Join for Free!

No Room for Romance

Votes 4
Rating 5
Comments 8
Likes Stories Space Logo 0
Views 1.3k
Read Time 5 min
Published 4 years ago
If he knew it was going to be his last movie, Oshiro Akiyama would have watched something more uplifting than a horror. Oblivious to the dangers that awaited him in his own home, he walked casually into his one bedroom apartment and locked the door behind him.

He turned off the lights, took off everything except his boxer shorts and climbed into bed. Mere seconds after shutting his eyes, a dripping sound caught his attention. Oshiro sat mute in his own blankets as the dripping’s tone dominated the room. A couple of missing curtain rails allowed the moon to give the room subtle illumination. With the sound of dripping still coming from his closet, he felt the moonlight would be a sufficient aid for his preliminary investigation.

He opened the closet doors and found an African-American male inside, no more than six inches tall and no older than thirty. He had his back against the back of the closet, but his head pushed slightly forward.

Oshiro took a look at the young man’s eyes and figured out what was bringing about the noise. The seemingly dead man had dark brown eyes, both dead and motionless. Below each eye obscuring his lower eyelids were tiny pools of light grey wax. Each tiny pool glistened like the wax on a candle closest to the flame.

Oshiro closed the closet doors, hoping it was just a dream or maybe the after-effects of seeing a gruesome film. He rushed to his phone, rushing through his contacts in hopes he could come across someone who might actually understand his predicament.

“I’m not dead!”

The voice came from the closet. Oshiro quickly looked back at the closet, his mouth wide open and his heart beating heavily in a failed attempt to subdue his bewilderment.

After close to a minute of listening to his own heavy breathing, Oshiro still hoped he was merely hallucinating.

“What you see is not death, but death itself,” he said as he walked calmly out of the closet. His left index finger and the 44 revolver in his right hand were both pointed directly at Oshiro.

“What you see is not death, but death itself,” he said for the second time. “Tailor-made, as you ordered it yourself.”

Oshiro instinctively put his hands in the air. Now that the young man was out in the open, Oshiro had more to look at than his clothes and the mysterious wax leaking from beneath his eyes.

His wide face and neatly shaved head compensated for his large nose and receding hairline, giving a moderately attractive appearance. Oshiro looked into his eyes, hoping to place him somewhere, maybe a party, maybe from high school or wherever it was that they had met.

He placed the muzzle of the revolver right below Oshiro’s jaw and whispered.

“You can’t recognise a vendetta; vengeance is the future’s decree,” he said. “Perhaps you may recognise sin; sin is always history.”

He looked deep into Oshiro’s eyes and gave a prolonged blink. After the blink, what Oshiro previously saw as dead motionless eyes, were now hopeless and pitiful.

It was a look Oshiro knew too well. It was a look that took Oshiro back to when he was fifteen, a moment when his deplorable companion Mark Wellis, led him to a regrettable moment.

* * * *

“It’s just a prank Oshiro,” said Mark. “When I say grab her, grab Melissa, and I’ll push the Bozo she’s with.”

Unfortunately for Oshiro, everything worked out just as Mark planned. A slender and frail couple walked side by side on the sidewalk of an empty road. Mark rushed at the boy forcing him to the ground. Assuming correctly, Oshiro took it as a signal and grabbed Melissa.

“Mathew, help!” she screamed.

Oshiro looked back and saw a helpless Mathew, caught in a fierce chokehold, his eyes watery as he groaned in a vivid portrayal of hopelessness. Oshiro knew he’d never forget those eyes.

As per Mark’s instructions, Oshiro took Melissa to a believed-to-be haunted house only a minute away. Mark caught up soon after; he was panting, and his knuckles were bleeding.

“Give her to me,” Mark said. “So Miss Melissa, I hear you’re not a virgin. Why aren’t you sharing your little secret with me?”

“It’s just a rumour,” Melissa replied.

“I’m not taking your word for it,” Mark said, “let me have a look for myself.”

Mark was too strong for Melissa, possibly too strong for Oshiro or at least Oshiro thought so. He stood dumbfounded and frozen in an empty living room as Mark took Melissa into another room.

* * * *

“Mathew,” Oshiro begged. “I didn’t abuse her, I swear. It was all Mark; he fooled me into thinking it was a prank. Please don’t do this.”

“This, of which you suggest, I am far from impressed,” Mathew whispered. “It was all in a facade, a facade of jest?”

“I’m sorry about Melissa,” Oshiro whimpered. “Lord knows no woman deserves what happened to her. But I’m a changed man Mathew. I keep far better company; I work hard, and I take good care of my woman. You have to believe me, Mathew. I haven’t so much as pointed at a woman since that day.”

“Be that as it may, on this particular day,” Mathew said with his eyes dead and motionless again, “the wreaths have been laid, now the debt must be paid.”

“Wait, Mathew, please wait I beg of you. Think about my wife; we’re supposed to get married soon and start a family. Please, Mathew, think about what this will do to her.”

Mathew immediately pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Oshiro in the chest, forcing him to the ground. Mathew leaned over Oshiro’s body and lightly tapped his lower eyelids. The tears in Oshiro’s eyes quickly turned into tiny pools of light grey wax.

“Your wife has little comparison to you and I,” he said taking one last look at Oshiro, “For when it is her turn to die, her tears will eventually dry.”

Get Free access to these great features

  • Post in the Forum
  • Write your own Stories
  • Contact members
  • Comment on Stories