I am a whore. But instead of money, women pay me with their attention. And of course, they don’t know that. Like a whore’s stupid clients, they think I love them.

There’s two women. One is moaning as I work sensually on her body while the other is standing at the doorway watching us with thinly veiled disgust. She’s yelling something. The woman with me is replying coolly and condescendingly. 

Without listening in, I know it’s about me. Because she just found her lover having sex with her best friend, in her own bed, in her husband’s house… Complicated, isn’t it? Troublesome, no? Someone else caught in this mess might desperately try to explain their way out of it. But this is what I live for. Their voices as they moan my name in pleasure, their voices as they sob my name in bitter resent. I feel a leer stretch across my face. Being in the spotlight of drama is when I feel most alive. 

“Ueno-kun!”

—

I slam my apartment door close. Just returning to this fucking pig sty ruins my entire mood, but I never bothered to clean up. My… activities took too much time and energy. 

After removing my shirt and pants and hanging them at the doorway, where it’s cleaner than the rest of the place, I wade through the pile of rubbish to a stale mattress. It’s absolutely disgusting with mould and all. But again, I’m too tired to care. So I lie down in the filth.

My hands instinctively reach for the half-smoked blunt buried underneath branded clothes I haven’t washed for months and comic books I’ve memorised from reading too much. I smoke. I feel nothing. Smoke curls in the humid air.

Flipping over, I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts. Numbers fill my vision. Woman after woman after woman, hundreds of them to the point their names blur together and so I assign them numbers. 

Eventually, I land on a contact. “78”. What a lucky woman she is. I call her. It rings and rings for a while as I suck in more smoke.

“Ueno-kun?” The call finally went through. 

“Hey, Hisa.” I say. “What do you think of meeting up with me for lunch later? At a cafe or something? Oh, I know. You’ve been wanting to try out the red velvet from that new cake shop down the street, right? I’ll treat you.”

“But I’m not on birth control. My boyfriend wants to try for a baby, sorry… Next month?” 

“Oh no, not in that way, I haven’t been feeling it lately… I mean, as friends, I guess.” 

“I would love to, but you know how my boyfriend is. Jealous much. I can’t be seen around other men or he’ll flip.”

“No, I totally understand. Forget it then.”

Beep. It’s okay, I’ll just try the next number. “79”. 

“I have to meet my friends...”

…“82”. “It’s my son’s birthday party…”

…“85”. “I have finals…”

…“89”. “I’m going on a date with my boyfriend…”

…“90”. “I don’t have time for that. Yeah sorry, but if you want some more of that, you know where to find me.”

I try every single number in my phone. The tips of my thumb are red from pressing the buttons so much. My throat is raw from talking so much. There’s water dripping onto the mattress. 

…“128”. 

“Hey.” I say. It’s the 50th time I said that today. “I miss you, Nozomi.” 

“Who are you?”

Immediately, I hang up and call another number. My breathing is ragged and excruciatingly loud, drowning out the answers I get. I inhale from the blunt and hack out my lungs as the irritated voice from the phone turns into beeps. That was the second last number. My long contact list has reached the end. 

“I love you, Keiko. I really do. Hey, could you come over? It’s urgent, really urgent. I need you. I’m going to die. Seriously, I’m not kidding. Please, it’s because you’re so beautiful.”

“Stop disturbing me!”

Beep.

My phone hurls against the wall and shatters. I rummage through the trash, listening to my own wheezy cries. It’s cheap. The “superficial love” that I put so much effort into to make it feel as real as possible is so nauseatingly cheap. I don’t love them, but I want someone –anyone– to care for me so I sell my body for cheap attention in hopes to be showered in warmth and concern for me. But I’m stupid. I should’ve known. No one would want someone like me to live. That’s why they all hung up, right?

I find the rusted razor blade and force out spiteful laugher. Like a stupid whore, I thought they loved me. Turns out, I’m just some stupid fuck toy they could toss whenver it was convenient. Some of them don’t even know my name.

Death is scary. In truth, I don’t want to die. There’s comics I haven’t finished reading, there’s delicious food out there I haven’t tried, there’s a world beyond my pig sty I want to explore. But attention. Attention. I want it. I want someone to look at me, knowing I’m also another human being who bleeds. So I take a deep breath…

If I die, will someone finally care? 

…It stings.

—

The hospital room is cold. The air conditioner blows directly on me. 

An hour prior, as I lay on the floor bleeding out from my wrists and thighs, excruciating minutes turning into excruciating hours, I realised I made the grave mistake of not cutting deep enough, again. So I called the ambulance with my broken phone, passed out and found myself in the hospital with my wounds neatly bandaged up. 

But no one runs through the door with tears in their eyes. No one hugs and apologises for ignoring me. There’s no one. It’s just me and the bitter cold. Even hiding underneath the blanket doesn’t warm me.

A nurse comes in holding a clipboard.

“Hey, I’m glad to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?” She says in a sweet yet robotic manner. She’s quite young, maybe older than me by one or two years. Her expression shows typical exhaustion of a woman her age. Dealing with a new job, friendship drama, and most importantly, relationship issues. 

The nurse doesn’t wait for my answer and immediately skips to the next question. “Do you have someone you’d like us to contact? Family? Friends? Any partners… girlfriend?”

“No one worth calling. But you know, I wouldn’t mind some company right now. What about it, you single?”

A flattered smile wavers on her face as she tries to maintain professionalism. “I’m here to take care of you, not talk about my relationship status.”

“Well, I’d certainly like to be taken care of…” I wink. “You know where.” 

“I’m supposed to keep things professional.” The nurse glances at the door.

“I thought it was the nurse’s job to keep the patient healthy and happy. And I definitely need some relaxation with someone like you around. See it as your responsibility.” 

Warily but eagerly, the nurse climbs on top of me and straddles my hips. She caresses my cheek and pushes her glossy lips onto mine. “Then this stays between us.”

I feel no pleasure. Her sultry breaths on my neck gives me silent disgust that I can only channel into mechanical thrusts. But the face she makes as she stares up at me… I’m addicted. 

“What’s your name?” She asks.

“Haru.”

“What’s that?”

“Ueno Hatsuharu.”

“Ahh, Ueno-kun…” Even she can’t say my name. The air conditioner continues to blow chilly air onto my bare back. 

I hate it. 

—

“Haru!” 

There is a girl staring down at me. Her eyes are fierce and full of frustration, nothing like the lustful gaze that I’m addicted to, yet the grip she has on the rope –my life– only tightens. 

I hear my name and instinctively grab her hand. It’s rough with calluses. Her fingernails dig into the back of my palm like an iron vice.

“Fucking finally.” The girl’s voice is low and harsh, nothing like the dainty moans I’m used to, yet she forms a strained smile with gritted teeth. Then she heaves, slowly hoisting me up onto the roof, muscles tensing.

With one final tug, the girl lifts me away from death and I collapse on top of her.

I try to move away, but her hand still holds mine firmly, refusing to let go, and I only now notice how much it’s trembling. She’s… scared? I rest my head on her chest, which rises and falls from panting. Her heartbeat is fast and she’s warm. Closing my eyes, I sink in this feeling.

She’s so warm.