My life changed a little, day by day. It was strange, but I began to really savor my own existence. When I saw something, I was aware of the fact that I was looking at it, or when I was walking, I was conscious of actually moving my legs. I started to appreciate the details and, as Keisuke would say, I became more sociable than before, though it meant I was losing interest in girls. I thought a lot about the part of me that was inherited from my father, and I decided that it was completely worthless. I didn’t really know much about heredity, but it seemed to me that, depending on who put it to use, it could evolve in any number of ways. I exercised a lot, going to the gym to sweat it out. I went to the university, and worked hard on writing papers so that I could graduate. However, this is not to say that I discovered the meaning of life or anything. I already knew there was no such thing. But. . how should I put it? I wanted to relish my time here, while it lasted. It may have been a small thing, within the framework of life that surrounded me, but meanwhile, I decided to spend the rest of my days living.
But there was one thing I had to do. Get rid of the gun. In order to maintain my current state of mind, I needed to get rid of the gun. This was, undoubtedly, sad for me. I still loved the gun, and I felt like banishing that sentiment would take a long time. If I thought long and hard, there might have been a way to hold onto it, but I figured that the best thing was just to get rid of the gun without dwelling on it. I was trying to be satisfied with my current state of mind, and to be satisfied, I couldn’t have the gun with me. Maybe because of my abiding or unresolved feelings, I decided to get rid of it somewhere far away.
I put on the leather gloves and, just in case, I wiped off any fingerprints that were on the gun. My plan was to submerge it in water somewhere so that no one would be able to use it, so I thought maybe I didn’t have to worry about fingerprints, but I did it anyway. I decided to go to the mountains where I had originally planned to fire the gun, and dump it in a pond or river. There was no particular reason — that’s just what I had decided to do. Or maybe I did want to keep the gun with me a little bit longer.
When I was leaving my apartment, I took one of the bullets out of the gun. I thought I would keep it as a sort of talisman. The bullet still had a golden sheen — it was beautiful. I made sure to put it in the pocket of my jeans, and thought maybe later I should buy an amulet to keep it in. As for the gun, I put it in the leather pouch. I figured it might be a good idea to dump the whole thing.
Outside, I could feel the sunshine. The balmy golden rays enveloped me completely, warming me all over. I lit a cigarette, enjoying this feeling in my body as I walked. The sensation was not at all unpleasant. In a little while, I thought, the light would turn orange. I thought of Yuko Yoshikawa, and I felt a pang of nostalgia Then it occurred to me that maybe I should try to tell her everything. I doubted I would be able to explain it very well, but if I could, I wanted another chance to be with her. I had just been sitting around watching a romance on television, so maybe that had something to do with it.
I got on the train, and took the seat all the way in the corner. Sunlight streamed through the window, creating a beautiful color seemingly refracted through the glass. I thought more about Yuko, and my mood improved. I looked out on each building and street that I could see from the window. The gun, in the pocket of my jacket, seemed to be unmistakably asserting its existence. There was definitely a gun in there. And, in a short time, that gun would be underwater somewhere.
Just then, I felt a little sorry for the gun. It was an inanimate object, so I knew that wasn’t an appropriate emotion, but I felt something akin to sympathy for this man-made thing that had been created for the sole purpose of killing people. It wasn’t as if the gun had chosen its own fate, to kill people. I felt an unexpected and keen sense of loneliness. And I knew that it would take a long time before this feeling was gone for good. But I had already made up my mind to get rid of it. I told myself I shouldn’t be thinking about it.
The train got more crowded over time, and I was forced to squeeze myself into the corner. The guy next to me was in his fifties or so, he was filthy and dressed like a bum, and he was sitting with his legs spread wide, giving me even less room. I put up with it for a while, trying to think about something more pleasant. The very first thing that came to mind was Yuko. Her face was beautiful, and I wanted to talk with her. The next thing that came to mind was the gun. With its streamlined function, its deep silver tone, the gun still belonged to me. And then, unfortunately, my brain went muddy. A cell phone rang; it was the guy’s next to me. His voice was loud, he was laughing to himself, at who knows what. I didn’t let it bother me. I looked at him, and kept staring until he noticed. It took a while before he did, but he just laughed with a snort, not bothering to pay me any further attention. Right then and there, I decided that this guy was the scum of the earth. As he jabbered on the phone, he was chewing away on the gum in his mouth. Little by little, that smacking noise drove me to the edge. I snatched the guy’s cell phone, and then it occurred to me to toss it aside, so I did just that. Momentarily surprised, he turned to look in my direction. I couldn’t help but find this amusing. Then I ordered him off the train, shouting, “Get out, you bother me!” Yet even as I said these words, my brain was muddy and, at times, I was confused by the situation. “What the hell?” the guy said. “Pick it up!” he ordered me. I was struck by a single thought: I took the gun out of the leather pouch and grabbed the guy by the hair. I shoved the gun into his mouth, which was hanging open in shock, and said, “I’ll kill you.” I thought it was a pretty good threat, and even if the passengers around us called the police, I decided I would say that I was just threatening him with a toy gun. Some of the other passengers screamed and tried to get away from us. Both of the guy’s eyes were open wide, and his breathing was rough. His labored gasps dispersed his bad breath, and the stench of alcohol mingled with the sweet smell of the gum disgusted me. His hair, clutched in my left hand, was slippery with grease, and the nastiness of it triggered a convulsive chill in me. His mouth wriggled around the gun, and when I asked him what he was trying to say, he mumbled, “It’s not real, is it?” My next move followed swiftly. I cocked the hammer and said, “Let’s find out.” I thought that move seemed like straight out of a movie. As if I were watching from a distance, I let my body take over. I pulled the trigger and, that instant, I heard a furious sound. A massive spray of red exploded outward, staining the gray suit of a man nearby. Silence fell; I didn’t fully comprehend what had happened. There was no more resistance in the guy’s neck, it felt hideously limp and was bent to the side at a strange angle. It must have been from the back of his head, a huge amount of red fluid still gushed like a fountain, staining all over the inside of the train. The bits of red flesh and the red liquid strewn everywhere made an otherworldly impression. I heard a woman scream, and when I realized that people were running and trying to get out of there — that’s when I knew I had fired the gun. “This can’t be,” I was murmuring. “There’s no way,” I repeated. The only thing I knew was, I hadn’t needed to pull the trigger. I hadn’t needed to pull the trigger, it hadn’t been necessary to do it. Another future could have existed, I thought to myself now. I felt as though my body were slipping, and I was seized by the urge, as if in a fit, to grab hold of something. It went dark, and I looked around as if to ask for help, but to those frightened people, I was no longer human. My entire body convulsed, and I realized the area around my chin had not stopped shaking violently. My vision grew more and more narrow, I needed to grab on to something, and I caught hold of the steel pole in front of me. But it was slippery, and my hands were stained red. I wanted this all to be over with. The only way I knew how to end it was to shoot myself in the head. I had to do it quickly. If I didn’t do it quickly, the terror of something I had never done before might break me, might shatter my body into little pieces. The premonition itself was already so intense, it was wearing me away. I would have fired the gun, but there weren’t any bullets left in it. I mustered the effort to remember where there was one bullet left, and I groped the pocket of my jeans. I managed to use my trembling hand to retrieve the bullet. Now I needed to load it into the gun. My mind was not communicating well with my hands, so this task took some time. Around me, the people trying to get away were panicked, sometimes looking back at me as they rushed toward the part of the train that connected with other cars. I felt the need to respond to their gaze and, inexplicably, I tried to produce a smile on my face. The bullet simply would not load into the gun. Like a prayer, I offered my whole being as I pleaded, “Please get in there.” Then, as if I were speaking to someone, I said, “Just a little longer now.” And I repeated, “That’s odd, that’s odd,” as my trembling fingers grasped the tiny bullet.