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Quaggy Adam’s ale dissolved a fraudulent heart, it’s miry blood vessels and salt deliquesced. The discipline and thoughts of thinking annuls, no longer showboating an enlightened regimen. It took one mere sip and even a nameless, empty being could be swallowed whole by the kami. The god in it’s thirst for retribution had drank him from the inside, washing away the twin selfdom, as hollow a being as imitation was. His pretension was no more, but even if seity was a mere symbol belonging only to each observer, the being’s energy and all of his pretentious inculcating rippled within the swamp waters just outside Hell’s gate.
There was no sun to light the aimless body of colonized magenta trees, the seeping bed of wine-tinted loch filling the endless depression in utter stillness. He could no longer speak, hear, or see the passing howls of misery like he once did. His nerves had been devoured, so it was not as if he existed either. Sensory null erased him entirely to become something else, and he had failed to overcome it. There is no defeating the flow, yet divine drool altered it’s rising squirt into the model of a skull, then a taller, flesh-devoid carcass that could walk appeared.
Lambent moss poised atop the figure’s head, until it straggled the arid scape of Hell’s dusty sand ocean. It ceased all movement in front of the sole residence there. Indoors, a still person sat stark on her knees. It wasn’t that she had no garb, but her manifestation was stripped of any desire to live. The two, melted wax and water, experienced an indirect standoff. Neither could speak, and both remained ignorant. The energy writhing between them, however, told the force of water that she would not answer if beckoned. A kettle that never had been touched began whistling, barging in on her streaming reverie. Her candle tinged legs rose to turn the burner off.
Life, like a switch, could be turned off. It made her pale yellow pigmented eyes pool. It had been three unbearably disconsolate years since she held anyone in her arms, let alone spoke. The outburst of the voiceless kettle let gasp out her own, a blistering spatter mixing with her icy tears. In the corner of her fluffy vision, she thought she saw a hand responsible for the tactile burn.
“Kitaro-san?” The petrified girl ventured serenely, backing away from the familiar form as if to escape. There was nowhere to run, however. Servants of Enma would not claim her as long as she remained in this hell of her own creation. It couldn’t be her sensory deprived imagination that he stood before her, could it? The pain on her cheek lingered enough, perhaps it could even melt her skin like real wax. The kami’s head bobbed in affirmation, likely influenced by his prior victim’s energy. By this karma, it revived the boy. How could he be entirely erased if he could lie like this through another’s channeling? This way, the one who wanted to be Kitaro the most could live on as a being of trinity. Even so, that being had no escape from Kitaro. In imminence, he was trapped.
“No! Please,” The expired feline sniveled, retiring her stricken face behind her lifeless hands. She peeked between her fingers, reading his open armed gesture with a phobic rejection. Despite her protests, it hurt her much more to see him in his current state. She knew too well that a part of him was always left with her in the wriggling shape of sound. The sound of his pleas for her, his childish sobs for love that were his last tangible presence…barely had she ever gone so far as he had. As if she couldn’t have been worse, she blamed him for giving her a taste of love he never knew himself. She thought she had reasons, not stigmas.
The wet phantasm took another step forward, a muted request for what once was permeating in such a way that she could instantly understand it. Neko shook her head, dissenting in vehemence the temptation. She had sealed her fate! Why had he to continue taunting her so? He couldn’t see her like this! As a cat girl she died, and he was the one person she wanted to remember her as such. The one person who could give her recognition in death, the one and only boy who wouldn’t mock her curse…Neko shuddered as his arms fell, two fluid fists clenching in resentment.
Narrowly, she avoided his clutches. He lunged for her embrace, for her hand in amity. Her heart no longer pumped blood through her, and it was a heavy weight in her chest when she tried to move. This time being no different, as it was the tattered butterfly wings in her gut that ultimately drove her to her four limbs, bursting out of the door and into the black of her mind. Between space and unconsciousness, the interval of awakening was chasing her. It was happening to her. That which she wished to never yield to, instead to sit in her fate like a monument, was hunting her. It was inconceivable to her imagination. She was afraid of eternal annihilation, and remembered falling asleep and shutting down under the dysfunction of her burning lungs. She couldn’t forget how much she had suffered!
Yet, she could not experience not being there forever. The prospect of being shut up in a dark prison was upon her, but this time it happened. As long as she holed herself up in her residence, the sensory deprivation was maddening but not annihilating. She was utterly exposed to a meaningless world, by her own attempts to conceive nothingness.
“This…this isn’t happening to me,” She uttered faintly, as if coming to a conclusion she denied herself of all along. This was her karma. She had comforted herself with loneliness and isolation, because the love she’d been offered was too much for her to see. “I’ve done this to myself.”
Regardless, she had to project something into the space she preoccupied. Logically, this void was a choice. In her lifetime, she had been coaxed and taught to object her inner demons. She felt herself central to her experience, having never considered what social institution she shared until she shut it away. The structure underneath her behavior and her being hadn’t left. It had somewhere to go without her. When she was born, someone had died.
It was still difficult. She wouldn’t know who she was without memory of herself. The interval terrified her, because even if she sang, the characteristics of her tune would cease to be the same, wouldn’t it? Could it be similar? The transmigration of a soul was just as likened to the movement of Kitaro’s open arms. It wasn’t real. What really made her pursuer Kitaro? He was an illusion. Who was he, and who was she, but a pattern?
The pattern could happen again, she decided. Somewhere else, she could exist again. Just like Kitaro had appeared before her again. She needn’t cling to remembering the pattern. She could have faith, and make a choice where there was none. She was running between her own biographies, her early biological connections, and she was stuck for ages. Finally, she was cultivating hopefulness to become delivered by this fantasy, for the first time since she came to be.
Before her, seven torii appeared. It was just as King Enma had described to her. If Kitaro was still chasing her, maybe a miracle could happen. Maybe, by some pattern, they could connect again. He could follow her into the gate, and somehow, by some pattern, she could apologize for hurting him so badly. Still, this dream of hers had to vanish, lest she lose her resolve. She could not wait for him, for there was no way to know if they would find themselves in the same world again. This was no race, no fight, and no contest. Each of them would have to cooperate, but as long as she played with no doubts, she could learn joy.
Somehow, Neko forgot to steel herself, but upheld her tension as she passed on and on to begin again. No Fake Kitaro exists to hunt her. Merely a familiar friend chasing her in harmony. How humorous!