Read Online I Hear Them Cry by Shiho Kishimoto - Free Book Online
Authors: Shiho Kishimoto
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them designed just for you.” Despite his typically suave demeanor, he was awkward when it came to saying “I love you.”
I was happy thinking that the earrings were made exclusively for me, that only one pair existed in the world.
But that sharp thorn—the one that pricked me and got stuck when I saw the same earrings dangling from Reika Terashima’s ears—it needled away at me, little by little. Was this jealousy? I needed to hear Shigeki tell me that I was being silly.
While Jean and I were preoccupied with Pierre’s case, Shigeki had been in France trying to set up a branch office, busily hiring employees and preparing for the launch. After finishing his work for the day, he would often come to my apartment stressed out and drained of energy, collapse onto my bed, and fall asleep. At around three in the morning, he would suddenly wake up, call out my name, and begin pawing at me. Then he would bury his head into my breasts and freeze, as if he were holding his breath. Although I wondered if he was actually frightened, I humored him, patting him on the head like he was a child. But before long he would throw himself at me with such mad passion that his cock felt more like a weapon—and I would just let go and cast myself into the depths of this ocean of raging passion. I let myself be pulled down deep, tangled in seaweed and darkness, before our movements floated me up to the surface of pleasure and illumination.
But one time, Shigeki’s whisper-quiet voice was tinged with sadness and fear. He seemed to be weeping, his head buried in my hair, his shoulders trembling. I had imagined all would be well as long as I was by his side.
Now, small waves of unease reached my feet, steadily crumbling away the sand beneath them. Reika Terashima had something I didn’t. Something that seemed to be giving her the confidence to say, “So what if you’re his wife?” By saying this, she implied that she knew Shigeki better than I ever would.
REIKA: THREE
That night Shigeki returned home after midnight, looking tired.
“Where the hell have you been? Even your company called to ask. I couldn’t tell them a damn thing!”
Without even looking at me, he went straight to the living room, removed his necktie and suit jacket, and hurled them against the back of the sofa.
“Your mother seems to know everything, so there’s nothing for me to worry about, right?” I said sarcastically, expecting that soon he would be making excuses.
“Zip it!” he said, slapping me across my cheek. Don’t you ever pester me again about where I go or what I do! Understand?”
I slowly stepped back and escaped into the bedroom. I pushed a sofa in front of the door and waited for him to come and apologize.
(I won’t forgive him! How can I? Even my parents never slapped me. I’m not going to give in. The door to my heart is shut.)
My heart was pounding. I wasn’t so much hurt by the slap as by the coldness in his eyes—they were the eyes of someone trying to drive away a dog.
I heard no sign of him chasing after me. I pressed my ear against the door, only to hear the bathroom door slamming shut, followed by the sound of the shower.
My knees gave way and I sunk to the floor as the tears poured from me. I couldn’t stop them. The sound of the shower was merciless. It widened the wound of my misery, making it bleed slowly. It felt as if I’d ceased to be relevant as a human being—as a presence in his life. He had cast me out.
(Jean, I don’t understand Shigeki. I suppose this means that you were right about him all along. Tell me, Jean? Were you right all along?)
The Shigeki I had met in France was a young, can-do entrepreneur, a man endowed with sound judgment, intelligence, and social grace. Even when he had been told that the way into my heart wasn’t through pricey gifts, he still went to the trouble of having special earrings made for me, which made me happy at the time. He had affirmed his devotion to me.
But now he
I was happy thinking that the earrings were made exclusively for me, that only one pair existed in the world.
But that sharp thorn—the one that pricked me and got stuck when I saw the same earrings dangling from Reika Terashima’s ears—it needled away at me, little by little. Was this jealousy? I needed to hear Shigeki tell me that I was being silly.
While Jean and I were preoccupied with Pierre’s case, Shigeki had been in France trying to set up a branch office, busily hiring employees and preparing for the launch. After finishing his work for the day, he would often come to my apartment stressed out and drained of energy, collapse onto my bed, and fall asleep. At around three in the morning, he would suddenly wake up, call out my name, and begin pawing at me. Then he would bury his head into my breasts and freeze, as if he were holding his breath. Although I wondered if he was actually frightened, I humored him, patting him on the head like he was a child. But before long he would throw himself at me with such mad passion that his cock felt more like a weapon—and I would just let go and cast myself into the depths of this ocean of raging passion. I let myself be pulled down deep, tangled in seaweed and darkness, before our movements floated me up to the surface of pleasure and illumination.
But one time, Shigeki’s whisper-quiet voice was tinged with sadness and fear. He seemed to be weeping, his head buried in my hair, his shoulders trembling. I had imagined all would be well as long as I was by his side.
Now, small waves of unease reached my feet, steadily crumbling away the sand beneath them. Reika Terashima had something I didn’t. Something that seemed to be giving her the confidence to say, “So what if you’re his wife?” By saying this, she implied that she knew Shigeki better than I ever would.
REIKA: THREE
That night Shigeki returned home after midnight, looking tired.
“Where the hell have you been? Even your company called to ask. I couldn’t tell them a damn thing!”
Without even looking at me, he went straight to the living room, removed his necktie and suit jacket, and hurled them against the back of the sofa.
“Your mother seems to know everything, so there’s nothing for me to worry about, right?” I said sarcastically, expecting that soon he would be making excuses.
“Zip it!” he said, slapping me across my cheek. Don’t you ever pester me again about where I go or what I do! Understand?”
I slowly stepped back and escaped into the bedroom. I pushed a sofa in front of the door and waited for him to come and apologize.
(I won’t forgive him! How can I? Even my parents never slapped me. I’m not going to give in. The door to my heart is shut.)
My heart was pounding. I wasn’t so much hurt by the slap as by the coldness in his eyes—they were the eyes of someone trying to drive away a dog.
I heard no sign of him chasing after me. I pressed my ear against the door, only to hear the bathroom door slamming shut, followed by the sound of the shower.
My knees gave way and I sunk to the floor as the tears poured from me. I couldn’t stop them. The sound of the shower was merciless. It widened the wound of my misery, making it bleed slowly. It felt as if I’d ceased to be relevant as a human being—as a presence in his life. He had cast me out.
(Jean, I don’t understand Shigeki. I suppose this means that you were right about him all along. Tell me, Jean? Were you right all along?)
The Shigeki I had met in France was a young, can-do entrepreneur, a man endowed with sound judgment, intelligence, and social grace. Even when he had been told that the way into my heart wasn’t through pricey gifts, he still went to the trouble of having special earrings made for me, which made me happy at the time. He had affirmed his devotion to me.
But now he
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