A Writer’s Reflection

Hito waved the receipt he had received after paying ten thousand yen. First, his night was ruined because they had to drop the marathon in the middle, then his morning sleep was ruined, and now he had lost ten thousand yen – it was Sengoku's money though.

"Why doesn't that bastard just change places?" Hito could read the reason on Ryota's face, and it was fair to feel ashamed to live with a three-year-old best friend for free, after all the money the best friend had helped you with.

'He thinks of himself as a writer, after all, of course, he has some ego. But damn, if it is an ego issue, that poor dog should not suffer because of that.'

Ryota was a kind friend and a horror enthusiast, just like Sengoku. Ryota had gotten into writing even before he started high school. Hito had read his few pieces, only the ones Sengoku had recommended, and they were good for his experience.

Good pieces were not enough to make a living as a writer. Every new piece had to be your magnum opus for that.

Sengoku and Ryota were on the bench, eating the remaining crackers with a riceball on Ryota's lap. He offered Hito the riceball when he walked to them.

He waved the receipt in front of Sengoku, then passed it on to Ryota. Hito ate the grilled salmon-filled riceball, sitting beside Sengoku.

"Ten thousand for her treatment, and ten days of rest and care. Just wish the other dogs in the care do not bang her up."

Ryota's reply came immediately, "It is not the season yet. And she is just three months old, dude."

"Whatever." Hito gobbled the rice ball, then ate the remaining two crackers.

"Are you coming to school tomorrow?" Sengoku asked, staring at the clinic in front of him as a few men brought their pets in cars and on bikes – as he had. But no pet was serious as Sakura.

"We have a meeting with the counselor, right?"

"And the homeroom teacher," Hito added. "Some shit about career planning."

"You bet I am, then." Ryota got off the bench and stretched his arms, then cracked some rigid neck muscles. "I should check on her."

"Nah," Hito protested, "don't." He leaned to the edge of the bench, looking at Ryota.

He frowned. "I want to see her though."

"I said, do not go. If she tires to wag her tail… Sen must have told you already, but her tail is connected to her backbone, and after what happened today, it will hurt like being penetrated for the first time."

'Why did you let your old hag hurt that bitch so badly in the first place? What were you doing, immersed in the world of your writing or sleeping?'

Hito locked eyes with Ryota, they stared till Ryota shook his head. "I will just take a look from outside, without letting her know it's me."

"Can do." Hito leaned back, resting his arm on the bench's armrest, which was too low, considering his height.

They watched Ryota push the clinic's door, then take a left to the Pet Care Center. He was in pain like Sakura was; the only difference was in its type.

Sengoku leaned back, throwing his muscular arm over the bench. "Worried about tomorrow?"

Hito glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Don't try to change the topic. I know you are just as guilty as I am."

Sengoku scoffed. "Why would I feel guilty about her? I am sad for her, I am angry for her, but why—?"

"Because you can, but are not, healing her." Those words brought silence between the two best friends.

Sengoku clenched the bench's corner, his veins popping out. But he did not deny the fact that he tried to change the topic.

Hito looked Sengoku in the eyes. His brown pupil expanded in rage. They held contact for a while, then Sengoku lowered his eyes.

Hito leaned back, resting his arm on the armrest. His neck muscles felt rigid again, but he did not bother to crack his muscles.

"If you can heal her in an instant and put her out of the misery, not just her but yourself, Ryota, and me, then why are you not doing it?" Hito should not have tried to push his luck after seeing the anger in Sengoku's eyes.

"You know we do not talk about it." Sengoku's voice was harsh – like a gangster telling his right-hand man not to discuss a certain topic.

"Well, if you do not want to, then I will do it. Do you want me to—?"

Like the judgment of the Godfather, came Sengoku's command. "Rules. We do not break the rules."

Hito gulped, maybe the crackers had drained the liquid in his throat, cause it was sore. Now that he had pushed himself to this limit, he wanted to take another step and cross the limit.

His voice came unexpectedly tiny, like a rat's voice. "You and your rules. They are not even official—"

'Here goes nothing.' He prepared himself to face Sengoku.

Just like his pale white hair, his eyes had turned pale white, barely standing out from the retina. He loomed over Hito like a ghoul ready to devour him.

His eyes bulged with every word as he said, "Rules are rules. It was not me who had set the whole island on fire."

It was not the whole island, though, Hito could not argue. He sighed and pushed his hair back. 'Why did I even do that?'

Sengoku settled back and remained still. He kept staring at the ground, without glancing at Hito once.

Sweat dripped down his neck. When he leaned forward, he realized his shirt was stuck to his back. 'I will never cross that line again.'

While the thoughts were running through his mind, he grasped his sweaty hands. The thought of asking 'why' never came into his mind, and only two words escaped his mouth:

"I'm sorry."

"You should be the last one to talk about breaking rules, Hito."

"I know…" His voice was light and low. "Do you not think…" he paused, gulped, and continued, "that he knows about this already?"

Sengoku's gaze landed on Hito who was still leaning forward. "What made you think that?"

Hito opened his hands, sticky and gross. "H-he is a Hayashi, after all."

"Not a Hayashi. He is the only Hayashi alive right now."

'Hayashi is one of the most common surnames though.' But it was an uncommon surname back on their home island, the place Sengoku was referring to.

His hands had stopped trembling, but his heart was still beating as if the ghost from the horror movie had jumped out of the screen. "If he is the only Hayashi alive, then he must know."

Sengoku clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Do you know that a writer's work is more or less a reflection of the world from his point of view?"

From all the movies he had watched with Sengoku, and all the famous works he was forced to read, he could say yes. "They try to express their thoughts in the form of writing, so why not."

Hito sighed and sat straight, looking at the clinic's door. Ryota came out of the clinic with a sad smile on his face.

Staring at Ryota, Sengoku said, "I can say he doesn't know anything. It would have reflected in his writing."