Accuracy of death 1

Accuracy of Death
Isaka Kotaro

Accuracy of Death
1.
Quite some time ago, the head of a barber shop told me he had no interest in hairstyles.
“I cut customers’ hair with scissors, innit. From the morning, when the shop opens, until it closes in the evening, without rest, it’s snip snip. It feels good to see a customer’s head being made fresh, but is doesn’t particularly mean I like the hair style.”
Five days later he was stabbed in the stomach by a random street-slasher and died, but of course at that time, without anticipating his death, he spoke with a lively and cheerful voice.
When asked “So, why are you running a barber shop then?” he replied with a grim smile.
“Because it’s my job.”
This is exactly in how I think, or to put it more pompously, this is exactly my philosophy.
I am not so interested in the deaths of humans. Whether a president gets sniped on a 12 mile-per-hour parade, or whether a young boy and his dog freeze to death in front of a Rubens painting, I am not interested.
In fact, the barber in question once allowed “I am afraid of dying.” In reply to this, “Do you remember anything from before you were born?” I questioned “Before you were born, did you feel fear? Did you feel pain?”
“No.”
“The thing we call death is like that, isn’t it. You just return to the state you where in before you where born. It is not frightening, nor is painful.”
A person’s death is neither of interest nor of value. To put it another way, the death of anyone is of equal value. Therefore, it is of no importance to me who dies when. Even so, today I am making the effort of going out in order to ensure a person’s death.
Why? Because it is my job. Exactly like the barber said.

I was in front of a building. A place a hundred meters from the tube station front, it is the twenty-floor high office of an electronics maker. One side of the wall was like a glass window, while the other side reflected the walkway and opposite building’s emergency stairway. I was standing by the front entrance, resting on a folded umbrella.
The clouds overhead were deep black, with bulges redolent of tensed muscle. Rain was falling. It was not with a heavy force, but neither did it look like stopping soon., it felt persistent. Whenever it is time for me to work, the weather is unfavourable. I was under the impression that bad weather was something that came with the job of dealing with death, but when I asked my associates I gathered this was not the case and have recently come to understand that it is just chance. When I say that I have never seen clear weather, my associates look at me with even more disbelieving eyes than humans, but it is the truth, and nothing can be done.
I looked at the clock. It was 18:30. According to the schedule passed out by the information department, it was about time for the figure to appear. Just as soon as I think it, I mark her leaving through the automatic door.
The figure of the girl who raised a transparent vinyl umbrella as she walked was dull. From behind, that she did not appear to have any excess fat for her height, was all there was to say in praise. She was round-shouldered, bow-legged, and walked facing downwards, so that she looked older than her twenty two years. The jet-black hair tied behind her head gave a dark impression, and more than anything else, whether it was fatigue or sorrow, a shadow of tiredness was cast from her brow to her neck. The fact that she appeared to be wrapped in a dull lead colour could not just be due to the rain that moistened the pavement. It is not as though all would be corrected if she had used make-up, but she did not appear to have any will to decorate herself at all, and even the suit she wore was far from designer ware.
Stepping into a wide stride, I followed after her back. Twenty meters ahead was an entrance to the underground station, I should catch up with her there. That was how I was instructed. I wanted to get it over with quickly, as always. I would do what I had to do, nothing more. Because it is my job.