I Fell In Love With A Girl Who Died Before I Was Even Born

The Water Company

It started deceptively simple: a newspaper assignment for Fushineko's literature class. It was supposed to teach us about "investigative journalism," but let's be honest, this assignment was about as educational as a sinkhole.

The truth was that the editor of The Mortician's Examiner (yes, that's the name of the school paper, no, I didn't get a vote) had gone on vacation. A real one.
Like, Tahiti or somewhere. She left a note scrawled in lipstick on the office door:

"Be back when the voices stop talking. You're in charge."

And as I got closer to her door, I could, in fact, hear voices. I paused and pressed my ear against her door.

"Call 1-877-CAR—"

I quickly removed my ear from her door before the accursed jingle could get stuck in my head.

"Damn it," I muttered to myself. "She left her radio on."

I sighed, realizing what was going on.

Fushineko-sensei had slipped out to go to the vape shop in downtown Shin'yume.

Naturally, that meant the nekomata teacher was going to give the work she was supposed to do as an assignment for her students instead of, you know, doing it herself.

Fushineko-sensei figured if she wasn't getting paid for it, then neither should we.

As I stood in front of her office door, I recalled what she'd said to me in class earlier that day.

"You'll do fine, Ryu," she said, licking the end of a red pen that bled through three layers of grading rubrics. "Just write something snappy. Investigate something dead, haunted, or secretly criminal. Or all three."

She had written down a list of possible article ideas for our newspaper assignment. None of them looked particularly promising.

Large Bird Seen on Concrete Bridge: Mothman?

Why won't Toshi call me back?!?!

I set my favorite pen down somewhere and I can't find it. See if there's a major crime spree on the rise.

The Water Company Ltd.? What do they do?

I kept myself from sighing audibly, but my soul felt itself slowly choking to death.

"These are your suggested stories?" I asked.

The nekomata crossed her arms, annoyed with me.

"If you don't like them, then why don't you see if you can come up with your own newspaper story, Mr. Kent."

So I picked a local business with a name I didn't understand and started digging.

I wrote down her "suggestions" and told her I'd have the assignment turned in before the due date and headed back to mine and Yuki's room at Shin'yume-sou to begin my investigation.

The Water Company Ltd.

It sounded innocent enough.

Professional. Maybe a little boring, but I was used to that when it came to school assignments.

I figured I'd learn about Shin'yume's water filtration system and maybe get a quick tour of the facility.

Then I looked into the damn Water Company Ltd., and the very first thing I learned about them was this: they didn't sell water.

Okay, that activated whatever latent journalistic instinct I had and led me to an overwhelming question I simply couldn't ignore.

What the hell did they sell?

I found the answer on their webpage.

They sold an assortment of underwhelming bad decisions disguised as recreational beverages.

At the top of the list, Question Mark Cola. Disappointment in a can. It tasted like if soda water had gotten beaten up on its way home after getting fired. And then was doused in caramel coloring like an ocean of shame and fizz.

They also sold Fermented Wheat Beer. The motto? "It's what beer tastes like."

I saw that and I stopped typing and simply stared at the computer monitor like it had just farted.

That can't be the actual slogan. Could it?

It was.

I think their marketing team decided to shoot for "just good enough," and somehow still ended up settling for something short of the mark.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

They also sold Tribute Sports drink.

I'd never heard of it, so I looked it up.

"It's not the world's greatest sports drink. It's only a tribute."

What the hell was this stuff?

Gatorade's overweight and depressed uncle?

My head was spinning with questions about this company. Their products created more mystery than answers, and I needed to start somewhere.

So, I looked into where they got their stupid name in the first place. I figured maybe it was historical. Maybe the bottling company used to be a water plant. Maybe the founder believed in hydration.

Or, knowing this damn island, they could've sold water to ghosts.

But after thirty minutes of reading their "founder's story", the only clear conclusion I came to was:

The Water Company sells no water. Has never sold water. And appears deeply offended by the implication.

I hated this assignment, but the more I looked into The Water Company Ltd., the more I realized that there was a genuine story hidden behind layers of corporate apathy.

So I decided to go down there in person.

Big mistake.

The Water Company was located in a building that looked like someone had whispered "abandon all hope" into a concrete block, thrown it into a parking lot, and it somehow grew into a full-fledged abomination.

It came complete with all the standard industrial urban decay including but not limited to: faded signage, flickering lights, and no less than four broken streetlights.

I had to circle the building twice before I finally found the "front" door inconveniently located in a narrow alley. The glass on the door had been replaced with particle board.

"The Water Company Ltd." Was written on the front in lowercase block letters. Someone had written "rip-off" in large spray-paint and that's what I read the first time I walked past the door.

Inside I saw a vending machine in the front lobby that was full of potato chip bags (crisps, as Inego insisted on calling them for some reason) and candy bars. But it was impossible to tell what they were as the sun had long ago bleached the wrappers into nameless, faded rectangles, like candy left behind by a dying empire.

That's okay. Something about this place didn't make me hungry anyway.

Probably because the air smelled like mildew and melted cola syrup.

A buxom woman with a bad spray-on tan, long fake nails, and a shirt that looked like it was "doing it's best" looked up from her cellphone long enough to frown at me.

"So whatdoya want?" she asked.

I walked up to the counter where she was sitting behind and showed her my school ID.

"I'm from The Mortician's Examiner, and I'm doing an article for my school's paper on you guys."

She didn't even bother looking at my ID. She just stared at me like I was an insect. Probably not a butterfly.

"Hang on, kid," she said.

She picked up an off-color corded phone that looked like it'd been there since all the cool kids still watched Mtv and dialed something.

"Hey, Mikey, you'd better get out here," she said. "Some kid's writing an article on the paper about us. You might wanna speak to 'im."

Then she hung up without waiting to hear a reply.

She smiled at me with the raw, jittery energy of someone who thought four cups of coffee was a good idea.

"Someone'll be right with you," she said.

Somehow, I wasn't reassured.

Mikey appeared at the door behind the counter a few minutes later. I swear, I wouldn't have been surprised if Lurch himself strode from whatever darkness hid behind The Water Company Ltd's door and asked the receptionist if she'd rang.

"Hey, Vicki," he said, casually looking down her droopy top as though he were searching for lost treasure.

"Mikey, this is the kid," Vicki said, ignoring Mickey's obvious gaze and gesturing towards me with a lazy nod.

Mikey pulled his eyes away from Vicki's gross cleavage long enough to shrug at me.

"So, you're writing a paper about us, huh?" he asked.

I took a short breath.

"I'm writing a paper on The Water Company," I said.

"Limited," Mikey corrected.

I felt my shoulders drop.

"Huh?"

He put his hands on his hips. and Vicki just rolled her eyes.

"Limited," Mikey repeated. "The Water Company Ltd."

I groaned.

"Ugh, fine, the Water Company Ltd." I said.

Mikey nodded, a smug grin planted on his acne-scarred face.

"Great, kid. That's real great."

He looked around the empty, dusty lobby like he expected the police to come bursting in behind me.

"Why don'tcha take him in the back, Mikey?" Vicki suggested darkly.

Mikey scratched under his chin, like he was considering it.

"What's in the back?" I asked.

Then Mikey grinned.

"Oh, I think that's a brilliant idea, Vicki. Come on, kid, let's all go to the back. You'll definitely wanna talk to Lou. He's kinda the owner of this joint."

Vicki coughed.

"Careful what you tell 'im," she said. "The kid's got papers on us, remember?"

I shook my head.

"No, I don't. I'm writing a story for my school newspaper," I repeated.

Mikey just gestured towards the darkness.

"Sure, kid, whatever. Tell it to Lou."

I didn't want to step back there, behind the counter, with them. But when Mikey stepped out of the way, it was like my legs had a mind of their own. I moved forward as though a tractor beam pulled me into the dark doorway.

Beyond the door, the back was a long, dim maze of grey hallways that smelled like mildew.

Every time I took a step forward my footsteps sounded vaguely like I was stepping on crackers, but it turned out to be just dirt and grit littering the floor.

I tried not to think about how satisfying it would feel to run a broom and dustpan along the hallway.

Maybe it'd help cut the tension I felt as Mikey let me to see Lou. Vicki followed behind me for some reason.

We finally got to a room at the end of the hall with double-doors.

"Watch your manners," Mikey said, pushing the door open.

Lou was sitting behind a desk the size of a small car, chewing on a cigar and looking like Rodney Dangerfield had been cast as a mob boss in a spaghetti western.

Lou didn't stand, didn't take the cigar from his mouth, but he pointed a grubby finger at us straight away.

"What's the matter with ya?" he yelled at Mikey. "Didn't I tell ya not ta bother me?"

Mikey reflexively took a step back and he began to wring his hands.

"Oh, geez, Lou, I'm sorry, but this kid came here, and he needs to talk to ya."

Lou's watery eyes landed on me. He took a meaty hand and pulled the cigar out of his mouth and stuck it on a yellow stain on his desk's corner.

"Yeah? That a fact, kid?" he asked.

Before I could answer, Vicki shoved her way past Mikey to toss her two cents. Lou stuck the cigar back in his mouth.

"Careful, Lou," she said. "The kid's got papers on us."

As soon as she said that Lou's jaw clamped shut and he dropped the end of the cigar he'd been holding into his lap.

He had just enough time to look down, realizing his mistake, before jumping out of his chair and slapping the front of his pants to put out a small fire.

"Yeeeeoooowww!" he yelled.

Mikey was there in a second.

"Lou! Lou! You okay?"

Lou looked up from slapping his pants, grabbed Mikey by his collar, and pulled him into orbit like a mighty sun snatching nearby planets.

"Grab me a thinga water!" he bellowed.

Wide-eyed, Mikey went bolting past Vicki and me on a quest for water.

Then Lou frowned as he looked at the burn mark on his pants.

He sighed, reached into his plywood desk for another smelly cigar, lit the end, and tossed the smoking match against a yellowed, laminated "No Smoking" sign before turning his attention back to me.

"Alright, kid, that's enough of the floor show. Now, what do you want?"

I took out my pen, flipped open my notebook, and got ready to interview Lou.