as if each touch generated new thoughts within him.
When Itoro finally found a clear area at the edge of the mass, he gently lowered himself. When his feet touched ground, he fell to his knees and began assessing his wounds. His pants hung ragged, barely covering his private area. His shirt had been burned away. Charred bits of skin covered his chest, peeled away from the man who stood in front of him. His arms were blistered and red. Already pieces of skin were falling away. His hair came out in clumps when he ran his hands through it. His cheek, back and side, where he'd been attached to the others, hummed with agonies only held in check by his refusal to scream.
Any other day he'd rush to a hospital, the pain of his wounds, the damage to his body, supplanting any desire to continue. But today wasn't like any other day. Something horrible had come to Hiroshima today, something that had yet to be written in the history books but was destined to be the focal point for generations of rage. He turned to look at the others, melted together. How selfish was it to care so much for himself, when they remained unheralded and uncared for.
No.
His wounds could wait. He needed to think of his family. He needed to find them. He needed to see if they still lived.
God, please let them live.
Itoro lurched to his feet and took off at a slow jog towards his home in Ushita-Machi, away from the center of the explosion.
Half an hour later it began to rain. The moisture was a salve to his ruined skin. He stopped, arched his neck back and opened his mouth. He hadn't realized how thirsty he'd become. Yet as cold and rejuvenating as the rain was, there was something strange about it. The water felt heavy as it filled his cheeks. He swallowed once, then coughed. Small hard pieces lodged in his throat.
Then the memories hit him...
Sweeping the cobbles in front of the shrine.
Watching the sparrows cavort in the willows.
Scooping up the ball to throw it back.
Loneliness seeping through every pore.
Running across the street and dodging cars.
Five, ten, a thousand memories slammed into Itoro, sending him to his knees. He retched the grit onto the street, particles collecting in his teeth. He rubbed against them madly, trying to divest himself of the pieces, pulling them out with his fingers.
The aroma of fish and pickled vegetables.
The feel of a cold rice tatami beneath his knees.
The sound of children's laughter.
The grunt of satisfaction of a job well done.
As the rain puddled black around him, an inkling of what happened seeped through his pain and confusion. The rain wasn't just black from the soot from burning, but also from the explosion. Those who had disintegrated at the point of the blast had shot into the air along with the cars and the buildings and the animals and the flowers, all seeding the clouds. Now the people and places were returning to earth, Hiroshima falling with the rain. And along with them came their memories.
Like the dead he'd touched while escaping the train station, these emotions were eager to inhabit him as if they hadn't realized that they were dead. Itoro wondered if the devastation had come so fast and fierce that people weren't prepared on an elemental level. With instantaneous death came the splintering of their souls, millions of pieces of self, scattered and not understanding that things would never be the same again.
He staggered to his feet. A sickness burned within him, tendrils of nausea slithering into every movement as other people's memories struggled to take hold. Even his equilibrium was affected. Twice he fell, his head suddenly too heavy for his body to control.
The memories wanted to stay within him. They didn't want to go. He had to remind himself who he was. Itoro Haruki. Worker at the Tobacco and Salt Public Corporation. He had a wife and a child. He lived near Ushita-machi in a one bedroom home built by him and his uncle, Naruka.
It became a chant.
Itori Haruki.
Itoro Haruki.
I am Itoro Haruki.
Until the memories of the dead were no more. Thirst still hovered at the edge of his will, but he dared not quench it, for the rain was as deadly to him as the explosion. He'd survived one, he wanted to survive the other. Perhaps when he returned home he'd cleanse the memories with saki, but until then, he'd have to suffer.