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I stared at the razorblade in my hand for about 10 minutes, contemplating in my mind whether to put it down or not.
That’s when I saw… him. A face that I knew all too well. The Supreme Leader’s familiar purple hair framed his face, staring at me with the same beady little doe eyes of violet. He held the exact same shit-eating grin as before; a face that had always haunted me when I tried to sleep.
“What’s wrong?” I heard him speak. Unable to respond, my grip on the razorblade tightened.
“Why do you care?”
“What, I can’t ask a simple question?” He chuckled. “I just want to know… but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?”
I couldn’t muster up the energy to fire back at him; I was just too tired to care. Too tired to move on.. Too tired to continue.. Unfortunately it seemed I was too tired for everything—like the lazy, incompetent failure I was. The lazy, incompetent failure who couldn’t even save those closest to him. I don’t really remember the last time that I solved a case. Since the killing game ended, I haven’t even picked up on any detective work. I guess I couldn’t even manage to save that gift either.
The room fell silent for a while, before I heard Kokichi speak again.
”Don’t you remember what your last words to me were?”
Of course I did. Those eight words echoed in the chambers of my mind—painful reminders of the one I lost.
“You’re alone, Kokichi, and you always will be,” I heard him snicker. “Who’s the one alone, now? You pitiful creature, is what I would say but I’m afraid you’re undeserving of it.”
That was when I couldn’t take it anymore. Slash. I watched a small trail of crimson trickle from my wrist.
“So now you‘re cutting yourself over something that happened a long time ago? Everyone is long gone, Shuichi, it’s about time you moved on.”
The voice further spoke as I continued cutting, tears streaming down my face.
“You know, it’s no point to cry over the past. What happened is what happened, and you’re making a dumb decision by continuing to hold on to it. Who knew the ultimate detective could be so stupid? So stupid and easily carried away by emotions?”
My jaw clenched. With my voice still shaky from the crying, I quivered, “Well, I’m sorry I’m not like you, Kokichi. I’m sorry that I can’t just fake my way through everything. At least I had people who trusted me—”
“And where are they? Six feet under. Face it, Shuichi. You’re alone now, and you will be for the remainder of this pathetic life you’re in.”
I paused, the blade still pointed to my arm. In frustration, I wiped the tears off of my face with my unoccupied hand.
“Wow, so I have that much of an effect on you, huh? I could tell you anything, and you’d believe it now. Well, at least you would be half-right about it!”
I threw the razorblade at him—ignoring how it just went through him before hitting the wall instead—and curled up into a ball.
“Oh you pitiful sod. Poor you, crying like a little child. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what you really are, you know…
Just a child unable to control or have say in anything.
A little child who just needed someone who would stay.
A poor, little kid who gets affected by feelings easily.
You latch on to those around you, then get surprised when they leave. Haven’t you gotten the message already?
Welcome to reality, Shuichi. There are people who lie, cheat, steal, and prey on the vulnerable ones like you.
You only realizing this now, is why everyone around you died. You were too scared to tell the truth, so you yourself fell behind a lie. You people advocate for the truth, then get mad when it’s revealed.
You were—are—wasted potential. You could’ve been such an amazing detective if you weren’t so scared of hurting others. If you weren’t so scared, you could have actually had the chance of saving them. But regardless, the past cannot be changed, so what you are now, is just another example of wasted talent.”
And then he faded away. Those words struck me like swords. Yet, I couldn’t help but find some truth in them. No matter how angry I was, I couldn’t deny what he said. I couldn’t deny them if I thought the same thing anyway.
What was originally frustration turned to shame as I just stared at the fresh cuts on my wrist. Was I overreacting? I don’t know. But there was no point in stopping; I had no one to quit for. If I can’t directly end it right here, then I’ll just speed up the process. It’s not letting all their deaths go in vain, right? It’s the one thing that I wasn’t too tired to continue—and it was deserved anyway.
In a cold sweat, I walked over to where the blade was, and picked it up again. Instead of the wrist, I went for my leg. I sunk down onto the bed—blade in hand—and slashed across what used to be my thigh. It was shameful, it was embarrassing and the guilt seeped into my mind, but I just couldn’t stop. It was not that simple—no matter how much I wished it was.
‘The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
So many things seem filled with the intent
To be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day.
Accept the fluster
Of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.’ -(One Art, by Elizabeth Bishop)
I couldn’t help but disagree with that statement. To me, the Art of losing is—and will always be—quite tough to master. I found myself holding on to them, cherishing the memories where they weren’t lost, but safe and sound. For you, it wasn’t a disaster, but for me it was like my world shattered.
I lost everything. One by one, I lost it all. By now, I would’ve mastered the art of losing—but it seemed that I have not. I continue to wallow in the self-pity for a situation that could’ve been avoided had it not been for me and my flaws. The poem made sense—but at the same time, it didn’t at all.
You’re just thinking it’s a small thing that happened,
The world ended when it happened to me…
But maybe I’m just weak. I admit it. I wasn’t as strong as I originally thought I was. But weren’t we all? No one was safe from this cruel game, whether we survived it or not. If you weren’t dead, you were mentally scarred—left with the question of why you, out of everyone else, were chosen to be the survivor. Though, I do believe, that I am one to take responsibility for the lives that were lost. The red stained my hands, but now I can’t tell if it was from the fresh scars on my leg, or the blood of the killed and executed. That further begs the question: Why me? I figured out the mastermind—but by then it was far too late. The damage had already been done. I—and 2 others—have “won”. But at what cost?
I struck it a few more times until my hand was tired. I went to the shower to wash off my blood-stained legs and arms, rinsing off the razorblade as well. After exiting the bathroom, I dried off both and then laid in bed, staring at the ceiling for a while. I already stopped trying to get myself to sleep, for it was far too impossible of a task.
My arms and legs were still burning from the cuts, but I took my mind off of it by putting All Apologies on the speaker.
“What else should I be?
All Apologies”
I laid there silently, letting myself drown in Kurt’s singing.
“What else should I say?
Everyone is gay
What else should I write?
I don’t have the right
What else should I be?
All apologies”
The night was peaceful; something that I haven’t experienced after a long time. Well, the situation was far from happy, but… At least I got to have the luxury of a break, even if it never lasted long. At least I was granted the opportunity of freedom; something that I am most grateful to have.
Something that I knew I didn’t deserve.