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There was a time, once, when people lauded Saihara as someone special, and he believed it. Saihara Shuichi, the gifted child with a knack for acting. It had been his parents' pride.
He recalls his first show - a humble rendition of Shakespeare's Macbeth at his private middle school. With no experience, he had thrown himself into the audition expecting to be cast as a nameless, yet somehow he had gained the titular role.
It was hard not to notice the jealous glares of all the cast, of people who had been working ten times as hard as him only to receive nothing. In front of the director, his classmates behaved, but in secret, they would treat Saihara as if he did not exist. Saihara had smiled through it all and pretended he was welcome. Acting, on and off stage. Maybe that's how he got so good.
After the performance and all the applause, a boy had approached Saihara. With an excited stutter and a shy blush over his cheeks, he had exclaimed with such joy,
You were so amazing! You are so amazing. I want to be able to act like you!
When he heard those words of praise, Saihara could forget for a moment about the aching months of loneliness he'd endured for the show. Perhaps - and this was but a fleeting thought - it had been worth it in the end. And so, his parents were delighted when he informed them that he would love to continue acting pretending.
It was pleasant at first. Once he started working with different, professional casts that actually appreciated his presence, Saihara could find some enjoyment in rehearsals. Intending to impress, he spent his nights in bed with a handheld lamp and a script, reciting his lines over and over until his lips moved on their own. After all, it was what everyone expected of him, the prodigy son of Japan's most popular screenwriter and actress.
Saihara did not know the taste of failure. It was not an option. With every performance came greater expectations, and with greater expectations came a gnawing fear. The kind of fear that made him obsess over his appearance, that made him skip school and ditch friends to rehearse scenes, that made him collapse the night of his biggest performance after going three days straight with no sleep or meals.
When he woke up in the hospital, he was alone. Though his parents sat beside him in that sterilized, suffocating room, Saihara was alone, and he knew it from the first words his mother spoke.
How irresponsible.
It almost made him want to laugh. Didn't they understand? He had been working so hard for them. He had given up on any semblance of a normal childhood, all so that when he came home after a long day, he could see them smile. They could acknowledge him as someone worthy, someone to be proud of. They could acknowledge him as a human being.
Saihara didn't laugh. He apologized for being a useless, stupid fucking nuisance and for always ruining everything.
Upon recovery, Saihara could have started over with a new production, could have continued chasing after the artificial love that a life of acting offered him. Bitterly, he refused that path and enrolled in a normal, public high school, far away from home.
He was starting to hit the peak of his skill anyway. The thought that he had never been special from the start, just a regular boy with advantageous status, left him some kind of emptiness inside.
There were a few classmates that approached Saihara, knowing about his family and his work as a young actor. With the purest intentions, they'd compliment his skills and ask if he'd ever go back to acting after school. But no matter how kindly they spoke of him, he couldn't help the twisted feeling of hatred in his gut. He'd put on a mask again - I'm not sure yet, but thank you for your kind words - and thus keep his rotting heart safely hidden away.
No one would ever know Saihara's true self. No one would ever see him lash out or cry, though on some low nights, he was desperately tempted. Days once spent memorizing scripts were now spent lethargic in an unmade bed, time wasted on obscure shows and self-indulgent fantasies.
Saihara was convinced that even if he were to open up, the world would surely scorn him for the disgusting, worthless person he had become. So, he resigned himself to a death of the worst kind.
It was not all completely hopeless, though. To say such would be a lie, for despite everything, Saihara was grateful for the good he did have in life. Financial stability, a roof over his head. Classmates that would greet him with smiles every morning.
A boy who acknowledged him for the person beneath the mask.
You and I are alike.
The boy sat in the front corner of the classroom, the seat of the class representative.
Because we'll never show our true selves.
He was the picture of a perfect student, and hardly an arrogant one either. Unlike most, he would go out of his way to get to know all his classmates on more than a superficial level. It was hard to call it annoying or intrusive when he seemed to be filled with such genuine kindness.
I wonder sometimes if anyone would care if I died.
With that cheerful attitude and that petite frame, it was as if he were a child. A pure, innocent child, unblemished by the pains of a merciless world. One who could joyfully admire the people around them, as if they deserved it.
But then, I think, maybe I've already died. There's just a shell of who I wish I could be, pretending to live in my place.
Maybe it's true that the saddest people smile the brightest.
But if there is any trace of Ouma Kokichi left in me, he would want to tell Saihara Shuichi, "You're not alone." And...
The boy gave him a folded sheet of paper.
I'll see you soon in Danganronpa.
Saihara waits in the reception room as the staff prepare his memory alterations. Across from him, a purple-haired boy is escorted away. When their eyes meet, nothing is spoken, but all is said through a thin smile. (Somehow, it seems different from the one he used to greet their classmates.)
The boy disappears, and Saihara opens up the sheet of paper in his pocket, reading the crooked handwriting one last time.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
- Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5