Chapter Text
I fell down a dark rabbit hole since the diagnosis, and the shadows in the corners of my eyes know every detail.
The piles upon piles of murder biographies borrowed from the library; the queue of browser tabs stacked like filing cards on my phone; the oozing blood from my red pen leaking like a fresh wound. Every object in my vicinity is a torturous scream warning outsiders of the dangers in my brain.
I was never the social type. In my earliest days, I remember wandering past the schoolyard and into the depths of grim novels before spending my afternoons gawking at graveyards and secretly enjoying Kana's angsty, grotesque music from her early teen years.
But the sick mind doesn't always consider the perils of death and darkness — only when it is standing at the edge, waiting for the crackling leaves to signal the final moment when...
That's beside my point.
The sick mind would rather interest itself in the preambles of death: raw, unrelenting torture. It is true that the most deadly killers spare their victims no time or mercy before finishing them, but only the most notorious beasts that physiology call "man" sentence the innocent to humility followed by hours if not days of brutality.
In order for torture to be effective, the assailant needs to have a purpose: money, power, the adrenaline rush of watching a body decompose after its mind has withered away.
I have tried everything to put a purpose to my misery; I've even tried dying. None of that worked as I hoped.
I now wear a middle school uniform just like the one I beared during "the incident." I shudder just thinking about it. Daijuni Middle School. I have yet to decide whether this place will become the obstacle that defines my hero's journey or my next victim pool.
Fuck it. I'm a villain in every universe. A true hero would never think of hurting themself or others unless, of course, it's good for humanity. Wouldn't that make me a hero, then?
It doesn't matter. No part of this matters. When I walk into that classroom, everyone and everything will be behind me.
The walk to class was uneventful, minus the weird foot-shuffling thing. The more I think about it...
Right.
...the stronger the urge.
Left.
And the more I sulk in my own misery...
Right.
...the more the memories of what I once had come back to bite me.
Left.
The classroom itself is lightly inviting. The piercing sun peeking through the window is bright enough to disregard the vignettes and shapes in my eyes, and the students themselves are too focused on reuniting with old friends to pay me any attention.
The academic year begins with preferential seating. The choice isn't difficult at all. Boys sit with boys, and girls sit with girls.
But before I can sit, the teacher gives me a stern look.
Am I late to class? I check the time.
Not late.
I can never be too sure. I check again.
Not late.
"Ichikawa, is that correct?" The teacher tries to pull me for a private conversation.
"Yeah- yes, teacher," I say with yet another stammer.
The man grins and continues to speak.
"Nice to meet you, Ichikawa. You can call me Mr. Maeda. I am always here if you need anything."
That's it. No "talking to" for showing up late? I'm relieved, yet it makes me wonder whether or not he knows about my past. Surely he singled me out for a reason.
I give Mr. Maeda a half-response with a posture slightly resembling a bow of reverence, though saying that's the case would be a stretch.
I sit with the other boys, as planned — not next to but in front of the crowd so they don't feel compelled to approach me.
I try not to listen, but I can't help but catch onto their strange infatuation with ... "chest mountains." They speak of breasts with such eloquence and passion that you'd think they're old-timey love poets.
Disgusting. Not "publicly lecture them and tell them to die" disgusting, but disgusting nonetheless.
As I eavesdrop, I hear a strange string of sentences from a familiar voice.
"Just talk to him. It's not like he'll bite."
He ... him. They're not talking about a girl.
The boy continues. "No, he's not like that at all, at least I don't think so. Here, I'll talk to him."
One of the guys approaches me. He seems vaguely familiar: bushy eyebrows, round eyes, dark hair; but I can't quite wrap my head around his bizarre hair, or the lack thereof. I don't consider myself the "spiky hair type" either, so I suppose we all have our differences.
"Hey, Ichikawa," he says with mild sincerity. "It's me, Kanzaki."
It all comes back to me. Kanzaki, the guy who'd act proper around teachers despite not giving a care in the world. He was a conditional delinquent, and a highly selective delinquent at that. Sometimes I wish I had the choice to turn off my weirdness like a light switch.
I don't know what else to say, so I mutter "cool" and move on. Kanzaki, in spite of my expectations, widens his smile like he just tamed the Ichikawa lion. How glorious.
The entire class begins to move into place and quiet down upon the start of the hour — at least, almost the entire class.
A tall, slender girl with long hair barges into the room with far less grace than her appearance suggests. The boys in the back state in her direction, and I can't help but do the same.
Mr. Maeda pulls her in for a private conversation, which I assume this time is a lecture by the girl's frantic hand motions and unusually loud voice.
I can't hear Mr. Maeda — only the girl.
"I am so sorry teacher," she says. "I..."
She buffers.
"I was at work," she continues. Mr. Maeda looks at her in disbelief and gestures for her to sit down.
She turns her back to Mr. Maeda and walks to her seat. That's when I notice the two Mt. Fujis concealed underneath her uniform ... enormous mountains littered with breadcrumbs.
Forget the boys in the back of the room. That is the most disgusting thing I've seen all day. If I could gently wipe the residue off of her breasts– and cop a feel; or wash and iron her uniform– only after she takes it off...
Whatever. Filthy minds attract filthy surroundings.
That lunch break, I go to sit in the library just as I did my old school. The library is quiet. I like quiet–
No, I need quiet.
The colors, the teasing, the thoughts — everything is quieter in the library. I roll up muy sleeves and open my copy of Murder Encyclopedia to begin reading.
Sociopathy, now clinically recognized as Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD), is a condition often present in serial killers. The disorder is characterized by impulsive behaviors, lack of sympathy or remorse, and a tendency to manipulate others.
This is fascinating. F-A-S-C-I-N-A-T-I-N-G.
I need to reread to clarify that I didn't miss anything.
Sociopathy, now clinically recognized as Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD), is a condition often present in serial killers. The disorder is characterized by impulsive behaviors, lack of sympathy or remorse, and a tendency to manipulate others.
Impulsive behaviors. I-M-P-U-L-S-I-V-E-B-E-H-V–
No.
I-M-P-U-L-S-I-V-E-B-E-H-A-V-I-O-R-S. Acts of impulsivity.
Check.
Lack of remorse. L-A-C-K-O-F-S-Y-M-P-A-T-H-Y-O-R-R-E-M-O-R-S-E. Absence of compassion toward other people.
Check.
A-N-D-A-T-E-N-D-E-N-C-Y-T-O M-A-N-I-P-U-L-A-T-E-O-T-H-E-R-S.
Did I read that correctly?
A-N-D-A-T-E-N-D-E-N-C-Y-T-O M-A-N-I-P-U-L-A-T-E-O-T-H-E-R-S.
Check.
Wait. I didn't comprehend what I just read.
A-N-D-A-T-E-N-D-E-N-C-Y-T-O M-A-N-I-P-U-L-A-T-E-O-T-H-E-R-S. A habit of taking advantage of others for one's own good.
Fuck. Can I scribble out a mental check mark?
I mean, I'm not impulsive or apathetic, at least not today, but manipulative? When I brushed Kanzaki off, was I manipulating him into leaving me alone? What about Yamada? Did I lie to her by not addressing the breadcrumbs on her boobs– I mean blazer.
I don't let things bother me anymore. That's my problem now.
The door gently opens.
It's Yamada and one of the girls in our class, at least I think it's a girl based on the high-pitched voice.
"Anna, what did I tell you about eating before class?"
There's a vacancy on the fourth shelf from the floor, yet I still can't see her from the peephole. She must be exceptionally small-statured (though it's not like I can talk).
The girl continues, "This is no good. First it shows up on your blazer; then, it shows up in your thighs."
I find it crazy how girls can be so blunt, especially toward each other. I just assumed that they would cater to each other's sensitivities. Girls are sensitive, right?
Still, Yamada hosts a smile upon her face despite her red cheeks.
"I know," Yamada begins. "That is why I will work harder tomorrow, Chihiro."
Chihiro? I recognize some of the girls in my class, but only by surname. They must be close despite "Chihiro's" insults.
Yamada's face continues to flush. Suddenly, a strange noise comes from her mouth. It sounds like something between a hiccup and a teenage voice crack.
I still can't see Chihiro, but I imagine she's freaking out by the way she's swiveling with enough noise to cue an electronic home assistant.
"Anna, I'm sorry," she says.
Yamada barely responds with her head tilting only slightly.
After a light pause, she responds, "What are you sorry for?"
Chihiro lets out another noise from her mouth, except this one sounds more like a "huh" than a hiccup.
Chihiro asks Yamada, "Are you not crying?"
Now, Yamada's eyebrows raise. She seems almost more flustered than before.
"No," she begins. "Why would you think that?"
Just like earlier, Chihiro responds with no hesitation.
"Your voice broke just now."
I imitate the noise Yamada made earlier. I didn't mean to, of course. It just happened.
Great. Another sociopathy criteria I meet.
Yamada turns her head toward the bookshelf, and I can only assume Chihiro did as well.
I duck beneath the peephole, which produced even more noise. Then, suddenly, I hear footsteps.
I hope it's not Chihiro. She seems like the type who would kill a man for his perversion.
Please don't be Chihiro. Please don't be Chihiro. Please don't be Chihiro.
It's Yamada. I don't know if that's better or worse.
She approaches me slowly with curiosity. Does she think I'm a wild animal or something? That would make both Kanzaki and Yamada. She starts staring at me, not into my face, but below that. She opens her mouth.
"Your arm."
That's all she says. I look at my own arm in case I somehow happened to lose it. That's when I realize my sleeve was still up.
My arms are stained with something far worse than food: little marks to remind myself of why I can't be normal.
It's my fault. I put them there. Yet still, I can't help but feel remorseful for something that affects no one but myself.
Remorse. I can still check off one thing.
I fell into a depression since last year, but at least I can say I'm not a murderer.
Karte 1: I Fell