Genesis

Yawn

Curling from the aged park bench, an adolescent boy rises – groggy – with his messy black hair veiling the features of his face.

‘Where am I?’

Dazed, he motions seamlessly into various yoga poses, freeing himself from the shackles of sleep in the perfect ambiance of the greenery around him. Lush hedges, lively trees home to birds singing their morning salutes to one another, and crisp lawns blanket the scene as jovial passers-by in the garden-like area go about their morning routines.

Approaching steadily, an elegantly trotting young woman makes her way through the park drawing the longing gazes of men and women alike, including the boy stretching beside the bench.

“It’s chilly out, I guess jogging would warm me up.”

He begins jogging, following closely along the route taken by the young lady.

‘85, 59, 83? Woah.’

He observes the girl closely – creepy grin on full display – almost as if scanning or inspecting something about her. Moments pass and the young lady removes from her pocket her smartphone. Smiling for the camera, she readies herself to capture the moment; only… the boy is in the image. He immediately changes direction, and stops, panting heavily from the run, to think to himself,

‘She’s a smart one.’

Upon catching his breath, the boy begins to look around him in confusion, before scratching his head and staring off into space.

‘What was I doing? How did I get here?’

He tries to recall the answers to these questions, but his focus is short-lived. Across a barrier of shrubbery, a group of high-school girls catches his notice. Quickly, he scans his surroundings. Old folk with canes, salarymen getting in their last puffs before heading to the office, families walking their pets – all useless – but what he needed was right within sight. A child birdwatching with binoculars. He approaches the child while barely paying him any mind, eyes focused on the hedges near the girls.

“Hey kid, let me borrow those.”

Without a moment’s pause for an answer, he rips the binoculars from the child’s hands, as he begins to cry out.

“母さん! 母さん!” [“Mom! Mom!]

The young man nevertheless continues his march towards the girls as a hunter would his prey.

‘Great, he’s calling his mom.’

Now, pulling out his billfold, the boy removes from it a small length of plastic tubing he was keeping inside. He stretches it out, revealing it to be an extendable straw he readies as he returns his wallet to his pocket.

Having now arrived at the hedges separating himself from the girls, he casually, and without notice slips to the ground, lying underneath the foliage of the plants.

‘Did I always have this straw?... That isn’t important; the angle is bad.’

Finally putting the binoculars to use, he stares under the skirts of the girls in uniform, adjusting his positioning and using his finger to check the wind speed frequently.

‘About 5 metres a second. Too slow.’

Placing the straw at his mouth, he begins to blow into it. Within seconds, one of the girls’ skirts is lifted from her thighs as she lets out a shriek, quickly motioning to hold her skirt down. The wind – sadly – had been strong enough. The boy was successful.

‘Nice! White with a brown teddy-bear pattern, classic.’

“すみません.” [“Excuse me.”]

A voice called out from behind him, though his concentration could no longer be broken.

“何いて? どこかに行って!” [“What is it? Go away!”]

The boy responded, frustration building at the person distracting him from his activity, just before a familiar voice yelled out.

“ばか!” [“Stupid!”]

In a small rage, the boy finally turns quickly from his position beneath the hedges to face the source of the distractions.

“Who just! –”

Cutting his question short, the fury in his eyes quickly turns to a disappointed agitation as he recognizes the child from whom he’d ‘borrowed’ the binoculars before him once more, only, this time, he’s brought along his mother, and a policeman.

‘Christ.’

The boy thinks to himself, before the officer takes a step towards him, beginning to speak.

“お名前は何ですか？” [“What is your name?”]

“私の名前は・・・ 私は・・・” [“My name is… I’m…”]

Trying to answer the question, the boy pauses, failing to find an answer as his face contorts in frustration. Within moments of realizing he had difficulty, however, he remembers glancing at his ID when he’d taken out the straw earlier. The image of it finally appears in his mind, allowing him to respond to the policeman.

“名前は遊真さとるです・” [“My name is Satoru Yuuma.”]

“そか？” [“Is that so?”]

“What do you think?”

Satoru replies sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

‘What kind of idiot gets his name wrong?’

He thinks to himself as he sneaks in a few glances at the high-school girls once more; who are now facing him mildly worried as they see a criminal being questioned by a police officer in public.

“英語が分かりますか？” [“Do you understand English?”]

“はい・” [“Yes.”]

Satoru responds – as his confusion resumes – proceeding to think to himself once again,

‘Wait, how did I know what he was saying?’

Without refrain, however, the policeman continues to speak.

“I’ll need you to come with me.”

“I’m busy.”

“Stealing and stalking girls?”

“…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Satoru looks slightly off to the side, nervously avoiding eye contact in hopes that the officer would let him off. This, sadly, was not the case.

Click

A pair of handcuffs was placed firmly around Satoru’s wrists, the officer now pulling him away.

“You stole this boy’s toy, a girl you were following sent a picture of you over to the police, and just now when I found you… I don’t even know what that was.”

Visibly unenthused by having to deal with Satoru, the policeman hauls him away reluctantly, as the small child tugs at his mother’s dress.

“母さん、分かりません・” [“Mom, I don’t understand.”]

“英語です・” [“They’re speaking English.”]

One speeding cop car and an oddly murky hallway later, Satoru and the police officer find themselves ‘comfortably’ within the police precinct. A handful of large mahogany desks lay in a slapdash arrangement within the crowded office. Egregiously organized piles of documents and folders litter the room and cobwebs glimmer under the yellow light of the fluorescent bulb. It appears any attempts at maintaining the place are perfunctory, keeping the office only barely useable.

“We’re detaining you for the rest of the day.”

“I don’t feel that’s appropriate.”

“Would you like a phone call?”

Jumping at the opportunity, Satoru’s eyes seem to animate as he barely prevents himself from exclaiming,

“Yes.”

The officer gestures over to the landline on the wall.

“It’s all yours.”

Satoru approaches the phone stone-face, full of determination to find a way to escape his current predicament. Upon arriving in front of it, the clock begins to tick. What starts as a few seconds turns into several dozen, and eventually even a few minutes. The officer – impatient – turns to Satoru and stares at him quizzically. His face is downcast, void of hope. As if he’d just come to a grim realization.

“I don’t know who to call.”

Caring not for whatever might be distressing Satoru, the officer hops to his feet, grabs him by the arm, and begins to lead him away.

“If you aren’t going to make the call, just get in the cell. I’ll let you out at 6 pm.”

“I deserve better.”

“I don’t care, I’ve got more important things to do. Hurry up.”

Another gloomy hallway barely lit by a series of flickering bulbs later, they arrive at the holding cells. Light from outside hardly finds its way into this dimly lit dungeon, making it hard to tell apart insects from cracks on the walls. The officer shoves Satoru into the first cell and slams the door shut. Giving him one last mean look through the iron bars, the officer makes his exit, and Satoru sits on the splinters of wood conveniently disguised as a bench at the back of the room.

‘Did he have to take my wallet? I feel like I could have found something important in there – something about me.’

Satoru then proceeds to inspect everything on his person. Ruffling his hair, removing his shoes, and upturning his sleeves for any clues. Before long, while rummaging through his pockets, he finds something. A folded piece of paper.

‘What’s this?’

Opening it up, a string of digits is revealed, written carelessly and almost illegibly.

‘…A phone number? Guess it’s the only lead I’ve got. I’ll try call it when I get out.’

Re-folding and placing the piece of paper back in his pocket, Satoru makes himself more comfortable. He doffs his jacket to cover the bench and turns to lay on it.

‘I woke up on a park bench at 7am, with only my clothes, wallet and a phone number. I couldn’t remember my name, still don’t know my birthday, or even how I got to the park in the first place… Everything, before I woke up, is gone. I must have amnesia.’

Satoru turns his eyes to the floor crestfallen.

‘My ID might tell me something, and hopefully, there’s other stuff like the straw – at least to tell me what kind of guy I was.’

Satoru’s stomach begins to grumble as he rolls over on the bench.

‘Money would be great too, I’m starving.’

After a few minutes of constant adjustment, Satoru seems to finally get into a somewhat comfortable position on the bench, as he closes his eyes peacefully.

‘This is definitely worse than the bench in the park, but the fastest way to pass time is to sleep it out.’

Back in the main office, however, the police officer wasn’t biding his time nearly as idly. Creeping away in the corner of the room tense and anxious, the officer had his phone in hand on the side of his face.

“I have him, I’m sure of it.”

He spoke in a tone far more subservient and careful than he had sounded at any point earlier this morning. This was especially evident when contrasted with the calm and suave voice on the other end of the line.

“How did you find him?”

The voice asked. Through all the confidence immediately evident in the unseen figure’s speech, it was hard to grasp what he truly sounded like. Some form of voice alteration muffled his speech, though you could be undoubtedly sure the person was male.

“He’s been conducting petty crimes in a nearby park. I brought him here as quickly as I could before anyone could find out we have him.”

“Wonderful, can you keep him for me? Only until tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sorry boss, but I don’t think I can keep him that long. It’s already hard locking him up at all for what he’s done.”

“Ah. It seems my wording has made it seem as though you had a choice. Allow me to rephrase myself: Keep him until tomorrow morning for me. Find a way to make it work.”

“I’m pushing it as it is, can’t you send someone here tonight?”

“I was under the impression that I had long since done so, but clearly, you’re insufficient.”

Hearing this, a single drop of sweat trickles down the side of the officer’s face. Anxiety turns into panic as he progressively becomes more restless, almost breaking into a frightened shiver. Barely audible, he begins to mutter something.

“I’m sorry, but my hands are tied.”

The voice from the phone scoffs, shattering the officer’s spirit immediately as despair washes across his face.

“As are mine.”

“Wait! It doesn’t –”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Before he can get his pleas in, the line on the phone is cut and the officer jolts to his feet, frantically pacing up and down the room as if trying to gather his belongings (while only furthering the disorder).

“No, no, no NO! Someone’s coming.”

. . .

The sound of fingers snapping echoes throughout the building.

Darkness.

All at once, the lights in the room and hallways beyond cease function. In the pitch-black office, the policeman falls to his knees – tears gushing down his face – as he places his hands together and yells out,

“God, if you exist, save me now!”

Slowly, the elegant footfalls of a man in pristine leather dress-shoes encroach upon the room as an unfamiliar face makes his way in.

“God does exist, and you’ve just crossed him.”

Scurrying away desperately across the floor of the office, the police officer seems horrified by the appearance of this man.

“John, let’s talk about this! I swear to God I’ll be more obedient; I’ll do as I’m told!”

“Don’t swear to God, swear to me.”

Somehow distorting space and breaking any common conception of physics, John pulls from his pocket a golden crown – with nine tines and matching red jewels – which he places upon his head. On seeing this, more than any fear, the police officer is overwhelmed by shock, looking completely stunned.

“One of the 7! Where did you get it?”

“A little gift from the boss.”

Saying this, John winks at the officer as a smug grin appears on his face. He adjusts the crown, which seems to change its shape to fit his head before he continues speaking.

“Now, I’d like you to die for me.”

The police officer, dazed and in a hypnotic state rises to his feet and offers affirmation in a bleak, zombie-like monotony:

“Your wish is my command.”

The police officer begins walking to his holster at the corner of his desk, as John thinks to himself,

‘This is fun.’

Realizing the direction the officer is walking in, however, John gestures to him quickly, exclaiming,

“Stop! Don’t shoot yourself here, you bumbling-buffoon. Walk into your home and hang yourself. I need more time.”

The police officer stops and turns away.

“Your wish is my command.”

“Also, stop saying that, it’s annoying.”

Silence

“Excellent. Now be gone.”

The police officer walks out of the room very mechanically, leaving only John behind. Snapping his fingers again, the lights reactivate, working even better than they had before.

“I like this one, it’s quite useful.”

Removing the crown from his head, he pulls a clay mask out of his pocket and returns the crown to where it had been before.

“This pocket’s a strange one every time.”

John goes on to put the mask on his face, and a gruesome sight unfolds. Like fruit in a blender, his body twists and turns, deforming itself rapidly and graphically. In seconds, his bones are rebuilt, skin re-toned, and his dark brown hair discolored into a mix of black and gray. As the contortions of his body come to an end, he is visibly indistinct from the police officer, completely reshaping the structure of his whole body, and even the clothes he is now wearing.

‘This body is uncomfortable’,

John complains, as he tries to stretch out his muscles to move around more freely. Finally looking at least satisfied with the body, John proceeds towards the former police officer’s desk and smiles.

‘Now, if I were a third-rate cop, where would I keep the keys to a kid’s cell?’