Free Revenge by Yōko Ogawa

needing it.” As she stood to go, she brushed the bag from the table and it lay there on the floor, as still as a dead animal.
    *   *   *
    “Dr. Y from Respiratory Medicine. Dr. Y from Respiratory Medicine. Please contact the pharmacy immediately.” The announcement played again, but Dr. Y was apparently still missing.
    The elevator was crowded with doctors and nurses, and patients with drip bags of yellow liquid, but I forced my way in and pressed the button for the sixth floor. I was sure I’d be able to find her room. I would pretend I was just visiting her, or I could say I wanted her to pay me for the bag. After all, I ought to get something for all my work.
    First, I’ll apologize for the other day—very humbly, in order to regain her trust. And then I’ll say what I’ve come to say: “Making your bag has been a very important experience for me. I don’t think I’ll ever have the chance to make a piece like this again. Still, I’m happy you’re getting the operation and won’t need the bag. But I do have one final request: I’d like to see it put to its intended use just once. I know it’s asking a lot, but I’d be very grateful. I promise I’ll never bother you again, but nothing is more painful for a craftsman than knowing all his hard work was for nothing. Just this once, and I’d be eternally grateful.”
    She’ll take off her gown, and I’ll fit it on her.
    “Are you satisfied, then?” she’ll ask, eager to be rid of me.
    “Thank you,” I’ll say, but when I reach for the bag, I’ll cut her heart away, too.
    And then it will be mine alone.
    The bag is in my left pocket. I tried to fold it flat, but there’s a little mound in my pants. I don’t think anyone will notice. The shears in my right pocket prick my thigh as I wait.
    The elevator chimes, the number six lights up, and the door opens.

WELCOME TO THE MUSEUM OF TORTURE
    Lots of people died today. In a city to the north, a tour bus tumbled off a cliff, killing twenty-seven and badly injuring six more. A family of three, weighed down with debt, committed suicide by turning on the gas—and when the house exploded, six more died next door. An eighty-six-year-old man was killed by a hit-and-run driver; a child drowned in an irrigation ditch; a fishing boat capsized; some mountain climbers were swept away by an avalanche. There was a flood in China, a plane crash in Nepal, and in Niger a religious cult committed mass suicide.
    But it wasn’t just humans. I saw a dead hamster in the garbage can at a fast-food place this morning. I was throwing out a coffee cup when I happened to notice it. The can was so full that the lid was half open—a perfectly ordinary sight yet something caught my attention.
    A hamster lay between a crumpled hamburger wrapper and a crushed paper cup. Its fur was speckled brown, and its tiny arms and legs were a beautiful shade of pale pink. The poor thing almost still looked alive. I even imagined I saw its little paws twitching. Its black eyes seemed to be looking at me.
    I opened the lid the rest of the way, releasing the smell of ketchup and pickles and coffee all mixed together. I was right, the hamster was moving: hundreds of maggots were worming into its soft belly.
    Why was everyone dying? They had all been so alive just yesterday.
    *   *   *
    A man was murdered in the apartment directly above mine, in number 508. He was apparently doing a residency at the university hospital. He was stabbed more than a dozen times in the neck. They say he was nearly decapitated.
    “Did you know him?”
    As the detective took the photograph out of his pocket, I pulled back instinctively. I would never be able to eat my dinner after looking at a picture of a bloody, severed head—and I had been just about to add the crushed tomatoes to my minestrone when the doorbell rang.
    “Don’t worry.” The detective’s tone was kindly, and the picture turned out to be an ordinary snapshot taken in an office