Chapter Text
Summer hangs heavy in the air, a suffocating blanket of humidity that clings to everything it touches. Not that I can feel it, not really. But I remember the sensation, the way sweat would bead on my upper lip and trickle down the nape of my neck. It's 2001, or so the calendar in the staff room tells me, but time lost its meaning for me long ago. I've been here since... 1915? 1920? Days bleed into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. Time loses all meaning when you're tethered to a place, neither fully here nor there. I've watched generations of students pass through these halls, their lives a brief flicker compared to my eternal vigil.
I drift through the empty corridors, my feet barely touching the worn linoleum. The summer sun slants through dusty windows, painting everything in a sickly, jaundiced light. Even the shadows seem to wilt in this oppressive heat. The laws of physics seem to stretch to the supernatural, as I am constantly compelled to move, the warmth making me restless. There is nothing else to do but pace these halls and listen to the hum of cicadas and the occasional creak of settling wood.
After what feels like an eternity, I finally stop pacing and take a deep breath, savoring the stillness in the air. I find myself in the library, the musty scent of old books a small comfort in this stagnant air. My fingers trace the spines, feeling the texture of leather and cloth bindings. They come to rest on a familiar volume: "Frankenstein" by Mary Shelley. I've read it countless times, each reading revealing new layers, new interpretations.
I sink to the floor, my back against the cool wall, and open my book once more. The words swim before my eyes, familiar yet distant. Like every other wealthy, well-read girl whose businessman father took them to St. Petersburg, London, or perhaps even Paris, I too took a souvenir. But mine wasn't just the newly acquired skirts, blouses, and wide-brimmed hats that filled my wardrobe. No, I fancied myself a nihilist after a single reading of Turgenev's "Fathers and Sons." How quaint, how utterly naïve, and stupid I was. A hundred years later, I find myself more aligned with the absurdists. Because truly, none of this makes any sense.
Of course. The irony doesn't escape me. Here I am, a ghost, pondering the meaninglessness of existence. What would Camus say about that? Perhaps he'd laugh, or maybe he'd write another essay on the futility of it all. That's why I could never read the worn copy of "The Stranger" by Albert Camus; at this point, I've shoved it back with the romance novels and magazines.
"I beheld the wretch — the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks."
I close my eyes, letting Shelley's words wash over me. In my mind's eye, I see the creature, pieced together from disparate parts, given the spark of life. A creation born of loneliness, of a desire to play God. How familiar that feeling is, how it resonates within my hollow chest. I close the book with a sigh, letting my head fall back against the wall. The ceiling above me is a patchwork of water stains and peeling paint. I've been here so long that I'm starting to forget what it feels like to be alive. The memories of my past life are fading, like old photographs left too long in the sun.
Sometimes, in the quietest moments, I catch myself wondering if I'm losing my mind. Is this what madness feels like? A slow, creeping dissolution of self, eroded by the relentless tide of time? No. Madness would be a relief, a respite from the crushing boredom of eternity. I open my eyes, gazing out the window at the sun-drenched courtyard. The world outside seems hazy, dreamlike, as if it might dissolve at any moment. Perhaps it will, and I'll wake up to find this has all been some strange, century-long nightmare.
I rise, my movements fluid and graceful, a dance macabre performed for an audience of dust motes and shadows. My feet carry me to the science lab, a room I've visited countless times in my endless wanderings. The equipment lies dormant, covered in a thick layer of dust. Beakers and test tubes stand in neat rows.
I find myself drawn to the anatomy model in the corner, its plastic organs exposed for all to see. How simple it seems, this facsimile of life. A jumble of parts assembled into a cohesive whole. My thoughts drift back to Frankenstein, to the creature cobbled together from disparate pieces. A spark of... something flickers in the back of my mind. An idea, nebulous and half-formed, but persistent.
What if...?
I shake my head, banishing the thought. It's absurd, of course. The desperate fantasy of a lonely ghost, grasping at straws in a futile attempt to alleviate the monotony of her existence. And yet… What if... what if I could create something too? Not a monster, per se, but a companion. I shake my head, banishing the thought. It's absurd, of course. The desperate fantasy of a lonely ghost, grasping at straws in a futile attempt to alleviate the monotony of her existence.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway startles me from my reverie. Tsukasa appears in the doorway, his ever-present grin stretching impossibly wide across his face. In his arms, he cradles a collection of... I squint, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. Just dead mokke and random body parts strewn about like macabre confetti.
"Sakura-chan!" he sing-songs, his voice grating on my nerves. "Look what I found for you! Aren't they neat?"
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Tsukasa," I say, my voice flat and weary, "what exactly am I supposed to do with a bunch of… parts?"
He giggles, the sound high and unsettling. "I don't know! But they're fun to play with, aren't they?" He dangles an eye in front of my face, and I recoil instinctively.
"Please," I say, pushing his hand away, "just... put them somewhere. Anywhere. I don't care."
Tsukasa pouts, but complies, dumping his grisly collection on a nearby lab bench. "You're no fun, Sakura-chan," he whines. "Don't you want to play?"
I turn away, my gaze drifting back to the anatomy model. "No, Tsukasa. I don't want to play. I don't want to do anything. Can't you understand that?"
But he's already gone, his attention span as fleeting as ever. I'm left alone once more, surrounded by the detritus of his macabre scavenger hunts. The parts lie in a tangled heap, a grotesque, still life that seems oddly fitting in this decaying tableaux.
I sink into a nearby chair, the metal legs scraping against the linoleum floor. The sound echoes through the empty room, a discordant note in the symphony of silence. I close my eyes, letting my head fall into my hands. The weight of eternity presses down on me, a smothering blanket that threatens to suffocate what little remains of my sanity.
How long can this go on? How many more years must I endure, trapped in this purgatory of my own making? The questions swirl in my mind, a maelstrom of existential dread that threatens to pull me under.
And yet... that spark of an idea refuses to be extinguished. It flickers and grows, fed by the fuel of my desperation and loneliness. I find my gaze drawn once more to the anatomy model, to the body parts on the bench, to the myriad bottles and vials lining the shelves.
Another day in this timeless existence, another page turned in a story I know by heart. And still, I remain, bound to this place, to this half-life, waiting for... what?
I don't know. I doubt I ever will. I allow myself a moment of peace. Tomorrow will be another day, identical to this one in every way that matters. But for now, in this quiet moment as day fades to night, I can pretend that something might change. That tomorrow might bring something new.
It's a lie, of course. A comforting fiction I tell myself to make the endless hours bearable. But then, aren't all stories just that? Lies we tell ourselves to make sense of a senseless world
What if...?
The thought takes root, growing and evolving. It's madness, of course. The fever dream of a ghost driven to the brink by isolation and ennui. But isn't madness preferable to this endless, monotonous existence?
I stand, my movements slow and deliberate. A story of creation, of life born from death. Of a being brought into existence by the sheer force of will and desperation.
Perhaps... Oh just perhaps it's time I took a page from Victor Frankenstein's book. After all, what do I have to lose? My sanity? My humanity? Those were forfeit long ago, sacrificed for a freedom I’m not even sure I’ll ever experience.
As the sun begins to set, painting the lab in hues of gold and crimson, I make my decision. If I am to be trapped in this liminal space for eternity, then I will no longer be alone. I will create a companion.
And so, with the determination of the truly desperate, I begin to plan. The anatomy model becomes my blueprint, Tsukasa's grisly offerings my raw materials…