or networking-related. Even a cursory search through these notifications gives the sense that the owner of this phone was nearly always busy with something.
You can see a recent text chain between the owner of this phone and Akemi herself.
Before you can read any of the messages, you swear you can feel a cold, firm hand squeezing your shoulder.
Ignoring the sensation, you scroll through some of the text exchanges. The majority of the messages come from the phone’s owner, with only brief and curt responses from Akemi. You can see pushy invitations to art openings, with the caveat that she dresses nicely; several requests for meetings on urgent business matters; even vaguely backhanded commentary on her latest publications. Further, you see messages questioning when she will be home from her trips interspersed with several requests for meetings with potential suitors, all of which Akemi gives noncommittal or vague responses to.
The exchanges are brief, one-sided, and often underwhelming. Tonally, everything seems like purely business with the exception of how frequently he refers to Akemi as ‘my dear’ or ‘sweet child’. You see nothing outwardly insulting or cruel written anywhere. Even so, the feeling of a cold hand on your shoulder does not leave your mind.
You attempt to put the phone back down, but find that you cannot do so.
You suddenly become painfully aware of your poor posture, and of any stray hairs or flaws in your appearance. Your outfit somehow feels more restrictive and hideous than before, and you wonder what your expression must look like to the people around you. You feel ugly. You try to shift your posture and expression to something more suitable, straightening up, forcing your face into neutrality, but nothing truly helps. You are horribly flawed.
Your hand grips the phone tighter.
You are suddenly weighed down with the realization that nothing you do here matters. No one cares about you. The dreams you had are foolish. The life you wanted is an impossibility.
Just let go.
For a moment, you aren’t sure if these thoughts are your own, or someone else’s. You want to put the phone down, but your will is no longer your own.
Your heart is racing.
You realize…don’t like yourself very much anymore. You ought to be better than this.
Think of your image.
Your hands are shaking. You need to make them stop. You aren’t allowed to look this frightened. It doesn’t suit you.
These thoughts arrive like a barrage of bullets, far faster than you can even keep track of. Their venom shoots through you like electricity, forcing you to grip the device even tighter. Your chest feels tight. You want to cry, but find that you can no longer do so.
And even if you could, would it really make anything better? Making things better is not something you’re capable of.
You didn’t have a choice.
Actually, you think, you hate yourself. Your heart feels bitter. You aren’t a person worthy of praise, or love, or anything.
You shouldn’t be here.
For a brief moment you want nothing more than to shatter this phone to pieces. To kick this desk over. To throw every book off of the shelves. To destroy the corpse beside you.
But then, just as soon as they started, the feelings fade, and they are replaced by an icy and stark calm. All at once, you no longer feel those bullets, nor their venomous barrage.
None of this can hurt you anymore, of that you’re certain.
You realize you’ve walked around the desk and set the phone back down– where the corpse cannot reach it, you think.
Your eyes meet those of the corpse. For a moment, as you look into his dull, lifeless eyes, you are certain this is the best thing you have felt in a long, long time.
Only once you release your grip on the phone do you regain control of yourself. Your thoughts are once again your own, for better or worse.
