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I don't remember my own name.
I wouldn't say I was attached to it; a name is merely a tool in the hands of The Will of The City, just like me. But sometimes I ask myself: “Why is Hermes so cruel to me?” Do I really deserve to be called ‘Nihil’?
I think so.
When Yoshihide leaves my home, I'm left alone with myself. The home I've made for myself is devoid of decor and beauty; after all, I'm not the kind of person who appreciates beauty. At moments, I try to recall what I value, what interests me. I've tried so many hobbies, so many that I can't even remember them. It seems I've experienced everything imaginable, if not more. But my soul found no response in these pursuits; after an exhausting search for a hobby, as the prescript told me, I wandered around the corridor. The main room was spacious, fifteen paces long, four and a half wide, seven diagonally — that's the usual number of paces I took. I guess it depends on my mood. I'm not one to monitor my mood. Maybe it's good, maybe not. I don't know.
My room is cold, spacious, and empty. Unlike Yoshihide's room, I don't allow myself more than the bare minimum. Unless the order calls for something, as it did with the mirror. The full-length mirror stands between the closet and the bed. I use it from time to time when I'm unsure of my appearance, but usually it's unnecessary, as I never forget to iron my suit or touch up my hair. Moving closer to the mirror, gripping it as if I were holding myself by the shoulders, I look at my reflection. It's familiar to me, it's the same me that was yesterday, that will be tomorrow, but sometimes I'm so curious about what I would be like if even just one thing had turned out differently. I raise my hand and press it against the glass, my pale palm covering the reflection of my right eye. Sometimes I feel like it looks a little worse than the left. Maybe it's paranoia. How long has it been since I was scared? I don't know.
My fingers carefully traced the features of my face on the glass. I have a rather pretty face, others have told me so. Perhaps it's true. Sometimes, I've been told that I look vaguely feminine. Except perhaps for my face, nothing more. My fingers slide down, tracing the contours of my neck, my broad shoulders, my shapeless torso. My figure is anything but feminine. If I were a woman, I probably wouldn't be the most attractive one. The very thought that such a thing was even possible made me laugh. Of course, I'd love to have that opportunity, but The Will of the City won't let me stray from the prescribed route for the sake of my own desires. The Will of the City probably knows I don't like this suit, I don't enjoy ironing it every night before bed. I'd like to try wearing something different, at least once, something that at least fits me, something that doesn't make me look so shapeless. Maybe then I'd think differently. Maybe then they'd tell me I'd make a beautiful woman. I'd probably want to try. Would I like to see myself like that? I guess if I want to, then I'd like to. I don't know.
I've known nothing about myself for a long time, and it doesn't even sadden me anymore. I live by the dictates of the rules; I'm just a blank slate, with all the instructions written out in order. What should I do, what should I eat, who should I be with, what kind of children should I raise? It's exhausting. Leaning closer to the mirror, I stand forehead to forehead in front of my reflection, and I see my tired eyes. "Perhaps I need more rest," I think to myself before I touch the cold glass again. I don't recognize the person looking back at me through my own eyes. It's someone alien, someone I find so repulsive. With this face, I feel like a shapeless mass in someone else's hands, unable to shape myself by myself. Such is my fate, but I can't help but pine for all the opportunities I've missed because Hermes decided to mock me again. This is probably what I was born for.
I hear the soul-destroying creak of glass; my nails scratch the mirror, the tension suddenly making my fingers hurt unbearably. I don't think I noticed the moment when my emotions overwhelmed me, but I had no strength to stop. Scratching helplessly at the glass, I ignored the sounds, only wanting to wipe this vile reflection from sight. I scratched and scratched until my fingers began to bleed, but by then the pain had subsided, and the blood didn't stop me at all; on the contrary, I was merely covering up the hideous reflection. It seemed to me that the reflection couldn't keep up with the movement of my hand, and was in no hurry to hurt "me." It was so infuriating, I wanted to share this pain, to let "him" feel it fully, as if the mirror weren't reflecting me, but the person whose reflection I was. It wasn't all I could do, but it was my resistance to Hermes himself. I wanted more, I wanted to free everything that was in my soul.
Taking a step back, I looked at myself fully. A stately man stood before me, perhaps already approaching old age, judging by the whitish streaks in his hair. I couldn't see his face, only his bleeding fingers stood out, disturbing his carefree demeanor. This was definitely not me. I took out the "pen", carefully examining this unfortunate object. It showed no signs of functioning, the prescript was not showing to disturb my peace. I even laughed at the thought that The Will of the City had finally left me alone, at least for a little while, allowing me to think, allowing me to mourn my pitiful fate, even a little. Laughing loudly, I swung at the mirror, even closing my eyes, not for safety; I couldn't care less if the shards ended up on me. For the first time in so long, I felt a little calmer.
Beep-beep.
A sickeningly familiar sound interrupted my moment of happiness; I think even the beep made me wince. But, as expected, I glanced at the device, which was already glowing a barely noticeable blue, so dim I had to squint to see the prescript.
"To Rien: Buy a cake for your daughter's birthday."
Oh, dear.
I forgot about Yoshihide's birthday. I spent so much time choosing a gift, so worried she wouldn't like it, that I bought nothing at all. I'm so ashamed, so sorry.
Weakly, my hands drop, letting go of both the pen and the mirror. The sudden change in emotions makes my head spin, and I sit down on the bed, looking at my pale palms, marked with old, whitish scars. For some reason, it was at that moment that I felt a real longing, returning to Nihil, as if I'd been pulled back to a time when I felt alive.
I must grasp my Nihility as tightly as possible, because I have nothing but regrets.