Gardens of Proserpine

A Ranma 1/2 Fanfic by Alan Harnum 

This copy of the story is from my centralized fanfiction archive
at http://www.thekeep.org/~harnums/fanfic.  I can be reached by
e-mail at harnums@thekeep.org

**********

Here, where the world is quiet,
  Here, where all trouble seems 
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
  In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest time and mowing,
  A sleepy world of streams.

**********

     The night comes, and with it come I.  Atop the roof of the house,
gazing out across the city, towards the tall skyscrapers, the lights of
Tokyo like beacons all around me.  Yet even amidst all this light there are
patches of darkness, and it is in one of these I sit, not yet ready to go
yet, gathering my memories around me like armour.

     There are few stars above me; in Tokyo, in a city of so much light
that we ourselves have made, we cannot hope to see the stars.  The moon is
but a sliver, a pale thing curved and sharp like a cat's claw, hanging
amidst the blackness of the rest of the sky.  The night is glorious, with
the spring wind blowing past my face.  On impulse, I untie my hair and let
it flow free, whipping back in the wind as I stare out towards the office
towers, rising tall and narrow in the distance as if they might pierce the
very heavens.

     If I stood atop one of them, could I see the stars?  Would the height
be sufficient to lift me up from the artificial illumination of the city,
lift me above the cloud left by the cars and the factories, lift me above
it all until I could gaze upon Algol or Arcturus?

     I do not think that it would.  They are unreachable to me now, as he
is unreachable.  I have as much hope of gazing upon the stars from this
city as he does of gazing upon anything ever again.

     The thought of those closed eyes, those eyes that shall never again
gaze upon my face, or upon the stars, that moves me finally, and I am off
into the night, across rooftop after rooftop, my hair streaming free behind
me.

     This is my night to visit; we all have them, each of the three of us,
though we will not admit it ourselves.  I have no wish to meet with either
of them, nor do they with me, and if they desire to meet with each other, I
do not care.  Let them do what they want, those two.  If they are a part of
my world now, it is only because they were a part of his.

     I remember my first visit, eight months ago, the night it happened.
Sasuke had brought me the news while I was in the greenhouse, amongst all
the wonder and beauty, amidst green and red and blue and black, most of all
black.  He stood there, steadily saying the same thing again and again as I
hurled accusation after accusation.  He lied, he was mad, it was a dream, a
trick.  But he would not budge, he would not bend, until I accepted the
truth for what it was.  He and my brother did not think I should visit that
night; my brother does not think I should visit at all.  But I have never
listened to either of them; I heed not the advice of fools or servants.

     Then, the visit seemed an urgent thing, as if I would get no other
chance but that one.  Now, each visit is more like an obligation, a ritual
carried out like praying at the family shrine or performing tea ceremony,
something I have done so often that it has ceased to have any meaning for
me.  I weep no more when I see him; I have lost the taste for weeping now.
My fire for him is not gone, but it burns cold now within my heart, and the
warmth has died more and more each time I visit.

**********

I am tired of tears and laughter
  And men that laugh and weep
Of what may come hereafter
  For men that sow to reap;
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
  And everything but sleep.

**********

     The waiting room was full of so many, but they were all like an island
of grief amidst the ocean.  His mother and father, Akane and her family,
the chef, all together.  They spot me immediately as I enter; I think they
must have known that I would come.  None have a gaze of welcome, or
sympathy.  I am an outsider to them; I am an outsider to everyone.

     None of them seem to acknowledge my presence at first, as if by
pretending I am not there they can somehow make me disappear.  Seeing that
it does not work, the chef, Ukyou, rises from the chair.  A foolish girl,
low-class and undeserving of him.  Akane remains down, her hands clenched
in her lap, red-eyed as she sits between her father and oldest sister.

     "What do you think you're doing here, Kodachi?" she says, trying to
sound intimidating and angry, managing only to be sorrowful.  Her voice is
strained by weeping, her face tracked by the trail of tears now absent and
gone.

     "The same thing all of you are," I say.  I will not give her the
satisfaction of seeing weakness in me, of seeing my own pain.  "I am
waiting at his side."

     "You don't have any right to be here," she says.  "You don't have any
right."

     "I love him," I say simply.  "Does that not give me right?  Does love
mean nothing to you?"

     She is without reply for a moment, looking at me with such venom, such
anger.  "You maniac," she says finally, her voice rising in volume.  "How
can you even pretend to know what love is, you crazy..."

     "I am not the one shouting here," I say calmly, narrowing my eyes
slightly as I look at her.  "I am not the one trying to drive away the
people who care for him out of petty jealousy.  Do not insult my sanity,
serving girl."

     "SHUT UP!" she shouts.  "I have a name, you know.  I have a name,
Kodachi.  I'm not your serving girl; my name is Ukyou Kuonji, and I..."

     "Appropriate," I say as I cut her off.  "A man's name for a girl who
has no idea of what is proper behaviour for a woman."

     She stands there, speechless, and I gain some perverse pleasure in
seeing that she is crying again.  I await her response with almost
eagerness, for I know that I can cut her down again as easily.

     "Stop it."

     The voice is weary, sad, tired.  I look to the side, and I suddenly
feel such shame, for it is his mother who is speaking to us.  What use is
there to trade insults with this girl, what does it gain me?

     "My son lies in there," she says, voice small and tight as she stands
beside us.  Her husband lingers in the background, fidgeting nervously, not
knowing what to say.  "And you two fight as if it will bring him back."

     "Saotome-san..." Ukyou begins.

     "How dare you?" she says, the words sounding even worse from her flat
and tired voice than they would were she raging and angry.  "How dare you
behave like this, both of you?"

     She is right; we are petty and small, both of us.  I with my barbs and
calm hatred am as much an insult to her in that moment as Ukyou with her
shouts and rage.

     "I am sorry, Saotome-san," I say, bowing low.  "I beg forgiveness."

     "I... I beg your forgiveness as well," Ukyou says, clumsily bowing in
seeming imitation of me.  

     "You are forgiven," his mother says tiredly.  "Please, do not fight
anymore.  I don't know if I can..."

     She trails off, what little energy she had remaining gone, tears
rolling silently down her face.  Her husband guides her back to the seats,
and I am left alone again with Ukyou.

     "Where is the foreign girl?" I ask crisply, conveying with all my
tone that I expect an answer.

     "Mousse and her great-grandmother took her home," Ukyou says, looking
at me warily.  Her hate is still there, but there is a tinge of
understanding with it, perhaps.  "She was getting beside herself, out of
control."

     They took her home in more ways than one; a month later, when the
final reports of the doctor's came out, the three of them were gone, back
to China presumably.  Sasuke came back from his surveillance one day to
report that the restaurant was sold and boarded up.

     "We all deal with it in different ways," I say softly.

     "Yeah," Ukyou says.  "We do, don't we?"

     "What are the doctors saying?" I ask.

     "Not much," she says.  "They... they're not giving us much hope, but
they're working as hard as they can."

     She is not crying anymore; I believe she understands now perhaps, in
her own way.  "Kodachi, I'm sorry I..."

     "Do not deign to apologize to me," I say.  I do not want her apology;
I do not want her pity, her sympathy.  I would rather she hated me.

     For a third time, she is speechless, and then she turns and heads back
towards her seat without a word.  I follow, and as if by some chance of
fate, there is an empty seat with them, on the far end from his mother and
father, next to Nabiki Tendo.  I take it, glancing over at her.  She is
dry-eyed, hard-faced, mouth set in a perfect neutral line.  Perhaps there
is a quiver somewhere, a trembling within that mask, but I do not know if
it is truly there or perhaps I imagine it.

     And there we were, waiting, all of us waiting, within the white
sterility of that room, to know whether or not he would live or die.

     In the end, he did neither.

**********

Here life has death for neighbor,
  And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labor,
  Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
  And no such things grow here.

**********

     The visiting hours, the ones they adhere to rigidly, will be over
soon.  I have only a half-hour until they will believe that there are no
more visitors, only the slow breathing of their sleeping charges and the
hum of the machines.

     There are two receptionists at the desk; one is familiar, has been
familiar since the first visit.  The other is new, younger, nervous.

     "Good evening, Kuno-san," the familiar one says, not looking up from
her magazine.  She long ago ceased any attempts to be friendly when she saw
I did not care.

     "Is there any change?" I ask as I do every time.

     "None," she says, as she does every time.

     "Thank you," I say as I walk past.

     "Remember that visiting hours are over in thirty minutes," she says.
I do not respond, only heading towards the elevators, as I hear the new one
speak to the old.

     "Is that her... the third one?"

     "Yeah."

     "Three girls..."

     "Used to be four..."

     "Wow..."

     That is what breeds, perhaps, amongst all this half-death, amongst
these white walls.  Disdain, disregard, or perhaps some insight into the
dark humour of it all.

     The elevator rides up floor after floor, until I reach the one he is
upon.  He has a room to himself, for which I have always been grateful.  I
could not stand to visit him in the presence of another, even if it were
one like him.

     I walk past sad faces, more visitors like me, most leaving.  Visiting
hours are over soon, and we must obey, of course.  Doctors and nurses pass
by, calm faced.  I recognize many; they are familiar to my sight, if not to
anything else.

     "Hello, Kuno-san," one says.  It is Doctor Morisaka; he is the one
nominally in charge of Ranma, for it is his name upon the charts by the
bed.  He is small, thin, aged, but looks hard and sharp still, an old sword
whose edge is not yet dulled.  His eyes behind the glasses are dark and
deep.

     "Good evening, doctor," I respond.  I have spoken with him often,
although not recently.  I asked him constantly near the beginning about
even the slightest change, a shifting of position, a quickening of breath.
He wrote the report that I have read numerous times.

     "How are you?" he says.  "I have not seen you for a while."

     "I am well," I say.  He nods and moves on, his bit of compassion for
the evening finished.  I walk in the opposite direction, towards the closed
door of his room.  Number five; to its left is number three, to its right
number six.

     I am often struck by the irony of it; the room in which he dwells
should be of death, yet it is not.  

**********

No growth of moor or coppice,
  No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
  Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes,
Save this whereout she crushes
  For dead men deadly wine.

**********

     I open it quietly, as if it might disturb him.  The room is dim, dark.
I do not like the idea that he is left in darkness all the time, but for
the glow of the machines; I flip the switch, and the overhead light is soft
above us.  He lies there in the bed, eyes closed, head resting upon the
pillow.  There are tubes, and machines, and the gentle of hum of it all,
but I long ago learned to ignore them.  I take the chair beside the bed,
at his right hand.  From this angle, he is still possesed of some vague
trace of the handsomeness he once had, with only the replacement of his
vibrant glow with pallor and a wan thinness to his face to take away from
it.

     "Hello, Ranma," I say softly.  I can see they have just changed the
bed before I came; it is clean, stark white sheets covering him up to his
chin.

     Long ago, I might have thought he could hear me.  He is beyond
hearing now, beyond anything on this earth that can reach him.  I know that
now with all my heart and soul.

     "This will be my last visit, I think," I say to him.  "Do not think it
is because I love you any less, dear Ranma, but because my love has grown
stronger, although in a different form."

     I reach out, stroke the back of his pale hand.  Yes, on this side, he
is still so handsome.  On the other side, of course, he is not.  His face
is deformed, misshapen, a collection of scars from the surgery that saved
his life, if what he has now can be called life.

     I have read Doctor Morisaka's report many times.  I do not remember
all of it by heart, only snatches, phrases, bits of sentences.

     Remarkable physical specimen.  Survival alone a miracle.

     Little hope of awakening.  Almost total paralysis.  Loss of most motor
functions, memory and reasoning ability.

     Just words, sober words, that cannot convey the awfulness of it.
Because he was so fine, so strong, so valiant, that is why he is not even
allowed the mercy of death.  Because of his strength, he is now made weak.

     It is so incredible when I consider it that a piece of metal smaller
than my finger could cause so much sorrow to so many.  And yet it did.

     I stopped playing 'if only' long ago, but memories of it rise as I
look at him.  If only he had not been there.  If only the man had chosen
another time.  If only Ranma had not chased him when he heard the alarms.
If only he hadn't caught him, tackled him to the ground.  If only the man
had not pulled the gun and shot him in the face, and then got away.

     If only, if only, if only.

**********

Pale, without name or number,
  In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
  All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
  Comes out of darkness morn.

**********

     Visiting hours are drawing to a close.  I have sat beside him now all
this time, talking about things, telling him how I feel.  I told how I had
loved him from the first moment I'd seen him, when he was not he, when he
was she and she stopped me in that vacant lot from fighting those three
girls.

     Oh, I did not love her, the girl I saw.  That is not the way I am.
But I have realized that I loved the energy, the vibrance, the fact that
this girl had stood up for people she did not know against an enemy who
might have outclassed her.

     That was him, my dear Ranma.  Brave Ranma, impulsive Ranma, courageous
Ranma.

     Stupid Ranma.

     Why could he not have just let the man go?  It was a job for the
police, not for him.  He was out for a walk, nothing more.  He did not have
to become involved.

     But in his own way, he did.  He could no more have stood by and
watched a criminal run past than he could have breathed underwater.  It was
in his very nature to do what he did, and it is what put him here, in this
half-state between death and life, in this awful endless sleep.

     I remember in history class, seeing pictures of the buildings in
Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the bomb hit.  Some of them were left mostly
undamaged, still standing, but burned upon their walls were the shadows of
people who had been there, who had been wiped from existence in an instant.

     And that is what he is, in truth.  I can finally admit it to myself.
He is a shell, a vessel without content.  He is the body of the man I love,
without the soul.

     My brother scarcely dares broach the subject anymore, but two weeks
ago he tried yet again to convince me to cease in my visits.

     "It is not good for you, sister," he said.  He came while I was in the
greenhouse, watering the plants.  "You should not cling to him."

     He speaks to me of clinging, yet he still keeps upon his walls posters
of his 'pig-tailed goddess', and of Akane Tendo.  He still pursued her,
even in the day right after Ranma's hospitalization, entreating her to
forget Ranma and come to his arms.

     He kept that up for a week.  The way Sasuke told it, Akane's father
intercepted him a few blocks before he reached the house one day, dragged
him into an alley, snapped his bokken in half with one hand and told him
that if he ever came near his youngest daughter again, he would do the same
thing to him.

     The way my brother told it, he had realized that perhaps Akane needed
some time to break free from Ranma's sorcery.  He was in the middle of
saying something about the evil men do living on beyond their graves when I
finally told him to shut up and left the room.

     So my brother is melancholy these days, not so much out of any real
grief but because those who have lost love are supposed to be melancholy.

     His sadness is an affected thing, yet another mask he presents to the
world.  He and I have learned to wear them well, perhaps too well.  We are,
perhaps, that which we pretend to be, so we must be always careful what we
pretend to be.

     There are only minutes left; I shall go for now.  But the visit is not
yet ended.  I take his hand in mine, squeeze it, say farewell.  Then I go
to the closed window, look out into the night, towards the tall skyscrapers
and neon lights, over small houses, up at a starless sky.

     And I make a small adjustment to the catch of the window before I go.

**********

Though one were strong as seven,
  He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
  Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
  In the end it is not well.

**********

     I sit in the cafe, nursing my tea, glancing occasionally at my watch.
It is eleven now; at quarter after eleven or thereabouts, a nurse will be
in to check on him.  She will stay for exactly five minutes, making sure
that nothing untoward has happened to him, and then she will leave.  The
next check will be at one.

     I will leave at eleven-thirty.  The hospital is not far.  There will
be plenty of time to do what must be done.

     Until then, I shall sit in this all-night cafe, drinking my tea and
trying not to think.  If I think, I may change my mind, and I must be
absolutely resolute in my decision.  I will drink my tea, and I will gaze
out into the night at the people walking past, or at the faces around me,
and I will wonder what is behind their masks, as perhaps they wonder what
is behind mine.  Do they have secret sorrows, secret griefs, dark oceans
within their hearts with scattered islands of despair?  Perhaps they do;
perhaps some have greater sorrows than I.

     Siddharta said that life is suffering, and that the root of suffering
is desire.  In needing Ranma, in wanting him, in wanting his love, I left
myself open for far more hurt than I would have if I had not wanted him.
Perhaps the lesson we must learn is that we should value nothing so much in
this world that its loss would cause us such terrible grief.  But why do we
not learn this lesson, why do we not see that by giving our hearts to
someone we make ourselves so weak?

     I do not know; I wish that I knew.  But I cannot know, and I do not
think anyone can.

     The bell above the door rings, and a new customer enters.  I watch
him, searching his face, trying to imagine what sorrows he might have
known.

     And then I realize that I know him.  It is Ranma's great rival, Ryoga
Hibiki.  For a moment, I am speechless, as I watch him standing at the
counter, hunting through dirty pockets and counting change into his hand.

     He has not seen me; his shoulders slump as he glances at the coins in
his palm and the prices on the menu, most likely because of the obvious
difference in their numbers.  He turns to go, and I do not know what it is
that makes me rise up and hurry over, and touch his arm gently.

     "Hello, Hibiki-san," I say.  "May I buy you tea?"

     He looks at me for a moment, as if he is not sure whether he should
accept, as if he is not sure who I am.  Then he nods, smiles thinly, and
follows me without a word to the table.  He looks as if he has been
walking through the wilderness for days, and he most likely has.

     "Thank you, Kuno-san," he says as he sips the tea the waitress brings
him.  "I am in your debt."

     "Think nothing of it," I say.  He looks at me, dark eyes shadowed
under that unruly dark hair, and nods.  In that moment, I think, the two of
us both realize that we have absolutely nothing to say to each other.

     "So... how are you?" he asks finally, desperate to fill the void of
silence between us.

     "I am as well as I could be," I say.  He nods and sips his tea.

     "I didn't know you moved to Kyoto," he says.

     "I didn't," I reply.

     "Then this is... Tokyo..." Ryoga says.  "Then..."

     He stands up.  "I must find the Tendo Dojo.  Akane..."

     He slumps back down, putting his head in his hands.  "Ranma..."

     A soft sound issues from him, somewhere between a sob and a laugh.  "I
guess I'd better go and visit you too."

     "I had always thought you hated him as vehemently as my brother does,"
I say.  Ryoga looks up at me, and for a moment his face is without mask,
and it is full of pain and sorrow.

     "I hated him at first," he says quietly, more to himself then to me.
"But then I grew to respect him, if not for who he was then for his skill.
He was the greatest fighter I've ever known."

     He sips his tea, stares off out the large glass windows of the cafe.
"I can't ever take his place for Akane.  I can try, but I don't know if
I'll ever be able to.  He's still there, but he isn't.  Oh, Ranma, you..."

     He looks at me, as if seeing me for the first time this night.  "It
just wasn't fair.  I never got a chance to defeat him, never got a chance
to show him, to show Akane, that I was better than him.  And I never will."

     He sighes, drains the last of his tea.  "But it's not just me.  It's
him as well.  I wouldn't wish what he's going through on anyone; he's more
lost then I'll ever be."

     I remain silent, letting him talk.  "How long is he going to hang on,
getting more and more wasted every year, getting further and further away
from what he used to be?  Am I going to remember him as a warrior, as
someone who I fought against, and sometimes fought beside, or is that
memory going to fade and he'll just be a wasted little thing covered with
tubes and machines?"

     His hand grips the table, and when he takes it away I can see he has
left the mark of his fingers in the plastic.  "It's just not goddamn fair.
He should have at least had a death worthy of a warrior, not some horrible
half-life hooked up to machines until he finally gives up."

     He bows his head, and I am suprised to see tears hits the table.
"It's just not fair."

     And he is right.  It is not fair.  None of this is fair.  That he must
seek Akane Tendo's love while under the shadow of Ranma is not fair; that
Ranma could not have died a death more worthy is not fair.

     But fair means nothing.  Fair is our concept, but it is never truly
present.  We can only hope to make things fair ourselves, as I must try to
do.

     I take him outside, hail a cab, give the driver enough money that he
will take Ryoga to the Tendo Dojo and lead him to the front door, and not
leave until someone has answered and taken the boy off his hands.

     It is past eleven-thirty now.  I must move quickly.

     Once again, I am off into the night, and now, finally, for the last
time I go to visit him.

**********

Pale, beyond porch and portal,
  Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
  With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
  From many times and lands.

**********

     I know where the window is; I have marked it many times within my
mind.  The climb is easy, the darkness of my clothing making me nearly
invisible.  I am in the room now, in the darkness, and I cannot risk the
light.  The dim glow of the machines is the only illumination I shall need.

     From my purse, I withdraw the syringe.  It is filled, ready.  It shall
do what is needed.  I stand beside the bed, at his left side this time,
trying not to look at the ruin that is the left side of his face.

     Once, I loved him so much that I could not bear to let him go, to let
any but I possess him.  So I fought for him, even though perhaps he did not
want me too.

     Now, I love him more, in a different way.  I love what he was, his
nobility, his kindness, his strength.  I love the memory of him, and
because the body before me is a part of that memory, I love it as well.

     But I love him enough that I can let him go, and I think that is what
he truly would have wanted.  He would not have wanted to drag any of us
down and cause us grief, yet in his current state he does.  I shall set him
finally free from his prison, and set us all free.  His family can finally
bury him, can finally lay him to rest, as can all of us.    

     I lean down, uncaring now of his face, and kiss him gently on the
forehead.  I carefully find a vein, near one of the needles from the
machines, a spot they will not think it odd to find a needle mark if for
some reason they do examine the body.  I do not believe they will; it will
look as if he finally decided to slip away, and went peacefully, his
breathing slowing and finally stopping.

     I press the plunger, drive the needle forward into the vein.

     "Goodbye, my love."

**********

She waits for each and other,
  She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
  The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
  And flowers are put to scorn.

**********

     I am kneeling down beside the bed now, my head resting on his chest,
listening to his slow breaths, each shorter and softer.  It has been only a
few minutes, but he will slip away soon.  I will stay till the end.  His
hand in mine is limp, unresponsive, but still warm.  His breathing is not
laboured; he is not struggling to draw breath and finding none like a man
who is drowning, but is only breathing slower and slower.

     There is a long interval now, and I think he may have finally gone,
but then there is a soft sound from him, barely a breath at all.  And then
nothing.  I wait, counting the seconds, until I feel his hand beginnig to
cool in mine.

     I rise up, untangling my fingers from his and gazing down.  His face
is peaceful, but it was always peaceful.  But there are no slow breaths to
interrupt that peace; he is at peace forever now.  I am crying, have been
for a while, but I do not realize it till now.

     "Goodbye," I say, so soft I can barely hear it.  "Goodbye, Ranma."

     He has his peace now, and his one passing shall bring peace to many.
But there is one more death that must take place this night before I can
have my peace.

     But before that death, I wish I could see the stars.

**********

There go the loves that wither,
  The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
  And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
  Red strays of ruined springs.

**********

     It is not the tallest building in Tokyo, but it will do.  I am atop,
gazing down upon this city, this city of light and darkness.  I look up,
trying to see the stars amongst the blackness of the sky, but there are
none.

     I turn my eyes back down upon the city, upon the neon lights of the
billboards, the glow of streetlamps, signs outside cafes and restaurants.
Perhaps in trying to make our own brilliance shine brightly as we can, we
have eclipsed the brilliance of the stars.  Had I stood here a hundred
years ago, how many might I have seen, winking down at me like the eyes of
some celestial host?

     But there are no stars for me tonight, only the moon.  I give a sigh,
look down over the edge at the blurs of cars rushing past, at the insects
that are people down below, bustling about with their night business, for
good or ill, or perhaps for something that is neither, some thing in
between dark and light, some greyness of the soul they seek that shall not
lift them towards higher things nor send them plunging down to lower depths
of darkness.

     What would it be like to know them, to know the soul of each and every
one, to know their hopes and dreams and sorrows, their agonies and
triumphs?

     I cannot even imagine; I have enough trouble knowing my own.  I turn,
the lip of the roof and then empty space behind me.  It is hundreds of feet
of nothingness, of void lit by the lights of Tokyo.  I glance one last time
at the sky, as if it shall reveal the stars to me like a magician pulling
a rabbit from an empty hat.

     It does not.

     I throw myself back, letting air embrace me as I plunge, still
looking up towards the sky.  I know the stars are there; I just cannot see
them yet.

**********

We are not sure of sorrow,
  And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
  Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
  Weeps that no loves endure.

**********

     The lights are rushing past now, rushing past in a kaleidoscope of
colour, reds and blues and greens, but there is black, everywhere the
lights do not touch is black.

     The wind is whistling by me, running across my body in a sharp caress,
singing through every fibre of my being, and I imagine on the streets below
people are watching my plunge in horror, but I cannot see them, for my eyes
are gazing still to the hidden stars above.

     And then they are there, every single one, for one brief instant, I am
sure I see them, swirling all about the moon, dangling like tears, flaring
white upon the black, so many that they nearly eclipse all the darkness.

     "The stars," I whisper as I fall.  "Oh, the stars."

     But the wind swallows my words.

**********

From too much love of living,
  From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
  Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
  Winds somewhere safe to sea.

**********

     It has been only a few seconds since I fell.  I saw the stars only a
moment ago, but now they are gone, and I know the ground is approaching in
only another moment.

     And the ribbon lashes from my hand, strong as steel yet suppler than
any rope, seeming to stretch out to infinite lengths as it unwinds, and
wraps itself around the metal struts below the billboard.  It snaps out to
full length, pulls taut, and I nearly lose my grip, but I am holding it,
holding it tightly, and it feels as if it is stretching forever and that it
will break, but it does not.

     And then I am free, my fall is gone, I am in control again, and I am
off into the night, letting free a laugh that has been inside for far too
long, since a night eight months ago.  Still dozens of feet below people
are staring, wondering just what is going on.

     I have been perhaps an angel of mercy tonight; now, I must also be an
angel of vengeance.  I too seek not the light or the darkness, but the
greyness in between.  My actions will contrast each other this night.

     I know an address in this city, an address I learned only last night.
At that address is a man who destroyed something beautiful eight months
ago, and destroyed the hopes and dreams of many.  

     One more death this night.

**********

Then star nor sun shall waken,
  Nor any change of light;
Nor sound of waters shaken,
  Nor any sound or sight;
Nor wintry leaves not vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
  In an eternal night.

-Algernon Charles Swinburne, "The Garden of Proserpine"

                                   THE END