Fireflies by Ben Byrne Page B

nearly started crying because I saw that most of the rooms didn’t even have curtains anymore — the Americans had taken them all away for souvenirs.
    I ran down the corridor. Buses were waiting outside to take us to the train station. I remembered staring at the tracks from the platform edge, glittery and endless in the darkness.
    The door slid open and Michiko came in.
    â€œSatsuko,” Michiko said. “Satsuko-chan!” She rushed over and put her arms around me. “Was it really that bad?”
    I stifled a sob. She had been working in a different part of the building and I hadn’t seen her since she’d squeezed my hand goodbye that morning.
    â€œDid you have to go with an awful many?” she asked, stroking my arm as my lip trembled. “Poor Satsuko!”
    She unrolled my futon and made up the bed, then gently helped me put on my night clothes, tucking me in beneath the covers. I rolled over to face the wall.
    I heard her yawn as she bustled about in the kitchen. I realized that she was actually humming to herself as she rummaged through the cupboards. It was amazing, I thought. She didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned.
    â€œSatsuko,” Michiko said. “Satsuko! Look what I’ve got.”
    I couldn’t bear to look.
    â€œSatsuko!”
    With a great effort, I twisted round and saw that she was waggling a small square bottle full of dark liquid.
    â€œAmerican whisky. One of the yankiis gave it to me.”
    She unscrewed the cap.
    â€œYankiis,” she confided. “That’s what all the other girls call them.”
    She sniffed the bottle, and wrinkled up her face. “Mmm!” she murmured. “Not bad.”
    She put the bottle to her lips and took a long swallow. Her throat moved once, and she sat there, eyes wide, waving her hand over her mouth.
    â€œOh,” she said. “Oh, oh, oh.”
    She recovered her breath and poured out some more of the drink into two teacups. She handed one to me, and I sat up and gave it a cautious sniff.
    â€œWho would have thought it?” Michiko said. “An American, giving me whisky.”
    I took a tiny sip, and then retched. The taste was disgusting and it stung my throat.
    â€œAnd cigarettes,” she said, taking out a packet from her purse and waving it at me. “Have a cigarette!”
    She slid one out and lit it carefully, frowning at the glowing end and sucking in the smoke as if she had been doing it her whole life. I took another little sip of the whisky. It was very strong, but also quite sweet. When it reached my belly, I felt a warm, relaxing sensation that was really quite pleasant. My eyes grew heavy and I wondered if I was already drunk. I quickly tipped the rest of the liquid down my throat.
    Then I really did feel dizzy. I rolled over on the bed, staring up at Michiko’s swaying shape in front of me.
    â€œHe was the nicest one, anyway,” she said, puffing away on her cigarette. “The one who gave me the whisky. Even if he was a black one.”
    I sat bolt upright.
    â€œMichiko!” I shrieked. “You didn’t go with a black one?”
    â€œSo what?” she demanded. “What do I care?”
    She poured more whisky into our cups and I forced myself to drink it. I closed my eyes and lay back, hoping I would fall asleep straight away. The thought of the next day loomed in my mind. A throbbing pain began to pulse in my forehead and I felt a tightness in my chest. Finally, Michiko blew out the lamp and slid into bed beside me.
    My mind was thick, but sleep wouldn’t come. Shapes were moving about in the darkness in front of me; I could see the faces of men flickering and blurring into each other. The floor was moving back and forth, men heaving up and down on top of me; I was suffocating, and there was a filthy, cold wetness inside me . . .
    I woke with a shriek and seized hold of Michiko.
    â€œMichiko!” I cried. “Michiko, help