My name is Seazon Akiyama, born Wednesday—October 31st, 1994. But I've not been called anything other than Sea my whole life.
Honestly… I don't even know why I was given a full name in the first place, especially since I've never heard it spoken out by anyone. Well… other than the weather channel.
It's distracting to say the least. But hey, I'm not one for complaining.
Shit name, right? Still… is the name "Sea" any better?
Living in a polluted city where everyone is high on something or other. Whether it's crack, flour, charity, money, or perhaps… love.
This city. This life. It could not be further from the sea.
I've read about it. Just sometimes. To distract myself. Those waves. The way they communicate a rhythm by the order of the moon. The way the water can change shape, colour, sound. The way it feels… on the page. If only it could wave outside the books. Pull me in. Pull me down.
But I always wake up and it's back to this. Working life. Back to the foot drag.
Opening cans of tuna with my half-scabbed knuckles. Reaching out for crusted cotton to clear the wounds. It's a routine I'm used to. I'm designed for this life. Someone needs to take it.
I've lived on my own for as long as I've been able to work… which doesn't leave me with many distractions. None that come free anyway. None that are willing to stay.
And while I say able, what I really mean is since I grew out of my aged 9–10 school trousers.
Dragging my weight in skin since I was eleven. Not for any reason either. Nothing noble. Nothing important. I just needed… a distraction.
But what can I say? Illegal work is still work.
Besides, some people drool over risk.
And look, I won't moan about this life. I mean… unless they pay me to make a little extra noise.
Just these streets… so drenched in piss and porn—you can't hide from it. It'll seep under your doors, under your sheets and clothes.
We all know the consequences of hiding behind our walls. We all know if we forget ourselves—those walls turn white.
So… might as well roll around in the shit. Accept it for what it is—for where we are. Spit on it and pretend the spit is medicine.
Trust me. It's a good distraction.
Every night brings the same relay.
21:20 — Sprint. Get to the shower before they switch the water off again.
21:30 — Eat, if I'm lucky.
21:45 — Sit, just for a moment. Just for a split second. Praying that a solution will come to me. A way to leave all of this behind.
21:45 and a bit — Leave for work to pass my baton around… and around.
Rain pats against the window.
My hand fumbles for the clock that balances on top of countless worksheets.
One hour until I have to be up.
"Thank fuck," I say, my eyelids pulling down as I grasp my face.
Specks of black dust, almost like old TV static, creep across my vision. Must be the low iron. Low everything for that matter. When was the last time I ate?
I sigh, throwing the sheets from my chest and letting them fall amongst the other stray shit.
"Such a fucking drag," I snarl, kicking the mess under the bed with my good leg.
I wince, feeling an intense pain run from my toes to my back. "Man… I thought you were the good leg, what's—"
I pause, noticing the corner of… something peering at me from the tiny opening where the floor is visible.
I lean down, still huffing from the damage, holding up my shirt as I feel for it.
"This shit again?"
The book that finds its way around almost every inch of my flat.
The book, I assume, was left by the previous tenants. The name—covered by a long-since-dried coffee spillage. The only word uncovered is "Sunny". The author, I assume. Some name.
I hurl it onto my bed, narrowing my eyes to assert my dominance. Well… as much as a tired old man can pretend to have.
"Don't move again."
My eyes flicker with a strange curiosity. A pull. A need.
Tilting my head, I examine it once more, manoeuvring my knee to lean beside it.
"You reckon if I give you a read, you'll evaporate and leave me alone?"
I laugh before realising how insane I sound. Am I really talking to a book?
"Not even the pervs that hire me are this crazy."
I roll my eyes to the back of my head, my nail tracing the spine before flicking, unprompted, to the first page.
The date—Published 14th February 2001.
I stroke my chin like a knock-off animated detective.
"It's old… guess that makes me old too, huh?" I say out loud as I lock expression with my reflection opposite. "God, I really am getting on a bit, aren't I?"
The book feels like a diary or even a scrapbook—one that someone once loved. Despite the cover being stained and bruised, parts of it have been glued back into place, taped in some places.
This keepsake shit. Not my style by a long shot.
The first page feels warm, like the heated friction of the ink being pressed still remained.
It starts off speaking about a girl. A kid. Some cringey recollection—an unfunny funny memory on picture day. The kid purposely making ridiculous faces because she knew it would send her mum barmy.
"She sounds like a little shit," I mutter as I continue following along.
But something isn't right.
I freeze. I read the lines. I read them again.
But those words… I swear—
I heard a woman's voice instead of mine.
My eyes widen as I reread over and over, collecting the words that didn't match the voice I've always read in, sorting them into a phrase that makes sense.
"What the fuck," I say beneath my breath.
I press my finger harshly to the page, turning it a deep red.
The words.
They make a sentence.
A question.
"Is anyone here?"
I stumble back, hesitating before the edge of the bed, letting the book sit. Stare.
I'm not used to this. What is this? Demonic possession? No. I'm going mad.
I smile, my eyes wrinkling by the order of my cheeks. A chuckle escapes my lips.
"Course I'm mad. Was bound to happen sooner or later."
I balance, trying to catch my breath while an ache—a reverb—floods inside my head.
"Fucking hell," I say, pressing two fingers against my neck to check my pulse almost instinctively.
The cold from my fingers feels unbearable. The push of them against my skin cuts.
The feeling in my head—it's—
Knocking.
Three knocks tap on the door.