Long Nights

[6] lihim

6. lihim
— secrets; the act of keeping something to oneself.

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7:36 p.m. NIGHT #6.

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NOAH

"Aish. You can't keep running away forever, Noah!" My aunt shouted as I slammed the door of her small home, hastily pulling the hood of my jacket over my shoulders and stuffing my hands inside my pockets.

I huffed out angrily, walking briskly away from Kuramae Street and hoping that the night — that the moon and everything etched in the sky — would come crashing down and engulf me whole.

But wishes to the moon weren't enough these days.

With a shake of my head, I tried to ignore the glass windows of the line of shops that I passed down on the street; tried to ignore my worn-out reflection shown in the mirrors: the image of a tired teenage boy that just wanted everything to end. Permanently this time.

Maybe I could use the gold locket I was wearing and wring it around my neck until I was breathless and lifeless on the ground. I thought bitterly as I saw myself through my peripheral vision.

It was the image of myself at day, a character that was miles different from the Noah I was at night.

With my hunched shoulders and angry strides, I then turned to a busy street — thrusting myself into the melting pot of people that walked into different directions; shoulder to shoulder, chaotic conversations that flung from one space to another.

Despite the noise and blinding neon lights, I couldn't seem to shake the traumatic episodes I've had earlier that day; the nightmares I'd woken up to from sleeping for 12 hours straight during daytime — having no time to even comb my hair, eat a meal, or take a shower.

These nightmares had included the worst of the worst, the demons that I have been trying to wring out of my mind.

But they just wouldn't stop. My past couldn't stop chasing me, clawing me when I was awake — images of flashing blue and red light, the crash of glass, and the spill of blood on the rough asphalt, all gnawed at my thoughts; sinking me further.

It wasn't my fault. I have tried to convince myself that lone sentence for the past three months. But after endless days of sleeping and hiding, I've slowly come to the conclusion that perhaps it was indeed my fault. The entirety of it.

Before I could completely lose my mind from all the thinking, I recklessly ran across the street, passing the pedestrian lane despite the trailblaze of cars that rushed by. Immediately, the vehicles went into a frenzy of beeps, angered by my intrusion.

It sounded similar to the brutal, rock music I've grown to love back in the days — chaotic and angry, reckless and resentful.

Beep, beep! The vehicles sung in seething chorus.

But I didn't care. In fact, being hit by a car is a thought that would be more than welcome to happen to me right now.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

By the time I had reached the other side and unfortunately survived the Tokyo night rush without a scratch, I was panting heavily — hands cold, clammy, and shaking; lips feeling numb.