Bonus Short Story: Bad News, Have a Good Day

The alarm shrieked next to Dante’s left ear, metal on metal, the sound relentless. It pierced through the fog of sleep like sharp needles through canvas. A moment of silence offered some relief before the noise resumed.

Dante pulled the blankets over his head, but the ringing wore down his patience. He slapped a hand over the culprit and cracked his eyes open – a call, not an alarm.

Fumbling with the black slab of plastic and glass, Dante swiped clumsily at the glowing screen until the green orb slid across it.

The call connected.

“H-” The word died in Dante’s throat. He coughed and smacked his parched lips together. His mouth felt as though it were coated in chalk dust. 

“Hello? Is this Mr Higashino? Dante Alexander Higashino?”

“Y-Yes,” Dante replied, rubbing his crusty eyes with his free hand. “Who… am I… speaking to?”

“We are calling from RKEI Eldercare Centre, I’m…”

The rest of the words became a jumbled wash of sound as Dante let them drift past. His skull throbbed with each syllable. The only sentence that lodged itself in his mind was, “Your father passed away last night from a stroke.” 

His father was dead. The words felt familiar because he had said them before – to Shiro, months ago, when the truth seemed too complicated. Somehow, he managed to manifest it.

“Thank you for informing me. I’ll be there tonight to collect his remains,” Dante said quickly, cutting off whoever was on the other end. Nurse, maybe. He had forgotten.

Dante pushed himself up, his blanket sliding off his shoulders. The sticky, humid air clung to his bare skin. He looked down at himself – nothing except for his glove and arm sleeve to keep a good portion of his left arm covered. He could not remember undressing. The room spun. Nausea rolled through his gut, and his vision blurred at the edges. Should have said tomorrow morning, he thought, collapsing face-first back onto the mattress. The hangover pulsed behind his eyes like a second heartbeat.

“Mew.”

A soft, familiar meow cut through the haze. Dante flipped onto his back, spotting Nova standing at the door to his room, watching him with amber eyes. He patted the bed next to him, the sheets damp under his fingers. “Nova, come… here,” he slurred, trying to summon the kitten.

Nova meowed again but remained in the doorway, keeping its distance. Dante groaned as he sat up, shaking his head to clear the stubborn fog that hung over him. Empty glass bottles clinked as he shifted, rolling against each other in the tangled sheets. He could not remember what he had been drinking to forget.

That was the point of alcohol after all.

Whatever he had been so distressed about was replaced by news of his father's death. Was his death such bad news? He would find out when he claimed the body.

His grandfather's funeral came to mind. His father had not cried. Not during the service, not during the speeches about a life well-lived, not when the mourners filed past with their useless condolences. But when the coffin slid into the furnace, something broke. His father collapsed into himself – shoulders heaving, face wet, nose running like a child's.

The first time Dante had seen his father cry. Also the last.

Perhaps grief required an element of irreversibility – the moment when theoretical death became literal ash.

He would collect the body tonight and discover what he felt, if anything.

***

A hot shower and fresh sheets restored Nova's affections. Dante lay languidly on the couch, watching a corny, run-of-the-mill nuclear family drama series that was available on the free-to-air channels. The little void purred merrily on his chest. 

When the show’s credits rolled, Dante extracted himself and changed out of his clothes. He dropped his shirt and shorts on the floor, opting for his usual sleeveless turtleneck, blazer and pants. “Will be back later,” Dante said to Nova, scratching behind its ears. It blinked at him, unconcerned.

Outside his house, Dante summoned the Regalia, putting the thick black ring into its other form – a monocle with a red-tinted lens. He fixed on a rooftop three blocks north and folded space. The warp left his stomach behind for half a second. Then concrete under his feet, humid air, the smell of someone's laundry. He scanned for the next point and jumped again. 

Singapore to Fukuoka. Rooftop by rooftop, like a particularly tedious commute. Not the fastest method – a plane would have been quicker – but airports required documentation, questions, and the performance of being a person with a reason to travel. ‘Collecting my father’s body’ would definitely put people off. This way, he moved through gaps, building to building, avoiding the world at ground level.

It gave him something to focus on besides the phone call. Besides the fact that he felt nothing about his father being dead.

Three hours of warping brought him to the eldercare home. Not a care home – eldercare. The distinction mattered to someone, presumably. He had left his father here two years ago. Neither of his half-siblings had volunteered to take the old man in, which absolved Dante of guilt. If his father had been easier to live with, perhaps someone would have wanted him. 

Cause and effect. 

Inside, the air smelled of disinfectant and boiled vegetables. Dante crossed the linoleum to the service counter. The nurse glanced up from her computer, taking him in with obvious wariness. He could almost see the thoughts forming behind those tired eyes. Young. Male. No visible concern or grief.

Dante blinked once, then twice. The nurse had not spoken. “I’ve come to collect my father’s corpse,” he said flatly.

The nurse blinked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“I’ve come to collect my father’s corpse.” Dante was much louder this time, his words carrying across the lobby. “Higa-shino. I received a call this morning that he died.” 

Two other staff members looked up. A woman pushing a medication cart froze mid-step.

The nurse’s eyes widened slightly, but other than that, she seemed largely unperturbed by his declaration. Her expression quickly shifted to one of professional sympathy. “Oh. Yes. I'm so sorry for your loss. Let me just get the director.”

There’s no need, Dante wanted to say, but he resigned himself to the formalities. The walk to the morgue-or-whatever-corpse-recognition-room was long. Light blue and yellow diamonds passed beneath his feet, bringing him back to the old days.

Right, the old days. 

But before he could plunge into the past, his thoughts were interrupted by the director, who eventually left him in the room with his father. 

Dante stepped forward, pulled forth by curiosity, not dread. So this was how they packaged the dead. White sheet, toe tag, industrial refrigeration. Was this how he would look if a phantom got him, or if he managed to take his own life?

At least it’s not paper, he thought, pulling the sheet away.

The sheet came away easily, revealing his father's upper body down to the hands. The face was his father's. Grey. Slack. Conclusively dead. Dante’s eyes drifted down to his father’s hands, mottled with age marks. Those hands used to play a brilliant game called ‘How Many Times Can You Slap Your Son Until He Stops Crying!’. 

Dante studied his father’s hands. They looked smaller now. Harmless. Strange what death did to him – reduced a tyrant to biology, rage to cold meat.

With a flick of his wrist, Dante dropped the sheet over his father’s face. The power his father had over his life was gone. The fact that he was alive was enough proof that he was superior. He hardly cared about where his father’s phantom had wound up; it was not his problem to deal with.

Dante exited the room silently and nodded to the director, who kindly briefed him about the various funeral packages they offered.

“Cremate him,” Dante answered without missing a beat. "I'll handle the rest."

His father's mottled hands – and the rest of him – had been reduced to ash in a plain white urn. Was this how light his own ashes would be? Dante hugged the urn close to his chest and strode out of the eldercare centre or hospital, whatever that place presented itself as.

The journey to the coast passed in fragments. The ghost of his father could be riding his coattails, interfering with memory formation, or perhaps he simply was not paying attention. 

The sea crashed against the rocks and white foam gushed to the shore, then retreated, leaving behind dark sand. Dante wasted no time wading into the sea until he was waist-deep in the waters. Indifference kept him dry. He unscrewed the urn and upended it. Grey ash billowed out with every shake, dispersing in the current. He stepped sideways so none of it would touch him.  If it did, he would get wet, and that was the last thing he wanted. 

Dante straightened himself and turned his back towards the horizon, getting out of the sea as quickly as he could. However, before he could leave, he felt as though something was pulling him back. He snapped around to face the horizon. “What do you want me to do, Dad? Hm?” he choked insincerely, trying to keep his voice from wavering too much. “You didn’t expect it, didn’t you? Oh, you wanted me to be sad, like you. Sad, sad, sad, cry, boo-hoo.”

The waves continued their work, indifferent.

“Well,” Dante spat with finality. “You destroyed it with your own hands, so bad luck. Bad luck to you, Dad.”

Dante stood there another moment. When no answer came, he waded back to shore. The ends of his pants were damp, but he paid no heed to it.

On shore, Dante dropped the urn onto the sand. His shoe connected with the ceramic, and the container exploded against the rocks. Pieces scattered across the sand. Red sparks traced through the fragments, threading between the shards like an electrical current. Some residual charge from the Regalia, perhaps, or his own spite.

Done. Adieu. Sayonara.

Dante climbed the beach and never looked back.

***

In the alcove of his home, Dante unravelled.

He had forgotten to ask the important questions. Was his father frightened? Did he want to go? What did it feel like when the blood vessel burst? 

Cabinets were slammed shut and bottles clinked together as Dante mixed another concoction. Was having a stroke just a worse hangover? Did stroke victims know what was happening? Did the fear have time to form before the lights went out? He pushed against the countertop, rocking on his heels as he choked down the hard, unctuous liquor. How did it feel when blood filled the wrong spaces, pressure building, thoughts dissolving into – what? Static? Silence? Nothing?

Then, Dante had a bright idea. He started stripping, leaving a trail of clothes as he made his way to his room. He cranked the air conditioning to maximum and pulled the covers over his head. If he made himself cold enough, he would be able to imagine what it was like to be cold, dead and forgotten in a coffin-sized freezer. Perhaps he would find the answers he sought if he remained like this.

The air-conditioner roared. Dante shivered, his arms stuck at his sides. Then, his scars on his back started to throb.

He was still warm, still breathing, still taking up space. 

Dante's breathing quickened. His chest tightened. The thought arrived unbidden: I'm still here.

They shared only one thing in common: a useless cock that never rose. Dante's was that desire had never arrived. His father's reason was death.

Everything else diverged mercilessly. Dante found himself still cursed with the exhausting machinery of being alive.

I'm still here I'm still here I don't want to be here I'm still–

Dante pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw colours. His throat closed. Not crying. Refusing to cry. He bit down on his lower lip until he tasted iron, trembling as the pain in his back sharpened, the cold piercing the scars covering it. 

“Mew…”

A ball of warmth curled up on Dante’s chest. His eyes flew open, and he took in a ragged, gulping breath. His heart hammered against his ribs, slowing gradually as Nova kneaded its paws against his sternum. He waited until his breathing steadied before moving his hand to touch it. When he looked down at his chest, it was as though a hole had been carved into it.

I’m still here, even though I don’t want to be, I’m still here.

Dante loosened up, and his lips curled into a small contemptuous smile. He still had the chance to end his life his own way. At least his final exit from this world would be worth all that effort, all that planning, and not be reduced to a bloody burst vessel that would leave him convulsing on the floor, feet drumming against the floor as he stroked out.

In this pathetic movie of his life, October 31st, 2017, would be a day of celebration, not grief.

“It’s a good day today,” Dante thought aloud as he stroked Nova’s fur. “Isn’t that right?”

Nova purred, utterly oblivious to the revelation that had dawned upon him.