Free Piercing by Ryu Murakami Page B

cupping the other hand under the water. She went back and forth between H and C a dozen or more times, alternating hands, and then returned to the mirror, leaving the shower running and steam billowing into the room.
    As she undid her bra, she remembered that she’d been in high school when the Nightmare first happened. It was only at times like this, when it started up again, that she could really remember what it was like.
    Her second year of high school. She and some class-mates had gathered at the house of one whose parents weren’t home, and they’d ended up watching a pornographic video. The tape hadn’t been rewound and came on in the middle of a hardcore sex scene. She didn’t know how long she’d watched it, but she remembered that at some point her stomach had begun to hurt and then, suddenly, she was consumed with a nameless terror. It was as if someone were flashing a strobe light in her face, and a completely different scene unfolded before her eyes.
    That was the first episode, but now she’d been visited by the Nightmare a total of seven times. Losing her sex drive, it always started with that. She knew she was in trouble when she could look at a really hot guy without thinking where she’d like to lick him, or where she’d like to feel his tongue. The blood vessels or nerves or whatever would shut down, and all the hungry yearning, no longer able to make its way to the surface or connect with her libido, would begin accumulating deep inside - though she couldn’t have said exactly where. And this condition would continue for the longest time. Once, it had gone on for nine hundred and thirty-eight days. To cope with the anxiety, she’d sometimes try to have sex with someone - anyone - but it always felt as if the man’s penis wasn’t in her vagina or anus but a completely different sort of hole. Orgasm was out of the question, and there were even times when she ended up not knowing where she was or what she was doing. Or, worse yet, she’d have the creepy sensation that What’s-her-name was up on the ceiling, watching.
    Of course, Chiaki thought as she rolled her panties down, I know perfectly well who What’s-her-name is. What’s-her-name is me, watching myself have sex. At first I used to ask her not to look at me like that, but all she would do is snicker, so I stopped. Besides, I was afraid that if I talked to her too much I might divide into two separate people.
    She thought about the man in the cheap suit, and wondered if he was a cleanliness freak. He never let go of that handkerchief, she thought, not even for a second. Men like that are sick. What they really love is dirty stuff, and doing disgusting things. You-know-who was like that, too. You-know-who? Wait a minute. Who am I thinking of? He always wore a newly laundered and starched white shirt, with trousers creased to perfection, and no matter where he went he had his white handkerchief. Somebody once teased him about that, saying he looked like an old lady at a funeral, but he said a starched white shirt and clean white hanky always made him feel that even his heart was as pure and clean as the driven snow.
    He was my father. He liked to do filthy things. When I was in elementary school he even told me not to bathe. I really love you, Chiaki. So I want to lick all the dirt off you myself. It might feel really good, but there’s nothing to be afraid of. You mustn’t tell anyone about this, though. It’s our secret. Don’t even tell Mama. If anyone finds out, they’ll take you away from Mama and me, so never, ever tell anyone, OK?
    But I did, finally. In middle school I told my friend about it, and then I told Mama too. Mama talked to him, and he was standing there in his white shirt, twisting his white handkerchief and listening to all these things she was saying, and then suddenly he started yelling at me. How dare you make up such a disgusting lie! That was the first time I ever heard him raise his voice, but it certainly