In Another Moonlight

The worst thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies. Of course, the hurt is nothing to be guaranteed. Could be a night, a week, a year, decades—or a lifetime. You know you should not dwell in the fire. You know you should not lick your own blood. But hell, no matter how hard you try, you find yourself succumbing back to the past, to the utter helplessness you cannot speak to anyone.

Today, my best friend stabbed me in the back. My manager fired me out of courtesy. It was raining heavily when I stepped out of the building where it all started. I was ready to soak, drenching my newly-polished shoes onto the puddles. I was ready to hit my flat and ingest the sleeping pills, maybe a little too much than what the prescription said. Then I would go to my bed like usual and close my eyes, waiting for my last pull of breath to blow me a good night.

I was thinking of leaving—until the rain stopped and a shade of blue umbrella coloured me back to life—until jasmine pervaded the cloudy mind as I looked up to a pair of eyes watching me cautiously. They were blazing: a wildfire spreading through a bare grassland in summer.

But then they softened: warm like a calm ocean in the southern beach, delicate like the falling petals in Shinjuku during April.

I never really knew the true meaning of betrayal until the day I met him.

It all started in my fifteenth summer. I was a young, self-indulgent boy, no more than a brat. And Ekoda, the place I grew up at, was another district in the capital where every corner was as crowded and busy as they could be. Markets, grocery stores, stations, cheap flats, old ladies offering you meat buns every five minutes. All of them.

In Ekoda, there was a street where reality seemed to be distorted. Why, you ask? Imagine: a row of markets, lining up along the main road of a bustling intersection. Mercilessly, the road let you roll down the abruptly steep asphalt and ended with a rail track splitting the road, with only a small bar waiting to stop you from “going to the other side”. If you were to ride something on that devil lair and your brake happened to go loose midway, either you would hit the bar first and break your nose, or if lucky, you would be hurled to the railroad and got chopped by the passing train. Every victim felt like a monthly ritual to feed the devil, and it is only a matter of time for anyone to have their honour of turns.

Actually, that happened to me once.

I was about to visit my friend’s house, in which there’s no other way except to cross through that road. It never came to my mind really, that my bike’s brake was conveniently broken halfway. So while I was screaming my heart out through the whole experience of seeing death before my eyes—muffled by the cheery whistles of the approaching train—for the first time in life I could recite perfectly the ancient prayers Mom taught me when I was five.

It seemed that god was real. Because I was saved. The brake started functioning again just a few seconds before I hit the bar. It stopped. My life continued, at that very edge of the bar; the whistle went louder and so were the shouts from the nearest market ladies trying to sell me meat buns.

But between those traumatising sounds, I heard another one. A distraught voice, crying for help, and it came from a black cat whose leg was trapped within the rail bar. It meowed harshly, as it tried to pull its left leg with all it got. No one in the intersection seemed to care. Everyone was just watching.

Like I said before, it’s only a matter of time for the devil to ask for another feast.

I would not call myself a cat-person, but I clearly despised that god-forsaken folklore. I hated that the cat had to be the one to be sacrificed instead of me. And I… could not risk myself to die a stupid death because of my grandpa’s bike, but for a cat—it was worth more.

Without thinking, I hopped off the bike and slid through the bar, kneeling where the cat was struggling. It tried to scratch me when I cradled it, but I rolled down my sleeves and hardened my gut. I want to help you, I murmured, let me. Together, we attempted to pull the leg off the gap, though it remained unbudged. The vibration I felt under the iron was getting too real by each second, and the chugging from the train was beginning to sound like a countdown to my death. The shouts of people who gathered before the bar, begging me to run and forget the cat were irritating to the very most.

Fuck you, I cussed under my breath, saving my middle finger for the last straw of my pull.

Nonetheless, it was either everything was a miracle or nothing ever was a miracle. Took more force and pain to finally free the cat, just as the train was by inches before my eyes. A loud, crashing sound shattered the air, friction drilled through everyone’s skull in the nearby radius.

The next thing I knew, I was on the other side of the street. My head was throbbing and my limbs were sore from the impact. I opened my eyes to the feel of something snuggling in my arms, wet and dirty furs pressed against my white shirt.

I grinned. We made it out alive.

Still, as expected. Due to the force we put on during the last few pulls, its foot was injured quite badly. There were bloody bruises and other related wounds; scratch marks trailed down the left ankle. This would leave a lifetime scar, I thought. Well, at least it was alive now.

I took the cat with me to my friend’s house whose father happened to be a vet. And she—Erika—the first thing she did after catching sight of us on her doorway was to scold me for being ten minutes late. Despite me looking like I was murdered by a jungle cat, those trains of rage never came to a halt as she kept spitting out how useless and unreliable I was.

Erika had always been like that, too quick to arrive at her own conclusion.

In the end, her glares melted upon the weak cries in my arms. It finally registered to her, which I was thankful enough, and we hurriedly brought the cat to her emergency clinic next to her house so her dad could treat it. It did not take much; a few shots of disinfectant and many more painless stitches and bandages wrapped around the left leg. Every time the cat shivered upon the cold edge of the needles, I brought it closer to me, draping its upper body with Erika’s knitted wool.

“Dad said he won’t be able to walk for the next few weeks.” Erika sat next to me, in the room full of incubators where we watched the cat purring in one of those chambers. “What to do with him now? You hit him with your bike, be responsible, won’t you?”

I cleared my throat, clearly offended. “First of all, I didn’t hit it—I saved it! And why did you just assume its gender?!”

“I did not! Isn’t it too obvious? Do you want me to show you?”

No, what the hell—“Ugh, it’s fine! You can’t just take the cat out of the chamber!” I exhaled, relaxing my muscles for the first time since the incident. “We just have to take care of him until he can walk again, right? I can talk to your mother about its—his temporary stay at your house. Then I’ll try to go here as often as I can and bring some food. Is it alright?”

The pout in her lips curled up, a flush of pink smeared her fair cheeks. “It’s a promise, then.”

Erika had always been my best friend since our early days. By “best friend”, I meant “arch nemesis”. We didn’t get along at all. She would scold me for lots of questionable reasons, and I would bully her back in many more various and creative ways.

However, I loved her. I wanted to be there when she needed it the most. Perhaps that was how best friends are supposed to work, right?

I loved her, as a friend—until I saw her stroking the dark, soft fur in a delicate manner, like it was holy and made of glass; her eyes softened against the bandage patch on his leg. A little tug of sorrow crossed her lips as she muttered, “It’s okay, sshh.” The thrumming inside my chest roared louder, and I could not look away from her—the same girl I had been friends with for god-knows-how-long.

It was always there: the bubbling feeling I kept to myself, finally erupting to the point I was forced to face it.

I had fallen for her, and I could not undo it.

We took turns to look after the cat, though it was mostly Erika who did the work since we left him in her house. I did not mind at all, having to visit her almost everyday by then. I looked forward to the time after my club activity, when I could slip away to watch her playing karuta next door, then pretended that I had waited for her so we could walk home together. I bought a new cat-food, was my favourite excuse. Probably hers, too.

Once I brought the cat with me to a karuta competition Erika was in. It was the final showdown, and we both cheered her up in our own ways: me and my incoherent screams and the cat with his untranslatable meows.

She failed anyway, to an arm that swung one second quicker than her, knocking the right card and the tatami under, the claps sounded too real to be devastating.

I remembered finding her crying in an empty staircase, the echo led me down the levels. Yet for some reason, I could not bring myself closer to her. She was vulnerable, in need of someone, in need of something I could give at the moment, but I just froze.

Because what was I to her?

Friend? Best friend? Boyfriend? Did I have the right to come down as a person whom she allowed to see her like this?

The cat, however, being the one who had nothing to do with anything else, probably had the most privilege to do so. I let him down so he could approach her on behalf of me, climbed to her lap and purred, offering his back to be caressed. Then he could console her all night long after we returned, doing all the things I could not do to her.

And there I was left alone, watching from afar, jealous.

Jealous of a fucking cat, that I wished in my prayers to be born as a cat so I would have more opportunities.

As much as I was jealous, I got to admit that the cat somehow had brought us closer, easing the distance between. From a long walk-home together to evening-waiting at the station to weekly-date of hunting cat foods. So it partially saddened me that after a three-month worth of progress, the time to let go of the cat had also come. One last check-up by Erika’s dad to make sure his leg was healed completely, we took him far from our district and bid a farewell.

(Truth to be told, we had tried to stretch the time longer than it should be.)

The cat stared at us for a while, as if he was studying both of us with those sharp, fierce blue eyes—eyes that had seen nine eras of humans, probably—before walking away in silence.

He was a beautiful cat, with black fur and ocean eyes. Nameless, but strong on its own. Such a shame we were too young to be trusted with commitment.

Erika cried at my shoulders, right after he disappeared along the corner, to which I tried to pull away. “If you love him that much, then why don’t you keep it, idiot?”

She wiped her face, a few droplets soaked my upper sleeves. “I want to, but we already have too many dogs at home!”

After that series of events, thus our life resumed to normal. As the cat was gone, I also lost a reason to see her beyond school. No more long walk-home together or weekly-date to hunt cat foods; just coincidental bumps in the school corridor and occasional group projects with three other kids from our class. I never even confessed my feelings to her. What I did was to watch her back as she continued to run ahead, until the distance between us inflated, to the point we got separated by college. I went with fine arts and she took fashion design.

Days as thick as fogs went by, perhaps I should be happy to be given a chance to move on. But it seemed that gravity worked vertically sometimes, drawing its people in the strangest way.

I met her again, in one of my field days, as I was learning how best to hold my camera, and she happened to pass by looking for a reference among the crowd. We felt it: the instant electricity winded by years of knowing each other so well that drove us to keep in touch during the final years. We even applied and were accepted in the same company. Bizarre, the way my past feeling coursed through my blood again, like I had been cursed to deal with it.

And so, I became her photographer. And Erika became my model—my first professional model.

Before I knew it, it was day 8766. I have arrived at 24. We upped from “arch nemesis” to “just colleagues”. Erika was still single, and I had yet to ask her out.

One day, the opportunity to pop the question was bestowed upon me. I won a double-ticket to a magic show from a lottery, so normally I asked her to go with me. The premise of the show itself was anything but promising, like a breath of fresh air. The magician was known to be a young, talented woman, rising sharp in the hustle of Japan’s entertainment—Marie Luna. I saw her on the TV before, everyone who had one knew she dominated all the local channels once in a month.

But this was not about her.

My real intention was to show off my brain and reveal all the tricks the magician used during the show. Not to flaunt, but I used to consider myself good thanks to my obsession with Doyle back in middle school. No one would have ever thought the stupid phase would come useful at times like this, to impress a girl of all things. By the end of the show, after dinner, I would confess to her. That was the script I nailed to my head, clear and solid like a textbook.

Erika agreed, and we hit Shinjuku that night.

Marie Luna, bathed in those white, pretentious suits that would seal your eyes dead on her, was stunning in everything she laid her hands on. Her movements were smooth and gracious, like a dancer. The swiftness of her hands when she turned a box of cards into a flock of doves; her sly smirk when the candle melted into a flower; and from the tip of the stalk burnt the invisible wick. The sharp strike of her fingers, as if she knew she owned her audiences’ eyes—it was just as she said before the show started.

I’ll steal your heart if you’re not careful.

I did not mean to be captivated that much, but her tricks were just too clever. I only figured out six out of ten, but Erika was still more impressed by her than me. Fair enough, coming from a renowned professional like her. Truly the only kind of her people.

More importantly, she was beautiful.

“What do you think?” Erika leered at me, excitement tingled in tone. “They are right. This is even more amazing than just watching on TV.”

And perhaps, I was too drowned in the excitement as well, that I blabbed without thinking.

“Yeah, true. It’s not that clear on TV, but her skin is glowing. And her eyes, her nose, the curve of her face, those waists. Can you even guess her size?”

“What?”

“Her size, I said!” said the buffoon, eyes still glued to the stage. Confetti was falling onto our seats, marking the end of the show. People were whistling, some did standing ovations. I almost did it myself, if not for Erika’s tight grip on my wrist. “And her blonde hair, her sharp eyebrows, those taunting red in her mouth. She’s pretty, isn’t she? Like a natural-born model.”

“So what?”

The grip clenched harder, her nails dug to my skin. And yet, I still thought she was joking. “She’s clearly a better woman. She has everything to be a successful model. Ah, why isn’t she my model?”

Erika’s eyes widened, wet at the edges. “What am I to you, all this time?”

“Something like an old hag? Who can’t look out for herself?

The hilarity ended with another round of applause. Marie Luna bowed, a bucket of rose popped out of her hat, which she tossed to the hungry crowd. The curtain fell—and I was slapped.

Erika quitted on me that very night, leaving me cold and beaten in my seat.

I did not understand. She defied me yet again with another negative surprise. In my eyes, Erika was a strong, iron-hearted woman, whom I exchanged insults with since we were young. She knew when to shove off unimportant details, because she knew her worth. If I had to answer honestly, there was nothing about her fair beauty to be made fun of.

I had called her. I had apologized. I had said very clearly, it’s my fault.

Nothing. She did not respond.

In the end, I never got to ask her. And the silence told me: I fucked up so bad.

The next following days had been a nightmare. I was still given no room for explanation, and she took the hurt to work. I might be a fool, for being illiterate when it came to reading the air. However it was getting too unbearable lately.

During our photoshoot session, I promptly asked her to move her arm aside so she would not look any “unproportional”. She refused, and called me unprofessional. She said that I was bad at my job, and thus she should not be the one making any arrangement to fit with my inability.

And this everlasting switch of ice and fire went for almost a month. Our relationship worsened; we could not even talk in normal tunes anymore. She kept rebelling toward me, doing whatever she liked without considering the person behind the shutter at all. No matter my effort to cradle back to her liking, Erika did not seem to catch my good intention.

At that time, I simply failed to understand the idea of Erika having her own insecurity. Ignorance was fighting grease fire with water, thinking it would work out.

Meanwhile, my manager—a literal embodiment of evil—saw the opportunity. Erika had been the manager’s pet for a while. I knew he never approved my partnership with Erika. It was only because I was good at making money for the company that I had not been kicked out of my three years working.

But this. He saw me walking on thin ice, and decided to shatter it.

I was called early in the morning. The words slurred as easily as he had been waiting his whole life to say them. Followed by the news of my replacement, who was said to be more talented and ingenious, someone more fitting to the likes of Erika.

None of my arguments were worth anything. Not even the long list of my accomplishments, degree, skills. He said I was a disappointment, and that my dismissal was long overdue.

So I was fired, with Erika watching the whole encounter at the back of the hall. Her expression was unreadable, but there was both pity and satisfaction on the tug of her mouth. I hoped I was wrong, I just could not bear the possibility that she might have schemed it with that devil behind my back.

I ran after her in the corridor and grabbed her wrist. I explained that she should not trust the manager blindly. That he only wanted to use her, and he saw us like dolls and pawns.

Deep in my heart, I swore to return and snatch her back—but she had to fucking listen to me first!

“You don’t have to,” she said, eyes looking away in disdain, her hands were slipping from my reach. “You saw it coming. You should have known.”

But there was nothing left to be heard of, was there? When she gave up on me that night, I should have known.

I let her go, packed my stuff, and walked out. Empty screams echoed in my head, mocking myself if the eyes of people had not. On my way to the exit, a figure in white shirt, black coat, and dark tie passed me. A faint smell of jasmine followed the blurry presence. I recognized the grooming codes; they were first-day outfits. I needed no seconds to watch them knocking the office door, I just knew they were my replacement. So I stepped out for real this time, and left.

When I reached outside, it was raining heavily. People were running frantically throughout the streets with their bags above their heads; the rough sound of water hitting bricks and clays muffled their curses. It was cold, so cold, and it was just early December. Through the inevitable shiver, I sat on a bench at the curb with nothing above my head. I let the rain drench me over, cleansing me from any doubt or guilt of my next action.

As I lied down and closed my eyes, the rain suddenly stopped. I felt the world stop spinning for a while, so I opened my eyes and found a shade of umbrella right above me.

And I hated myself to ever think it was Erika’s.

A young man, around my age, smiled at me. It reached his deep blue eyes, and I found myself stunned by the sheer intensity of it.

“You’ll catch a cold if you stay like this,” he said.

My life has changed forever since.