This is my first post, and my first writing posted online in six years, so don't judge me too harshly. Words are not my creative medium of choice, but it's what felt right to get this trash out of my brain. Enjoy or whatever.
———Hisao's POV———
I’ve read a lot of books. Quite a few of them featured the moment where the protagonist didn’t just know, but truly felt that the side character who had been killed was really dead. Permanently. But it didn’t occur to me at any point in the last days that I might be feeling the same way soon.
That’s a big part of the way I approach the novels I read. I place myself into the story. But not once have I ever tried to imagine what it would be like for me. To cope with the death of someone I cared about. Someone I loved. Let alone two of them. And now here I am, sitting in my bedroom, looking out the window into the darkness. There are clouds over Yamaku today. They stretched all the way to the Hakamichi’s residence. They could be covering all of Japan, even the world for all I know.
They’re the kind of clouds that absorb all the light around them, above and below. There is no starlight, no moonlight. Even the streetlights seem to be mere pinpricks of light in the black. Above the horizon the darkness becomes so palpable I feel I could reach out and touch it. So infinite that I could disappear into it. But I’ve already touched the darkness. I feel it crawling inside of me, licking my bones and slithering through my veins, touching the walls of my diseased heart, prodding at the scar tissue above my sternum. It’s in me.
It sits heavy in my chest, like a weight. It’s pressing down on my diaphragm, creating a vacuum so heavy I’m not sure if I’ll be able to fight against it enough to even breathe.
But I keep breathing anyway.
I glance over at Misha’s journals beside me. Well, I mean it to be a glance. My eyes linger on them for a long time. I don’t feel like moving unless there’s a particularly compelling reason for me to do so. For now, I prefer to stare at the last remnant of her. Quite possibly the best friend I ever had.
And Shizune. “Shicchan.” The only woman I’ve ever loved. Granted, eighteen years isn’t really long enough for a statement like that to have much meaning. There are few moments where I feel the true lack of experience I have in life. Logically, I understand that horrible things sometimes happen, and as awful as I feel now, I probably won’t feel this way forever.
But I don’t feel it.
What I do feel is understanding. For Shizune, and for Misha. I understand Misha feeling that the only thing she ever cared about would never be hers. I understand the feeling of relief she must have felt when that bus hit her. When she let that bus hit her.
And I understand Shizune. Feeling so at fault, so guilty. So beyond even the hope of compassion or mercy. So frustrated by the lack of retribution being placed on her by those around her. So grateful to face the justice that only she felt she deserved. So painfully sad and hollow.
I know that time will heal my wounds. Or at least stop the bleeding vessels and cover the ruptured flesh with a ragged scar. I understand that not all moments in my future will feel like this. But in a perverse, maudlin way, I kind of want them to. I don’t want to move on. I don’t want to allow myself to move forward with my life. I don’t want to spend my long years knowing that my actions are still here in the past, watching me.
I can’t live with the knowledge that I let them die. I am equally guilty. Complicit. Culpable.
So many opportunities to avoid this. Hell, Jigoro even pointed it out for me. Ignorance ceased to be an excuse at that point. I knew what was happening, and it had occurred to me what might happen. But my actions amounted to a mosquito’s shit.
And Shizune. All I had to do was be there for her. But I got uncomfortable and scared, so I left.
If I had done things differently, they would still be alive.
I know that it isn’t the only way to interpret this situation. I know that everyone will tell me that it isn’t my fault. I know that I’ll eventually convince myself of the same, even if only out of a sense of self-preservation.
But I don’t want to.
I don’t deserve to.
I tear my eyes from the incriminating journals and turn them to the medications on my nightstand. Eighteen bottles, precisely arranged and organized, ready for use. But they won’t be. They haven’t been opened for six days now. Nor will they ever be again.
I stand up from my bed.
I think I’ll go for another run.
