La Vie En Rose: Chapter 1 - Part 3

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Despite it being the middle of the night, the bustling streets of Ikebukuro are still crowded. I step off the main road, into a quieter back alley, looking for a foreigner standing still on the street. I watch the traffic lights at the intersection, focusing on the unmoving foreigner. I pass slowly in front of him twice, giving him a sidelong glance. On the third pass, he starts to follow me. The ritual of buying it hasn’t changed since before. 

I walk about 30 meters (32 yards), then turn into a narrow alley and look back. 

"Got any?" 

"I’ve got anything you want," he says with a wide grin, revealing yellow teeth and a thick beard, his dark skin giving him a Middle Eastern vibe. 

"The strong stuff?" 

"I have it." 

"How much?" 

"Three thousand yen per gram." 

That's ridiculously cheap, much lower than the going rate. Or maybe the prices have dropped while I was locked up. 

"Show me the goods first." 

"It’s good stuff, no mistake!" he says, eyes bulging as he leans in close. 

Tired of the back-and-forth, I cut to the chase: "Then give me a little discount." 

"How much you got?" 

"80,000 yen." 

"Okay, three grams. Big discount for you, OK?" 

The negotiation concludes, and I follow the foreigner for about five minutes. He turns into an alley and stops in front of a shuttered shop. He lifts one of the several flowerpots there. Inside, I catch a glimpse of methamphetamine, packaged in small plastic bags. There are several one-gram packets, and he hands me three of them. 

I quickly shove the packets into my pocket. The foreigner grins, "See you," and hurries off down the street. 

I return to the convenience store I passed earlier and head straight for the bathroom. Under the light, I check the goods and click my tongue in annoyance. 

The crystals, which should have been pure white, have brown spots scattered throughout—proof of impurities. That’s why it was cheaper than the market price. The "good stuff" claim was complete nonsense.

My irritation fades instantly. I realize the quality doesn’t matter right now. I consolidate the powder from the three bags into one and flush the now-empty bags down the toilet. 

With the remaining change in my pocket, I buy a 500ml beer and wander around with the convenience store bag, looking for a spot. Somewhere not too cold, quiet, and without people. 

I consider a park, but the ones near the station are dominated by groups of young people, and there's no place for me. As I move further away, the presence of others fades. 

I try to hide in some shrubbery, but it’s still cold outside. My breath comes out white. The convenience store bathroom might have been an option, but getting caught halfway through and having an ambulance called would be a hassle. While wandering around the park, I spot a three-story building that looks like an office with a "For Sale" sign. 

Circling the area, I find that the door on the left side facing the street, between the building and the adjacent one, has a broken lock. I enter, using the light from my lighter. It seems people have been in and out of this abandoned building; it's littered with plastic bags, empty bento boxes, plastic bottles, and aluminum cans.

After a quick look around, I settle on a room that looks like a reception area with a sofa. I remove the curtain from the window and wrap myself in it. It’s much warmer than outside. 

I pop open the beer can and down half of it. Then, I pull out the bag of meth from my pocket. I rub the powder through the bag with my fingers repeatedly. 

Feeling scared comes from hesitation. Hesitation amplifies fear. 

I open the bag and dump the three grams of powder, worth 80,000 yen, into my mouth, washing it down with beer. I’d heard that using meth, even 0.5 grams at a time, can be deadly if injected into a vein. But when taken orally, it takes longer to kick in and works slowly over time. I’d only ever snorted it, but with three grams, I figured that taking it orally would still be enough to die.

After finishing the remaining beer, a sharp pain shoots through my stomach. Having thrown up so much earlier, my stomach must be empty; the alcohol stings all the more.

Wrapped in the curtain, I lie down on the sofa. Dying at 30, in an abandoned building, high on drugs. Will my death make it into the newspapers? Will it be on the news? Will even a single person think it’s a pity? Will anyone cry?

My parents are dead, my brother has disowned me, and my friends have told me to stay away. The guy I was seeing before I got locked up—what happened to him? He was a heavy user, so he’s probably dead by now.

I’ve got no one. Maybe some people will laugh when a three-time felon dies of an overdose, but no one will cry. How did things end up like this? What was my life even about? Should I have stayed in high school, or never joined that gang as a low-level thug? Too late for regrets now.

Momota presses his hands against his face. He’d felt like things might change when he got to Tokyo. He had no real reason to think so, but he did. A rat is still a rat, even if it wakes up. It doesn’t suddenly become a tiger or a lion.

Tokyo has everything. But it didn’t have what I wanted. Not that I even knew what I wanted. I never truly wanted anything from the bottom of my heart. Never had a passion or a goal. As long as I had enough money to get by, enough fun to keep entertained, I was satisfied. Trying hard was too much trouble; it was always too much trouble.

How long has it been since I took it? Ten minutes, fifteen? When I used to snort, it would hit me in the back of the head with a sharp "bang," but taking it orally makes it incredibly slow.

Maybe it’s because of the impurities, or maybe because it’s low-quality stuff that it’s not hitting hard. I had imagined that after taking so much, it would be like "bang, bang, bang," hitting the back of my head, my mood exploding like a balloon, and then dying. 

I paid 80,000 yen for this? Is this how it ends? Just as I started sinking into a bad trip, it hit me. But it wasn’t the usual "bang, bang."

Sweat poured from every pore of my body in an instant. My heart pounded like a motor, "thump-thump, thump-thump," and my hands began to go numb. If it was just numbness, that would have been fine, but instead, the numbness shifted to pain, like a gear changing. My whole body hurt. I felt like my muscles were creaking, twisting. Damn, this is bad... By the time I realized it, I couldn’t even stand. I couldn’t get up. All I could feel was the pain in every muscle, over and over, pain, pain, pain.

“Ugh, ugh,” I groaned as I rolled off the sofa and hit the floor. Lying face down, I flailed my hands like a fish hauled out of water. Pain, pain, pain. Someone… someone… help me. Someone, please take me to the hospital. Or just kill me. Just finish me off already!

Despite the pain, my mind was clear. It felt clear. That’s why I was on the verge of losing my mind.

“Ugh, ugh...” I moaned, and foam bubbled from my mouth. My nose filled with snot, making it hard to breathe. Even though I was freezing, sweat poured off me like I was in a sauna. In the midst of my agony, I heard a clattering noise. It might be those guys loitering in the abandoned building.

“Hel... help...” I finally managed to say. I didn’t care who it was, as long as they helped me. Save me. Get me out of this pain. Take me to the hospital. I don’t care if they find out I was using drugs. I don’t care if I get reported. I don’t care if I go back to prison again. Just, please...

In my face-down position, I saw a pair of sneakers. The pattern on them was neon, glowing like waves. Even though my body was consumed by pain, I could still feel the wallet being slipped out of my back pocket. I heard a "tch" of annoyance above me, and the wallet dropped next to my face with a thud.

"...Help..."

The next moment, there was a sudden impact in my stomach.

"Ugh..."

I rolled to the side and retched. The refluxed stomach acid and beer burned my throat. A shadow loomed over me, wavering at the edge of my vision.

The footsteps and presence moved away. The smell of my own vomit and bile made me retch again. My neck was numb, unable to move. My consciousness flickered away and then came back with a jolt. The second time I lost consciousness, my vision blacked out completely.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

When I woke up, it wasn’t pitch dark around me. My vision was a faint blue.

I tried moving my right hand—it moved. My left hand moved too. I pulled my knees up. My legs worked. I tried to get up, but a dull pain throbbed through the back of my head, making me groan, "Ugh."

My back hurt. My waist hurt. It hurt like it was all stiff. I recognized this sluggish pain. It was the same feeling I had after being up for two or three days straight, partying on drugs, crashing, and then sleeping for an entire day.

It might have been days since then. I didn’t know what day it was. The only thing I could say for sure, from my own experience, was that despite the absolute worst situation, I hadn’t died...

My whole body shivered. Cold, it’s so cold here. Even though I was wrapped in a curtain, my lower half felt especially cold.

Throb, throb... Even a slight movement sent a sharp pain through my head, like being hit with a hammer. I held my head and propped myself up. Peering at my lower half, I was shocked by the mess in my crotch.

“You’ve got to be kidding me...”

From my zipper down to my thighs, my jeans were soaked. It wasn’t just water—the distinctive smell of ammonia made that clear. As if that wasn’t enough, there was also the stench of crap. I must have lost control while I was unconscious.

Holding my head, I was speechless for a while... Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes. This went beyond embarrassing; it was pathetic. Why the hell did I have to be here, covered in piss and shit, crying like this?

In the faint blue room, I could hear the whooshing sound of cars passing by on the road outside. Slowly, I got to my feet. My body was sluggish, and the back of my head still throbbed with pain, but I could walk. I needed to do something about this pathetic state of my lower body. But I didn’t have any spare clothes. I picked up my wallet, which was covered in dried vomit. I shouldn’t have looked. Even the last yen was gone.

Maybe if I washed them... With that thought, I headed to the water area in the building and turned the tap, but no water came out. Even if I wanted to steal some clothes, no clothing stores were open this early in the morning. And before that, I didn’t want to enter a store in my current, pitiful state. I didn’t want anyone to see me.

I took off my fleece jacket and wrapped it around my waist to hide the wet stains. When I stepped outside through the broken door, the cold was so intense it made me shiver. The cold air stabbed at my exposed arms in the Hawaiian shirt I was wearing.

If I went to a residential area, I might find a house that left their laundry out overnight. Then I could steal some clothes. But even though I knew where the downtown area was in Ikebukuro, I had no idea where the residential areas were.

I’d have to find them even if I didn’t know where they were. Grimacing against the pounding pain in my head, I started walking, shivering from the cold. If I’m going to steal, it’s better to do it before dawn breaks.

While crossing the park I had walked through yesterday to avoid the cold, I saw it. Along the fence that bordered the park and the sidewalk, five cardboard houses were lined up. I approached them quietly. In front of the cardboard houses, between two trees, a rope was strung like a spider’s web, with various items hanging from it.

Momota checked his surroundings several times, almost obsessively, before approaching the rope. Underwear, sweatpants, sweatshirts—he grabbed everything he could and clutched them in his arms, then ran off, forgetting the pain in the back of his head.

He returned to the abandoned building and stripped off his dirty clothes before his pounding heart could calm down. He wiped his crotch with a stolen towel, put on the underwear and sweatpants, and layered a sweatshirt over his Hawaiian shirt, then threw on the fleece jacket. He didn’t have the luxury to worry about whether it looked tacky or was in bad taste.

The stink and filth were taken care of for now. All that was left was to get away before they could identify him. Before those homeless people noticed anything.

After carefully checking his surroundings, he sprinted out of the abandoned building. If those homeless guys reported him to the police, he’d get caught. Would the police laugh? Would they laugh at a homeless person reporting stolen laundry, or at a repeat offender stealing clothes from the homeless?

He hadn’t run that far, but he was already out of breath. His body felt sluggish. The throbbing pain in his head was getting worse. Momota sat down on the steps of a closed restaurant and hung his head, clutching it in his hands.

Ah, my head hurts. It feels like it’s splitting open. I’ve changed clothes, but I still feel like I stink. I smell. Maybe because I couldn’t wash my crotch. Or maybe it’s something different, like rotting garbage...

The smell of the homeless. It hit me suddenly. People who might not bathe regularly. It’s no wonder the smell of stale sweat clung to their laundry.

A simmering rage rose from deep within me. Who—who did this to me! I was supposed to be able to get high and die from the hit, but why did things turn out like this? The headache, the mess in my pants, the money being stolen, smelling like rotten garbage—it's all because of that foreigner. It’s his fault for selling me bad stuff.

“Good stuff. You won’t regret it!” The image of the foreigner’s wide-eyed face flashed through my mind.

“I’ll kill him...” Momota muttered under his breath. I’ll kill that foreigner. A fire ignited deep in my chest. I’m not afraid of anything. Not the police, not even the death penalty. He needs to pay, to face the consequences for what he’s done to me.

How will I kill him? That foreigner was well-built. Taking him on barehanded would be dangerous. The quickest way is to use a weapon—a knife or a kitchen knife. Get close with it hidden, then strike in one go. As long as I kill him, it’ll be fine. Whatever happens after that, so be it.

Gazing at the bluish, sparsely populated street, he thought. A kitchen knife is bigger than a regular knife, and it seems more likely to finish the job. I want a kitchen knife. But I don’t have the money to buy one. Should I snatch someone’s wallet or shoplift? Either way, it’s all the same.

He furrowed his brow, lost in thought. Then, right in front of him, a man in his seventies with white hair walked by, dressed in a tracksuit and sweatshirt, walking a dog.

This one will do! If it’s an old man, he shouldn’t put up much resistance. I wasn’t sure if people carried wallets while walking their dogs, but he might at least have some change in his pockets. And right now, there weren’t many people around.

Momota followed the man. Walking along the road, the man suddenly turned right and changed course to a footpath. After walking for a while, the man suddenly stepped into a grove of trees, watching his dog relieve itself. There was no one else around. This is my chance. Momota leapt at the man from behind.

Partway through, I picked up a piece of wood and pressed it against the man's throat.

"Don't scream, don't move. If you say a word, I'll stab you."

The man's eyes widened, and he gasped. Then he looked down, trying to see what was pressed against his throat.

"Don't look down!"

When Momota shouted, the man jerked his chin up.

"Give me your wallet!"

The man kept his face forward but glanced sideways at Momota.

"...I don't have a wallet."

"You don't have one? Bullshit!"

Still holding the piece of wood against the man's throat with his right hand, Momota used his left hand to search the man's tracksuit pockets. He felt something solid, and just as he thought, "Got it…" he was suddenly grabbed by the left arm and yanked forward.

Losing his balance, he stumbled forward. Before he could figure out what had happened, Momota was forced face down, and his arm was twisted behind his back. The dog nearby was barking furiously.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow…”

“You’re a disgraceful scoundrel. This is what you deserve!”

The twisting got tighter, and the pain grew worse. Momota screamed in a half-cry, “Aaagh, I’m sorry!”

“How about now? Do you give up?”

The man yelled. Momota repeatedly apologized, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“What’s going on here?!”

A voice called out nearby. Looking over, Momota saw another middle-aged man, also walking a dog, watching from the footpath.

"Makimura-san, this guy is a robber!"

"What?! A robber?!"

He saw the man, who was called Makimura, pull out a mobile phone. He knew it—they were going to report him.

Momota twisted his body with all his might. He could tell that the man restraining him was momentarily distracted by the middle-aged man dialing on his phone. His arm slipped free. Momota jumped up and bolted deeper into the woods like a rabbit fleeing for its life.

"Hey, stop right there!"

The man gave chase. Despite being an old man, he was fast. If the police caught him, he’d go back to prison. He hadn’t even killed that foreigner yet, hadn’t done anything yet—no way he was going back.

Had they called the police? If they had, he needed to get far away. Far, far away…

The footpath was too straightforward. If he was going to escape, he needed to go into the city. Somewhere crowded with people, filled with buildings... In his frantic run, he lost track of where he was.

Was he still in Ikebukuro, or had he already left? The only thing he knew was that the sun rising through the breaks in the clouds was in the east. All around him were similar, dull buildings. It could have been an office district.

Exhausted, his legs felt heavy... Momota slumped down beside a convenience store, panting heavily.

“Damn… that old man… that damn old man… he should just die. Damn it…”

He muttered curses between breaths. Even after catching his breath, he couldn’t bring himself to move. His whole body felt as tired as it did after a full day’s work. He hugged his knees, curled up, and cursed his bad luck. The old man had used some weird technique. If it had been a regular old man, he could have easily gotten the money. Running into that old man was just bad luck. Unlucky. Really unlucky.

"Ah, good morning!"

A gratingly cheerful voice rang out.

"Thank you for always taking care of me. Sorry to bother you so early. About the matter of that product…"

A smart-looking man, wearing a black coat and a gray suit and holding a brown bag under his arm, began speaking in front of the convenience store. He looked younger than Momota.

“Yes, yes… I plan to go ahead as we discussed yesterday, alright. Thank you very much.”

The conversation seemed to be over, and the man shoved his phone into his coat pocket and glanced down at Momota.

The man didn’t say anything. He just looked over and furrowed his brow slightly.

Momota felt a surge of anger and then intense embarrassment at the way the man looked at him, like he was trash. To make things worse, more and more men and women in suits were appearing on the sidewalk.

People older than him, people the same age, people who looked younger—all of them walked briskly in ties, suits, and coats flapping in the wind.

He never wanted to be a salaryman. Not once. But being here now, he felt like he didn’t belong, like he wasn’t supposed to be here, so Momota started walking again.

He turned into an alley and wandered aimlessly until he reached a riverbank. He walked slowly along the paved footpath by the embankment. Even though it was morning, the sky was still covered with dull gray clouds. The wind along the river made it even colder.

A large bridge came into view. It was pretty high up. Without even really wanting to cross to the other side, he turned off the footpath and onto the pedestrian walkway on the bridge.

On top of the railing, there was a three-meter-high wire mesh fence. He stopped in the middle of the bridge, grabbed the mesh, and stared intently at the distant river surface.

Really, he had nothing. No brains, no money. All he had were a criminal record, a headache, and hunger. He was starving. His throat was dry. It was driving him crazy.

If he died, it would be easier. That much was obvious. He wanted to die, but because of that stupid foreigner, he couldn’t find peace and only ended up in hell.

The wind blowing up from below rattled the mesh with a clang. From this height, if he really wanted to, he could climb over. Dying wouldn’t cost any money. It suited someone like him who had nothing.

I should’ve done this from the start. I could die cleanly. The pain would only last a moment. Unlike that lousy drug, there’d be no writhing in agony from the pain.

I threw away my vomit-stained wallet. I’m not carrying anything that could identify me. My body would just be marked as unidentified. No one would cry. No one would mourn.

“I’m a piece of shit.”

The words I spat out stung in my chest. Lazy, careless, weak to temptation. But there are people even worse than me. The guy who took LSD, hallucinated, and flew out of a window; the guy who had a bad trip on heroin and stabbed his girlfriend. Compared to those guys, I’m better off. Much better.

But when you’re dead, I guess we’re all the same. Maybe I’m worse because I’m still kind of clear-headed.

The wind blowing up was cold. The surface of the water was rippling. My stomach growled. It pissed me off. Before I died, I wanted to eat my fill, whatever it was. But I had no money. I didn’t even have the energy to grab someone’s wallet or shoplift. That encounter with the old man this morning had been really exhausting.

I saw something white falling into the river. I looked up at the sky. Snow. No wonder it felt so cold—it had started to snow.

The fingers gripping the wire mesh were numb with cold, turning white. My whole body was trembling. Jumping off was fine, but it was all about timing. If someone tried to save me and messed it up, that would be the worst. Ah, but if you fall from a height like this, would you die as soon as you hit the water? I think I heard that from someone once.

“Excuse me,” a voice called out. I turned around, startled. The last thing I wanted to see right now—a blue uniform…

“May I have a word with you?”

It was a young police officer. He looked about twenty-two or twenty-three. He had sharp features and a small head. If anything, he was a ruggedly handsome guy. The only thing I had over this young man in terms of looks was my height.

“Wh-what do you want?”

My voice wavered. The attempted robbery on the old man flashed through my mind. Even though I was far away from there, had they followed me all the way here?

The policeman stopped his bike along the railing.

“I’ve been watching you from over there, and you’ve been standing here for more than thirty minutes, haven’t you?”

So that’s what it was. I spat on the ground.

“What, is there something wrong with standing on a bridge?”

When I growled, the officer looked slightly confused.

“No... it’s just that a lot of people have jumped off this bridge before, so I got worried.”

“So what if I jump? It’s my damn choice!”

The young officer fell silent.

“You’re annoying. Get lost if it doesn’t concern you. You’re not my family. Get lost!”

I waved him away with my right hand as if shooing a dog and turned my back on him. But he didn’t seem to leave.

“I said get lost!”

I turned back and shouted. The young officer, still wearing a stern expression, started to speak.

“If you die, everything ends. Can’t you reconsider? Maybe talking to your family or wife might change how you feel.”

“Don’t act like you know what you’re talking about, kid! Talk to my family? I don’t even have a damn family!”

“Maybe I am just a kid, but at least I can listen. Can’t you give it another thought?”

His tone wasn’t casual; it had a sense of sincerity. He must have been an earnest and kind guy. I’ve dealt with a lot of cops and detectives in my time, but most of them were overbearing and treated me like I was trash.

“You’re just talking to me because it’s your job, right?”

Still not facing the cop, I kept my eyes on the river below.

“You’re worried about the trouble if someone dies in your area, right?”

“That’s not it.”

“Just ignore me. I’m on edge right now. I’ll kill you.”

I yelled in a low voice, like a growl. The officer took a step back, seemingly intimidated by my anger.

“Get lost! Or I’ll jump right now, you hear me? Are you trying to kill me?”

At that, the officer finally seemed to back off. He mounted his bike that was parked by the road.

“I’m stationed at the West Central... the police box just after the first signal when you cross the bridge. If you ever want to talk, feel free to drop by.”

With that, the officer rode off. When he disappeared on the other side of the bridge, I let out a big sigh. That meddlesome cop had thrown me off my stride.

I gripped the wire mesh with both hands. The snow was falling more and more heavily. For some reason, it felt like even the weather was rushing me to die sooner.

Living is painful. Living is miserable. Living is pathetic. That’s why I’m going to die. To be honest, I don’t want it to hurt. But I’m not afraid of death itself.

Snow piled up on my clothes and my head. I stood there, not sure if I was hesitating or not. When I couldn’t even tell anymore, I started counting. When I reached ninety-nine and then counted a hundred, the urge finally came over me.

From that point on, there was no hesitation. I climbed the mesh fence with jerky movements and poked my head out the other side. The wind blowing up was strong. I couldn’t even keep my eyes open.

Just as I leaned my upper body forward, someone grabbed my right leg. I didn’t even have time to turn around. With my body weighed down, I was pulled back and fell sideways onto the walkway.

As I got up, I saw that the officer was clinging to my right leg.

I realized for the first time that when you’re filled with such intense anger, you can’t even speak. I had finally climbed up. I thought I could finally be free from everything. The moment I leaned out, I had felt liberated.

Half-crying with rage, I kicked the officer’s head.

“Let go, you bastard!”

No matter how much I kicked, the officer wouldn’t let go of my right leg.

“Please, don’t do this.”

“Shut up!”

“There are people in this world who want to live but can’t. Please value your life more.”

The officer’s righteous words grated on my nerves.

“I want to die!”

I pounded my chest with my right hand.

“There are some people in this world who are better off dead!”

“That’s not true.”

“What the hell do you know about me? You don’t know anything!”

“I don’t know, but I do know that dying is not the answer.”

The young officer was desperate.

“You’re all just talk. All you guys do is say ‘hang in there’ or ‘keep living.’ It’s irresponsible!”

I pointed at the young officer.

“So what is it? Are you going to take responsibility for me? Are you saying you’ll take care of a penniless, homeless, three-time offender like me?”

The officer remained silent, looking troubled.

“In the end, it’s all just talk. Don’t spout nonsense if you’re not prepared to take on someone else’s life. Let go of me!”

Finally, the officer let go of my leg. I slowly stood up.

“Just leave me alone, you idiot!”

I spat out the words and started to walk away. My will to die had been sapped. This place was no good. I’d have to find another bridge. I was hungry. But my stomach felt like it was twisting... It pissed me off.

“Wait!”

I ignored the voice calling out from behind me. Then someone grabbed my arm and turned me around.

“I’ll take responsibility.”

The eyes looking at me were serious.

“I’ll take responsibility, so... won’t you give it a try?”

Annoying, annoying, annoying. Momota felt hatred even toward this earnest young cop.

The reason this guy was bothering with me was that he was happy. He was young, had a proper job, and had enough stability to think he could take care of someone else... to offer charity.

A dark, ugly feeling swirled in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to ruin him. Drag him down to the same place I was, make him taste the same humiliation, and then see if he could still say, “It’s better to live.”

“Are you seriously saying you’ll take responsibility for me?”

The officer nodded emphatically.

“Yes. Let’s try together.”

Momota licked his cold, dry upper lip.

“You’re really serious about this, right?”

“Yes.”

Momota looked at the officer and then slowly smiled.

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