Losing Dogs

If it were raining just a bit harder, he wouldn’t have heard it.

Or if he’d checked the weather like he usually did on cloudy days like this, then he wouldn’t have been caught glaring at the soot-colored sky from the cafe lobby for an extra ten minutes, without his umbrella, trying to wait out the inevitable downpour. And he wouldn’t have been taking the western route home because of the southern route’s probable flooding. And he wouldn’t have passed through the slums that he usually tried to avoid.

It was completely by chance that the noise even met his ears. A whisper, or a choke, carried by the wind to the only passerby on the street. It made his feet stumble. And then stop. Why? He couldn’t tell you. But nonetheless he listened, and for a few seconds heard nothing but the rain’s percussion. It must’ve been a trick. There was water in his ears. But as he went to take his next step, he heard it again.

A soft cough. What sounded like wheezing, or maybe a harsh gurgle, howling at him from down the alleyway.

The sound pulled at him- a cough followed by a whine - and pulled at him until he found himself, soggy-socked and eyes strained, shrouded in the alley’s darkness.

He listened and walked and listened until-

Something snagged the hem of his pants.

__________

Somewhere in Saitama hides a small place called Yoshi’s. Hundreds walk past it everyday, ignorant it’s magnificent selection of sweets and decent at best coffee. It was normal at this time of night, around 9 o’clock, for Yoshi’s to be dead silent, the soft sound of the part timer’s sweeping overtaken by traffic and chatter from the street.

So it must’ve been startling for the poor part timer when Yuma came crashing in, soaking wet and panting, nearly shattering the glass door when it swung open. The kid yelps, clutching his broom as he watches his elder coworker struggle to regain his footing, shoes squeaking against the linoleum. Finally catching his breath, Yuma looks up at the part timer through the curtain of thick hair sticking to his forehead and asks

“You have a car, right Kenji?”

He’d basically forced the keys out of the kids hand with no explanation as to why. But to be completely fair, giving him an explanation would probably stress him out more. This was absolutely none of his business, Kenji’s or his own. He should’ve gone home. No one would’ve judged him if he had. No one would’ve known. No one but himself at least. Would he have been able to wipe that moment clean from his memory? Something tugging at the hem of his slacks, gripping onto him for dear life and then just-

The car skids to the right a little, and Yuma remembers he’s driving. He’s only been down this way a few times, this rundown street. Forlorn, seemingly dilapidated buildings. What used to be a busy shopping district, now reduced to dumping grounds, a place you’d tell your friends to avoid on their way home from the bar. Building after building he passes without seeing a single set of eyes. Nonetheless, he feels watched.

Up ahead he sees the alley.

The car pulls quietly to the side. Yuma takes a breath and shuffles back to where he once was. It only took a few steps to find it again. The body. The man. Right where he had left it. Still bloody and soiled and seemingly fighting for air amidst the gutter water. There was no telling how long he’d been here. But the blood covering his cheap blue shirt had already turned brown. And the yellowish vomit that was on the ground next to him had already dried to the side of his mouth. His clothes were soaked and muddy. Maybe that was where the smell was coming from. Like something rancid and half dead. His shoes were nowhere to be seen. Had he had a weaker stomach, what little food he had in his system would’ve joined the man on the ground by now.

Yuma holds his breath and tries his best to drag the man to his backseat with as much dignity as you could give deadweight. He still has no clue as to why. Why the man was here in the first place or what he was going to do if he managed to get him in the car. The hospital obviously crossed his mind. But he’d seen the black wisps peeking from beneath the collar of his shirt. Tattoos. Taboo as it was, they’d throw him out in seconds. If the guy managed to wake up during the ride, maybe he’d tell him the directions to a friend’s house or maybe a girlfriend. Anywhere was fine, he just couldn’t leave him…here.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror, the dark circles under his eyes, the mysterious muck caking his white shirt, and wonders if his mental state has finally broken down to the point of reckless abandon. Because now, the scene sinks into his mind. He’s in his coworkers car with a half dead body draining blood in the back seat, still with no idea as to why.

He’s been white-nuckling the steering wheel long enough to make his fingers start to buzz. The feeling, thankfully, grounds him a bit. His breath comes back to him but now, he’s fighting the urge to implode. He wants to scream. No. He wants to magically teleport into his bed and be as good as dead to the world until further notice. His brain was still struggling to comprehend the events of the last thirty minutes, and now he’d have to figure out how to get blood out of polyester. He looks to the back seat, as if the answer would be back there waiting on him, but all he sees, obviously, is the problem.

His long black hair sticks to his face like ink, outlining each distortion of his face, his blackened eyes, his bulging cheek. His hands and feet were calloused and worn. He was definitely taller than Yuma, and broader. An office job couldn’t produce this body. It was too solid, too used.

The man heaves, and Yuma nearly jumps out of the car. He turns and watches as the man heaves and heaves, then eventually falls back into silence. Yuma, at a loss for what else to do, starts the car and hopes to god that he doesn’t have to bury the guy.

__________

There was always something about the rain that made it easy to think, or maybe overthink. The roads were empty, nothing illuminated by his headlights but the miles of gravel road before him. No radio or ambient traffic in his ears. Only the drumming of rain on the windshield, the soft breathing of his passenger in the backseat, and the voice in his head going a mile a minute.

Throughout his years, Aiuchi Yuma had never been a troublesome man. Between the choices of yes or no, there was always an easier option. Back in their teen years, when his younger sister Yui tried to goad him into sneaking out for a party, he’d refused. But even after probing, he never once told his parents that she went that night. When his father suggested (demanded) he join the school baseball team, despite having no interest, he agreed, and was neither terrible nor outstanding at it. In the future, he’d go on to do the same with his father’s suggestion of medical school. While in medical school, when a girl in his bio class asked him on a date, he’d said yes. And a year later when she asked for more, he said yes. And eventually three years later when she asked for a divorce, he said yes. Although life had a tendency to be troublesome, he had no intention to be the same. It was a strategy that worked for years.

So why choose now to stray from it? .

Every few moments, the man mumbles something. And when he does, his face scrunches terribly, like a dog baring its teeth. He kicks and turns, clawing at the wounds on his side, whimpering, gasping.

It’s feral, Yuma thinks.

He knows, technically, that the man in his backseat is human. He knows. But he’s having trouble shutting up the fear in his gut, and some primal instinct that told him to run, to hide. That something predatory was near.

He hears a rather large gurgle and glances to the rear view mirror to see the man’s eyes struggling to crack open.

“Hey”, Yuma greets loudly to no reply.

“Hey! Are you alright! Talk to me!”

His head lulls to the side like a rag doll, eyes rolling back as spit-mixed blood pools at the side of his mouth. Next comes a terrible choking sound.

He pulls over.

Half of his body is still in the rain, the other half inside the back seat, forcing the young man’s head to the side and the gunk out of his airways. It falls to the floor like soup from a pot.

“Hey”, Yuma pleads, voice loud and stern. “Are you okay? Please say something! Is there anywhere I can take you?”

Yuma seizes both sides of the man’s face, desperately forcing his head straight. There’s something wet rolling down his hands and he almost gags, assumes it’s vomit until he looks down to see the globs of clear liquid squeezing its way out of swollen eyes, tears streaking mud caked cheeks. His bottom lip, split and purple, trembles as he forces a slew of jumbled words.

“-don-t wan-tto-die.”

He chants it, like a prayer - “I don-wan- die. -don-wan-tto die” - until his eyes roll back into his head and his body goes limp.

It stuns him so much his heart palpitates.

He doesn’t hear the rain anymore. He’s almost certain its still there, can still feel it ,vaguely, as it seeps into his clothes, chills his skin.

I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

For a moment, it’s the only thing he hears, broken-recording in his brain until his vision starts to come back to him. Then, the only thing he sees is the head in his hands, the healed scars on his face, the new ones hiding amongst them. The wetness on his cheeks. The shallow air he fights to suck in as he drowns in his sleep.

It takes a moment for his brain to regain its footing, and when it does, he fears the worst. But the man’s chest still moves steadily, up and down.

For the second time that night, Yuma doesn’t hesitate to make what would’ve been a difficult decision. He places the head he’d been cradling back down on the seat cushion, gets back in the driver’s seat, and heads towards home.

————————

He was clean now, the man, his muck now staining the once white apartment bathroom. Yuma peeks around the corner into the living room, where the man lies now, unconscious and smelling of vanilla soap. His back may ache, but his consciousness was far more exhausted than any part of his body. What he saw in the bathroom revealed nothing that gave him peace of mind.

The large gash across his right side. The purple and blue covering his left. His eye and cheek, that had now grown thick and fleshy like a plum. But more troubling were the scratches, long, deep and jagged. In them, he would later discover what could only be broken off nail tips, dirty and large, sunken into the deeper ones.

And then there were the teeth marks. Multiple, in varying sizes.

These raised questions that his brain couldn’t even begin to answer.

So he starts a pot on the stove, broth, something easy to make for two, and waits. The rain rumbles on outside as he cooks, like music to fill the silence. Every now and again, he’ll see the man thrash a bit, and howl lowly in his stupor. As guttural as it sounded, he was more curious than afraid. He’d passed a gang member or two on the streets before, the kind you’d cross the street to avoid. But looking at the man before him, he finally saw a glimpse of what hid beneath the dirt and cuts. This was a child. He was definitely a large child, but Yuma knew the difference. He’d cried like one, shaken like one. He was probably barely out of his teens. If he wakes up, should he ask? Just as the pot starts to simmer, his phone rings from his pocket.

Satoshi.

After one quick look at the sleeping man, he walks into his bedroom, shuts the door behind him, and answers.

“What do you need”, Yuma asks in lieu of greeting. A sharp snort meets my ears.

“Hello to you too”, Satoshi laughs. He was always laughing, usually for no reason at all. It was a pet peeve of his.

“Hello, Satoshi”, Yuma sighs.“It’s late, so I figured you called for a reason.”

The other goes uncharacteristically quiet for a second, then states

“Your father called the office today, looking for you.”

Ah. So that was it.

He could practically feel the frown on Satoshis

“You should just tell them”, he says, as if it were easy. As if it would help.

“I will, soon”, he lies, and hangs up without a goodbye.

Suddenly, Yuma no longer felt like eating. He knew beforehand that this scheme would catch up with him eventually. His parents weren’t stupid people and he, for the most part, was not that smart. But the feeling of its impending arrival was starting to crush him.

It’d been three years since he fled medical school, leaving behind failing grades and a failing marriage. Two years since he’d told his parents he’d gotten a job at his old friend Satoshis practice, just far enough away to not worry about pop up visits. Respectively, it’d been two years since he’d seen them. To his parents, he was everything they’d expected him to be: Auichi Yuma, a nice young doctor, accomplished despite divorce, and best of all, financially well off. To the rest of the world, however, he was Auichi Yuma, cafe employee, medical school drop out, tenant in an apartment who’s hot water only worked half of the time.

He was nearly twenty seven. The fact still sounds odd to him. Twenty seven. And has nothing to show for it but failure and debt. In some strange way, he still feels like a teenager. Wasn’t adulthood supposed to change something in you? Wasn’t age supposed to reveal some type of meaning in all of this monotony? Something to ease him away from the stress of living like this for another 40 some years? Twenty seven. He’s nothing more than a child with bills.

Yuma thinks now that he shouldn’t have answered the phone. He had enough on his plate without worrying about his parents. The dishes were starting to pile up and the light bill would be due soon. His hair, that he usually kept above his ears, had already grown past his chin. There was a man on his couch.

His rollercoaster of a brain stops for a second. There was a man on his couch…right?

There was a man on his couch. In his living room, one room away, only separated by a wall thinner than a notebook. He should’ve heard at least a cough by now. He would’ve.

He shouldn’t be surprised when he exits his bedroom and finds his couch empty and his door wide open. He should feel relieved. The man was definitely a vagrant of some sort. He would’ve caused nothing but trouble if he had stayed. He had done enough anyways by ensuring the man didn’t die so technically his job was done here. He’d done his good deed for the year. He should feel at least a bit proud.

But as he stares down at his finished pot of broth, the only thing he can think about is how long it’d been since he’d had a house guest.

__________

Nevertheless, the sun rises the next morning and with it comes Yuma. As the first hint of sunlight sneaks past the curtains of his living room, his eyes crack open and search. But from his spot at the dining room table, he could see that things remained unchanged. The couch is just as empty as it was last night. So he changes his crusty day old clothes, combs his too long hair, and begins his walk to work.

Just like every morning, the streets were calm. The neighborhood had just started to awaken. His upstairs neighbors open their windows, the familiar dull sound of morning radio floating down to the street. He passes the same buildings, and hears the same chatter as storefront after storefront begins to open.

Per usual, he passes Mister Sato’s fruit stand and waves hello, and before he turns the corner, makes sure Mrs. Fujisawa’s granddaughters, giggling hand in hand, make it across the street to the bus stop safely.

It’s almost disheartening the way the day unfolds in its familiar way. He gets to work on time, eats a muffin for breakfast and when Kenji comes in, avoids questions about the mysterious stains in his car. There was no signs of him anywhere. If not for the stains he had to scrub from the car seats, Yuma would have thought he was a ghost.

Closing time rolls around and with it comes clouds. The rainy season was starting with a bang. As he wipes the shop windows, he can’t help but wonder if the man had found an adequate place to sleep yet by now. The area was prone to flooding after all. It’d be a miracle to find somewhere dry, let alone unsubmerged.

“Yuma?” Kenji calls from the counter he’s cleaning. Still in his head, Yuma hums in response. He vaguely knows that the boy is saying something to him, but his mind can’t help but wonder.

Should he look for him? Maybe survey the area once more, just to ease his conscience? No. No, no, no. The man was young, but fully grown. He was no ones caretaker. Hell, he’d barely been taking care of himself. This nonsense would end right here, right now-

“YUMA!”

He jumps, nearly dropping the cloth he was wiping the windows with. He looks over at Kenji apologetically and ducks his head.

“I’m sorry”, he sighs. “I’m a little distracted”. Kenji tilts his head, pouting.

“By what? You’re usually so…” At a loss for better words, Kenji stiffens his body, toy soldier fashion, then quickly drops out of it as if the stance took up too much of his energy. Yuma gives him a tired excuse of a laugh, trying to signal that he didn’t really feel like conversating. Kenji starts to ramble.

“So what? What has our robot man malfunctioning? We can’t afford to lose you here. You’re the only one who can work the oven”.

Yuma laughs, for real this time, and gives him an almost honest answer.

“I picked up a stray”, he admits. “But I ended up losing it once I got home.”

Kenji hums. “Didn’t peg you as the “picking up strays” type.”

“I’m not.”

“Even weirder. I don’t know dude. If it makes you feel better, the shelters are really good about getting in dogs and cats during the wet season. It’s probably already there! Nothing for you to worry about, not like you wanted it in the first place.”

“Yeah”, he says. “Not like i wanted it in the first place.”

He says it again in his head, and tries his best to mean it, but the effort falls flat. Kenji stares awkwardly, shuffling on his feet, absolutely useless.

“Well now you’re just moping.”

A flash of blue catches his eyes as something, someone, dashes past the shop windows, head hung low. This time, Yuma does drop his cloth and runs.

“Hey!” He calls, shucking his apron. But the man doesn’t turn around. He’s only a couple yards away when he recognizes the same blue stained shirt and dirty chest length hair. His feet were bare. It was him.

“HEY!” Yuma yells, just an arms length away. The man turns around, confused, then his eyes widen like a deer in headlights. Yuma doesn’t get to say a word before the man darts off, weaving between the bodies on the street. Yuma keeps pace until eventually, they find themselves in an alley, as the man backs himself into a corner, out of breath and on edge. His eyes dart left and right, and when he sees no escape, he whips around, stance wide and ready.

“What do you want.”

He’s only a few yards away, yet the hostility in the air makes him feel a different type of distance. The man could definitely take him in a fight. He could snap his neck in two seconds. So why did he look so scared? Yuma tries to step forward, but this only makes the man bristle more. What did he want exactly? To help? Did the man even want it at this point? At a loss, he gives what seems like a reasonable explanation.

“You’re hurt. I’m a doctor.”

He looked clean, but tired. It seemed like every breath he took hurt, wincing at the slightest movement of his chest. Running must’ve stung. The one eye that isn’t swollen shut is still looking for a way out when he snaps back

“…I don’t need a doctor. I can’t pay you if that’s-“

“That’s not what I want. I just want to help.”

“I don’t need it.”

He says it so confidently, Yuma almost forgets he was bleeding out on his couch just a day before.

“Look. The rainy season is about to start. If you’re…homeless…and you know, not taking care of your wounds properly, they will almost definitely get infected. If you want to stay at my place, just until you heal-“

He’s harshly cut off. “No. Thank you, but no.”

The man’s answer is softer this time, but stern. He had offered. That was all he could do. So, dubiously, he starts to back away.

“Alright, I can’t make you.”

The man nods, watching, waiting for him to leave. Just as he’s about to turn the corner, Yuma adds,

“If you change your mind, you know where to come”, and exits the alley.

For a minute, he stands there, curious to see where he goes. He realizes soon that the man knows he’s still there, can hear his faint breathing from around the corner, listening patiently for his retreating footsteps. So he goes, hoping to hear footsteps behind him. He doesn’t.

When he gets home, he leaves the door unlocked and a towel on the kitchen counter, just in case. He waits for a little bit by the door, watching the stagnant knob for any slight movement. He gives up when his stomach starts to growl. When it starts to rain later on in the evening, he forces himself not to think about it. He had done all he could.

Morning comes and Yuma follows closely behind, still sour from the night before. He scans his living room, couch empty, towel untouched, and huffs. But when he walks past his patio door, something catches his eye. A ball of blue, crouched on the ground amongst his flower pots. Snoozing on the hard concrete underneath his awning, safe from the rain, lies the young man.

As Yuma shakes off his morning grogginess, he thinks of how nice it is to have a houseguest again.