LIGHTNOVELONLINE Yoshida Mishima
My name is Furai-san.
I am a House Fly.
I am only three weeks or so old and yet, I've only stuck to one environment for the majority of my life: this business man's house.
He is a rather tall and slender man with shiny jet black hair that's always swept back. I've never seen him without a formal business suit. His eyes have these dark circles underneath them. It seems that he has this permanent stoic expression that has never felt the embrace of a mother before. Always so serious, always so... not fun.
He is an odd fellow, I must admit. Like any typical Japanese worker, he has no family, and only comes back home to rest... if it even can be called that.
He is an odd fellow, I must admit. He leaves fruits behind on his kitchen table. He buys a couple, but I've never ever seen him dig his fingers into fruits...or much less, any food in particular. He knows we- my brethren and I- exist. Yet he doesn't seem to be bothered by our company. If anything, we take better care of this apartment than he ever has.
He is an odd fellow, I must admit.
Late at night, he comes back home at four in the morning. Typically, whenever my siblings and I get bored of the house, we venture into our neighbor's houses. It barely has any more activity, but nevertheless, there's something. The residents always come back late at night with a stench of alcohol in their breaths, wobbling and stumbling back into their beds before they wake up four hours later for yet another stressful day at work.
Meanwhile, he comes back home a couple hours later than the other typical workers. The first thing he does is get a glass of water from the sink, and feed his plants. The second thing he does is sit down in the center of his cramped "living" room, and stay there on his knees, hands glued to his thighs, back permanently straight, staring at a Japanese flag that takes up the entirety of one of his walls. He sits there, unblinking for two hours straight.
I have never seen him turn on the lights.
Despite his low activity, we can always feel him staring at us. Even though we're in another room with walls between us, we know that an earthquake can occur, and he'd still be meditating, without a turn to his neck or his eyes moving a nanometer from where they started.
We can still feel him observing our every movement.
Each of our thousands of lenses moving.
Each twitch of our feelers.
The buzzing noise whenever we fly.
Whenever our hairs move every time a small gust of wind breezes by.
The pulsating maggots living in his walls.
We live.
We breathe.
And he concurs.
After he finishes meditating or praying or... whatever he is doing, he takes an eight minute shower, puts on a suit (of the very same design), and heads towards work.
He is an odd fellow, I concur.
And despite my limited lifespan, I have observed this behavior for a couple years now. And each time I reincarnate (I am Buddhist after all), I hope to come back to the same spot over and over again. Nothing has changed. Not his mannerisms, not his scent, not his aura, nothing.
But I'm still here watching,
enjoying this clean, still spirit.
Or at least until the day that the moon comes crashing down.
I want to be alive
for when he breaks his focus.