(Where's the Walkthrough?)
https://ks.fhs.sh/
Innominate
The unconventional tale of a thoroughly conventional girl.
At least, so it seems.
Thank you very much to Piroska for editing. Your input is, as always, invaluable.
All I wanted was an ordinary love...
... was that too much to ask?
Act 1: Apprehension
Act 1 Prologue: Telegraph
Chapter 1-1: Cosmonaut
Chapter 1-2: Snow
Chapter 1-3: Again
Act 1 Prologue: Telegraph
Dear █████,
How are you? I wonder if you remember me.
Maybe you do. Maybe you don’t. Maybe you haven’t thought about me at all. Maybe you’ve already forgotten my name.
Do you remember when we first met?
No, it wasn’t ██ ████ ████ ██ ███ ████.
It was much, much earlier. In the █████ ████████ of ███ █████ ████.
Remember the school rooftop? I was up there, by the fence. It was long, long after the final bell had gone, and the sun was beginning to set. I made sure I was alone. I even ██████ ███ ██████ ████, though I figured no one else would be foolish enough to wander up there after hours.
What I hadn’t considered was that someone █████ ████ █ ███.
Do you know why I was up there, that day, on the rooftop?
I was █████ ██ ████.
I had ██████████ ███████ ███. I was █████. My hands were on ███ █████ ████. All I needed was to ████ ██████ ██ ██ ███ ███ ██ ████ █████ ███ ████ ███.
But you were there.
You opened that door, and, for the briefest moment, you saw behind the veil, behind the carefully crafted persona I had spent ███ █████ █████ maintaining.
You saw my secrets, the ugliness, the madness, the sorrow.
You saw me.
I couldn’t ██ ███████ ████ ██. It felt like ███ ████ ████████ ██ █████ ████.
I don’t know why you were up there; some errand, perhaps. You probably had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
But our eyes met.
And that was enough to ████ ██ ████. It was enough, after you turned around and left, to make me ██████ ███ ████ ███ ██████.
It was enough to make me ████ ██ ████.
Maybe that was where our problems started.
Maybe you should never have come up those stairs. Maybe you should never have made eye contact. Maybe you should have left me to ██████ ███████, to █████████.
Because it led you to ████ ████ ██ ███ ████.
Because it led to those words I █████ ██████ ████ ████.
Because, in the end, I █████████ you.
I ████ ███ ███ ████.
I just wanted to forget.
But…
I can’t.
I can’t forget you.
And because I can’t forget you, you ████ me, every single day.
When I wake. When I sleep. When I ████ ██████ ███ █████████. When ███ ███ █████████ ████ ██ ██. When I see ████ ███████. When I see ████ █████ ████.
It’s selfish, I know. You’re the one who’s truly suffering, ██████ ████ ████ █████████. You’re the one who’s most deserving of sympathy, of pity.
Everything is about you, you, you. People in the hallways look at me, they think about you. The teachers talk to me, it’s always about you. When our classmates whisper about me behind my back, it’s only about what I did to you.
You, you, you.
Never me.
It’s like I’m not even here.
It’s like that day on the rooftop never happened.
I don’t even know who I am anymore.
Tell me, █████…
Who am I?
Sincerely, ███████.
Chapter 1-1: Cosmonaut
[This is a heavily reworked version of my oneshot pilot "Godot", which can be found here].
Who am I?
Her back hurts.
That’s the first thing that crosses her mind.
The second thing is that her bed has become unusually hard and disjointed, as though she’s sleeping on piled wood.
She tries to open her eyes, and all she can see is darkness. She blinks, several times. She can feel her eyelids opening and closing, so…
So why can’t she see anything?
Blearily, she flops her left hand over to where she thinks her nightstand is, fumbling for the switch to the ladybird-shaped nightlight that usually hangs on the wall by the side of her bed.
Instead of the flat surface of her nightstand however, her hand contacts… something, and sends it tipping over in her direction.
There’s a sudden sploosh, the shock of something wet and very cold spilling onto her torso, soaking her clothes and freezing her skin.
She yelps, her voice screeching into the dark as she tries to leap out of bed.
There’s no carpet beneath her feet, like she was expecting. Instead, her shoes contact something hard, metallic, and extremely unstable.
Shoes?
There’s a great crash, wood on metal, tearing, rumbling. She’s knocked right off her feet, spinning, falling, totally disorientated. Her body impacts something hard and smashes right through it, pain lancing through her shoulder, the sound of splintering timber filling her ears.
Light floods her vision in the millisecond before she hits the ground.
The impact knocks the wind right out of her, cutting her voice off mid-scream of surprise, sending her sprawling over the linoleum floor. The thunder of falling metal and other debris roars around her like a car crash, slowly petering out as objects stop falling and come to rest beside her.
She clenches her eyes and hands shut, trying to regain control of her heart that’s beating wildly out of her chest. An eerie silence descends, broken only by the dull thump of her heart pounding in her ears.
Slowly, she opens her eyelids just a crack, taking in her surroundings.
Above her, a plain, white ceiling checkered with smooth tiling, like the kind they use at school. A single rectangular fluorescent light. One of those fire sprinklers with a jagged metal head poking out towards her.
Is this a dream?
She tries to sit up, hissing with pain as her right arm and shoulder protest, catching her fall with her left hand as she struggles to her knees.
“I-Is someone there?”
She jolts.
A voice. Loud, high-pitched, almost squeaky. Cutesy.
Surprised, she frantically scrambles to her feet, trying to get a sense of her surroundings and the source of the voice.
Staggering a little, breathing heavily, she looks around.
It’s…
A classroom?
It looks like a classroom converted into a storage room, or, less charitably, a dumping ground. The tables and chairs are stacked in wild, haphazard piles all along the walls, beside a few old-style blackboards on wheels gathering dust.
At least two dozen mops in their buckets are propped up against the piles, surrounded by various cleaning items- sprays, wipes, paper towels- scattered randomly everywhere. A few brooms with caked-on dust lodged in their bristles stand at attention like soldiers by the wooden sliding door.
To her left, there’s no wall. Just the slatted windows every high school in Japan must be furnished with. Outside, however, is a different story. The entire room seems to be shrouded in fog, a wall of white that lies just beyond the panes, through which only some gloomy light filters inside.
This must be a dream.
She turns her head to the right…and there stands a girl.
Pink hair. In drills. Both sides of her head. Chubby. A little short. Probably around the same age as her. Dressed in a school uniform of some description- white blouse, green skirt, black ribbon.
Golden eyes wide and mouth open in shock.
She’s frozen, like ice has replaced the blood in her veins. She doesn’t know where she is. She doesn’t know what’s happening to her. And she doesn’t know who this strange girl in front of her is.
For a moment, there’s absolute silence as both simply stare at one another.
Then, the pink-haired girl…
Screams.
A piercing, blood curdling shriek, resonating through the room. She briefly wonders if it’s even possible for a human to make that much sound.
The pink-haired girl dives behind a nearby pile of chairs, knocking over several mops as she does so, her face contorted in a look of utter terror.
Nothing makes sense.
Who is this girl? What is this place?
The clattering of cleaning items falling to the floor echoes through the room as the pink-haired girl crawls away to safety, her voice warbling and shaky, overwhelmed with fear.
“D-don’t come any c-closer… p-please…”
That snaps her out of it. She swallows, twice, trying to squeeze the tiny, croaking words out of her dry throat.
“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, but… who are you? What’s going on?”
She takes another look around the room.
If this is a dream, it’s by far the weirdest and most realistic I’ve ever had.
After a pause, the pink-haired girl answers with another, totally insane question of her own.
“A-are you… h-human?”
“W-w-what?!”
What kind of question is that?!
Her heart is pounding again.
“What… what do you mean ‘am I human?’”
The other girl’s voice loses its stutter and gains some force.
“Well… you don’t look human so… what are you?”
Every answer only generates more questions, like she’s being spoken to in riddles. Her mind whirls, close to being overwhelmed by the sheer insanity of the situation.
“I-I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re talking about…”
She begins to pat herself down, searching for what the girl could possibly be referring to, smoothing out her blazer and maroon skirt.
Maroon skirt?
She’s not in the light blue pyjamas she swore she wore to bed that night. Instead, she’s dressed in the dark blazer and maroon skirt of her school’s winter uniform, complete with brown loafers. A good part of her clothing is wet and darkened, soaked by an unknown liquid. She’s suddenly aware of the sharp smell of chemical disinfectant, stinging her nostrils. That must’ve been what she spilt all over herself when she woke up.
Regardless, she’s still got all her appendages. She’s still got her arms, her legs, her torso and her head. She’s still human as far as she can tell. Nothing seems off.
What an odd dream.
“… everything looks fine to me…”
She catches a flash of pink as the other girl spies her through the gaps in the chairs, eyeing her like she’s a bomb that’s about to go off.
“So… you don’t realise what’s wrong with you?”
The girl’s bubbly tone starts to come back slightly, juxtaposing strangely with the vaguely insulting phrasing of her question.
“… no?”
A note of desperation creeps into her voice, but she’s rapidly running out of mental tether.
Finally, the pink-haired girl sighs, relinquishing her fortress of chairs, golden eyes looking everywhere but her direction.
“Okay… how do I put this…?”
She interlaces her fingers.
“… your face.”
“Huh?!”
That was not the response she was expecting.
The pink-haired girl hesitates, seemingly unable to find the words.
“Yeah… your face… why…”
She takes a deep breath.
“… why don’t you have one?”
What?!
Her right hand immediately goes to her head to dispel this ridiculous notion, covering her right eye and nose.
Except.
Nothing.
Her fingers touch smooth, flat skin.
Where there’s supposed to be the ridge of her nose, the sunken pits of her eyes, there’s nothing.
It’s all flat, like every detail of her face has been erased.
“Oh… my god.”
Both hands reach for her face, scrambling, feeling for what she knows should be there. Her nose, her eyes, her mouth. Her eyelashes, her brows, anything.
Smooth. Totally flat. Cool, unblemished skin.
She screams in surprise.
This is not a dream.
This is a nightmare.
“Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
She’s reeling, hyperventilating, utterly confused. Nothing makes sense. Her head is spinning. She begins to back away, pulling at her nonexistent facial features, trying desperately to make herself wake up.
Why can’t I wake up?! Why?! Why?! Wh-
Two hands suddenly grip her flailing wrists, and she becomes aware of two golden eyes framed by pink hair right in front of her.
“Hey! Hey! Breathe… breathe… it’s okay… it’s okay…”
That same high-pitched voice, now with a much calmer, soothing tone. The other girl is so close, she can practically feel her breath on her face… if she even has one, that is.
“You’re still breathing, and talking, and you can see and hear me, so… it might not be as bad as you think, okay?”
Her mind is totally locked up, so all she can do is nod, dumbly, even as she gasps for breath with every inhale. She closes her eyes, then opens them. She can feel the warmth of the girl’s hands on her wrists heating her frigid skin. Taking deep breaths, her heart rate begins to slow.
The grip around her wrists is released, the pink-haired girl taking a step back. The same eerie silence once again descends.
It’s broken by a halting, awkward introduction.
“Well… I’m Misha. My full name is Shiina Mikado, but nobody really calls me that…”
A cutesy name for a cutesy girl. Misha raises her right hand in greeting, wearing a thin, strained smile on her face.
She responds, her voice warbly.
“I… I’m Iwanako…”
Her voice peters out.
Misha cocks her head and raises an eyebrow.
“Just… Iwanako?”
Iwanako sputters, trying to form the words in her mind.
“No, I’m Iwanako…”
Huh?
Something’s… missing.
“I mean, I’m Iwanako… Iwanako…”
My last name…
“I…”
Her eyes go wide.
She knows, logically, that she should have a last name. Yet, her mind is drawing a total blank, as though she’d never been given one her whole life.
Is this dream messing with my memory too?!
Panic grips her once again. Iwanako desperately rifles through the mental filing cabinets in her brain, frantically searching for something, anything that might give even a hint of something so integral to her identity.
Who forgets their last name?
She searches, searches, searches, her heart pounding in her head.
Nothing.
Iwanako looks at her feet, almost in shame.
“I… I… can’t remember my last name…”
It’s simultaneously embarrassing and ludicrous.
Misha stands opposite her, her mouth opening and closing.
Then, a sad, almost resigned expression crosses over her cutesy features. It’s like she’s just realised something important.
“Iwanako… that’s because… hold on, could I call you… Icchan? Iwacchan? Uh… Nacchan! Yeah, that sounds better… can I call you Nacchan?”
It’s odd how Misha can switch between solemn and bubbly tones almost at will. Iwanako is slightly bemused at the strange request, considering the situation.
“Why?”
“It’s… a little thing I do with people. You can tell me not to if you don’t like it.”
It might just be best to humour Misha, or whatever Misha is.
“Okay…”
Another strained smile from the pink-haired girl.
“Nacchan… the reason you can’t remember your last name… and why you don’t have a face… is because… none of it is relevant to this world. The ‘real world,’ Nacchan, is not what you think it is. It didn’t see a need for you to have a name or a face, so… it just never gave you one.”
Relevant… to this world?
Iwanako is so confused that it’s making her head hurt. She can’t even muster up a response, the words sputtering and dying on her lips.
It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream.
Despite the lack of facial features, Misha seems to sense the doubt coursing through Iwanako’s veins. Her voice becomes even more forceful.
“Think, Nacchan. What’s the name of your school? The name of your hometown? The name of your parents, your teachers, your friends?”
“What do you mean…”
Iwanako’s frustration rapidly spirals into confusion as she tries to answer.
I…
It’s…
It’s the same as her last name.
There’s nothing.
Nothing at all.
Everything’s coming up blank. Blank, blank, blank. The files are there, it’s just that there’s nothing inside them.
Her school.
Her hometown.
Her family.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
It’s as if a giant eraser has been taken to all the important parts of her brain, scouring Iwanako clean of everything that makes her, her.
The only thing she truly remembers is the ladybird nightlight hanging by the side of her bed.
Her fingers begin to quiver. So many things are missing. How did she not notice earlier?
“Oh… my god.”
Misha nods sadly.
“I know it feels like a dream, Nacchan, because it doesn’t make any sense otherwise. I thought the same thing at first. I thought it was just a dream.”
Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.
Everything in Iwanako’s logical side cries out to reject this, to simply accept that this is some depression-induced nightmare cooked up by an overactive imagination she didn’t realise she had.
She begins to back away, step by step, her eyes darting around the room. This is too much, all too much. Everything in this… nightmare has been total insanity, like the seams of Iwanako’s world are being pulled apart, trapped in this ghostly classroom at the edge of the universe.
She’s done. She can’t stay here anymore.
“I… I want to leave. I want to wake up.”
Misha shakes her head.
“It’s hard, Nacchan, I know. You have to trust me. The world out there is not what you think it is. If you try to leave this classroom, you won’t go back out into the real world. You’ll just go back there.”
Go back where?
She’d sooner go anywhere else in time and space to escape this madhouse.
Anywhere except…
She throws the thought from her mind. She needs to focus on escaping. Still, Misha continues.
“You’ll just go back to the place you came from, Nacchan. You’ll go back, and you’ll play your part. You won’t have a choice.”
Play my part?
In what?
Nothing makes sense.
Slowly, Iwanako turns to the only obvious exit in the room, the unassuming wooden sliding doors.
With a sudden start, she brushes past Misha, driven by desperation, her fingers finding the latch and throwing open the door with a slam.
And she stops.
Where there should be a hallway, there’s only a black void in every direction, like the classroom is suspended in deep space.
Reaching her hand forward into the inky darkness, there’s a cool sensation, like autumn air, but nothing else.
“What the…”
Misha sighs, like she was expecting Iwanako to do this from the beginning.
“You see, Nacchan? Nothing makes sense in this world. You can see, speak and breathe, but you have no face. You’re missing so many memories, even your last name. The door outside leads to that black pit. I know it’s hard to believe, but… you see it, right, Nacchan?”
This is not real. This is not real.
“I…”
Iwanako takes a deep breath.
“I’m getting out of here. I’m going home.”
Iwanako stands on the edge of the threshold, the tips of her loafers peeking into the darkness. Her hands grip the sides of the open door like an astronaut about to embark on a spacewalk. Her heart is beating in her ears. She’s never been great with heights, even if there’s absolutely no indication of where she is in this great black void.
Misha stands behind her but doesn’t interfere.
“You can go back to the world you know, Nacchan, but you’ll remember what happened here, too.”
Every single thing Iwanako has experienced, from Misha’s nonsensical explanations to her terrifying lack of a face or memories, is utterly incompatible with reality.
There’s no way this is real.
This has to be a dream.
Right?
Iwanako turns her head and makes one final declaration, her voice resolute and forceful.
“I don’t believe you, Misha.”
With that, she steps out into the void.
And.
She.
Falls.
Chapter 1-2: Snow
So… you’ll always be my friend?
Of course I will.
Forever?
Forever and e-
It’s cold.
Light snow falls all around her, dusting the ground and the bare trees, the flakes settling on her shoulders and in her hair.
A gentle breeze passes through, rattling the naked branches and rustling the hem of her maroon skirt. She’s definitely regretting being so underdressed —thigh highs and the regulation blazer are certainly not appropriate winterwear— but there’s no time to rectify it now. She’ll just have to put up with it.
Iwanako peeks around the corner of the school building, spying the bare maple tree in the distance that is the assigned rendezvous. It stands like a skeletal sentinel, black woody tendrils hanging over a carpet of pure white snow.
And, at the base of that tree, dressed in a tan hoodie, back facing towards her, is the one person she’s looking for.
Her key. Her beacon.
Her escape.
He stands there, occasionally glancing around, rubbing his hands together for warmth. He’s faring a little better in the frigid air than she is.
Iwanako checks her watch. It’s already past four o’clock. He got her note. He’s already waiting for her.
She’s just nervous.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
You’ve got this.
Her racing heart disagrees, but there’s nothing left to do.
It’s time.
Steeling herself, Iwanako steps around the corner of the building, walking straight towards the maple tree with measured, steady strides, her loafers crunching the dry snow beneath her with every pace.
His back is still turned. She’s still got a little way to go.
The snow continues to fall all around her, the white-dusted forest beyond like some fantastical winter wonderland. She’s so nervous, she hardly even knows what she’s going to say.
Yet…
There’s a weird, fleeting feeling that everything just feels… oddly familiar.
The boy in front of her finally seems to notice her presence, as he suddenly tenses.
“Hi... Hisao? You came?”
The words seem to spill from her lips, tiny, barely audible.
Hisao turns, decked out in all his awkward, dorky glory, his trademark sprig of hair dangling from his head, a certain pink letter perched between his fingers.
“Iwanako? I got a note telling me to wait here... it was yours?”
His brown eyes are filled with apprehension and trepidation. Cute.
She smiles.
“Ahmm... yes. I asked a friend to give you that note... I'm so glad you got it.”
She speaks with little conscious effort, as though she’s memorised a script.
“So... ah... here we are. Out in the cold...”
His voice is gentle, nervous. It’s all turning out exactly as she wanted.
Love.
Love in the winter, with the snow all around her, with the one boy she wants a mere few centimetres in front of her.
Something ordinary, for once in her life. An ordinary love.
She makes her most important request.
“You see... I wanted to know... if you'd go out with me...”
Her words hang in the frigid air. She waits for a response, but Hisao stands like a statue before her, as though the cold has frozen him to the core.
A few flakes of snow fall onto her cheek and her lashes, but she doesn’t dare break the moment by wiping them away. The only sound she hears is the rhythmic beating of her own heart.
Then…
It all happens so quickly.
“...Hisao?”
His hands go to his throat, his fingers beginning to tremble. His eyes go wide and bloodshot, and a choked grunt issues from his lips.
“...Hisao?!”
Iwanako’s heart seems to be beating out of her chest. Most of her mind is reeling, totally confused as to what’s taken hold of Hisao, who seems to be suffocating on the air itself.
He begins to stagger, his knees shaking, his skin turning as pale as the snow that silently falls all around them.
“Hisao!”
Iwanako is utterly consumed with terror.
Yet, even as everything unfolds, almost in slow motion, a tiny part of her brain asks one, niggling question.
Has…
This…
Happened…
Before…?
He slumps to the ground, and she screams.
…
Her arms hurt.
Every heave of her lungs sends shooting pain up her chest and into her shoulders. The cold air stings with every inhale, yet she can’t help but gasp for breath.
“Help me! Please!”
Iwanako’s throat is being ripped raw with every scream. Even mere metres from the school building, it feels like she’s the only human on earth.
Her fingers dig into Hisao’s armpits, pulling him up as she tries to drag him another few paces.
“Argh!”
The strain is almost too much to bear. She lunges backwards, his limp body twisting and sliding along the icy ground, leaving a mushy trail of melting snow mixed with the brown soil underneath.
He’s heavy. Maybe it’s because he’s significantly larger than her. Maybe it's because she has noodles for arms. Either way, it’s a herculean effort to move his dying body even a few metres.
But she can’t abandon him here, to die a painful death in the cold and the snow.
Like she abandoned-
Doesn’t matter. She needs to move.
She presses two frozen fingers to his jugular, searching frantically for a pulse. Still nothing.
He may well be dead already.
“Somebody, please! Help me!”
Despite her rising desperation, and the sheer panic gripping her heart, Iwanako feels strangely… distant, like she’s merely observing this tragedy happening from afar, disconnected from her body.
She moves, driven not so much by conscious thought but by some sheer outside force, compelling her to stay standing, to not collapse under the strain, to keep dragging him ever so slightly farther.
She heaves. She screams. She pulls.
It feels like an eternity.
Like she’s trapped in a snowy, beautiful hell.
Is this real?
Maybe it’s a dream, transformed into a particularly cruel and realistic nightmare, and she’s actually safe in her bed, not out here, behind the school, trying to save the life of the boy before her.
Are nightmares ever this painful, though?
Another heave. Another scream. His feet limply bounce along the uneven ground as she pulls, his head lolling from side to side.
“Help! Please!”
How much further? Iwanako can’t tell. Maybe she’s like Sisyphus, condemned to drag Hisao across the snow for all eternity.
This is hell.
She doesn’t notice the tears streaming down her face until they begin to freeze over, icy trails that cling to her cheeks.
Please don’t die. Please. Please. Please.
I can’t lose you too.
She’s so far away. She’s mourning a boy already dead.
Voices suddenly shoot up from behind her. Out of the corner of her eyes, she spots shadows, figures, surrounding them.
The voices grow louder, though she can’t for the life of her make out what they’re saying, like she’s miles underwater.
Hands grip her arms, her shoulders, her torso. She’s not even in control of her own body anymore. The fingers that eventually relinquish their hold on Hisao’s hoodie must be someone else’s.
Why? Why? Why?
Why him? Why me?
The hands fall away, and she’s lost to the snow.
…
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The slightly unsteady beeping of the EKG machine echoes in Iwanako’s ears.
Before her lies a boy, dressed in a thin, blue gown, lying motionless on a hospital bed, an oxygen mask strapped to his face, all manner of cannulas, IVs and wires seeming to sprout from his body. She doesn’t even know how she got here. It’s like she’s been whisked from one horrific set-piece to another on a cruel and incomprehensible wind.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Still, his heart is beating. Somewhere, at the edge of her consciousness, she realises that means she succeeded in some way, that she saved his life.
It doesn’t feel like it at all, though. It feels like lead has taken the place of blood in her veins, weighing her down, slowing her thoughts until she’s just a zombie, blankly observing as Hisao’s chest slowly rises and falls.
What have I done?
The questions come, unbidden, to her sluggish and vulnerable mind.
You did this.
Did I?
Iwanako can’t help but wonder.
It was her who wrote the note. It was her who asked a friend to slip it in his maths textbook. It was her who chose the base of that cursed bare maple tree, far away from the prying eyes of the staff and students. It was her who walked up to him.
It was her who said the words that nearly killed him.
An accident. An accident. An accident.
She can only repeat it to herself so many times. It doesn’t change the reality in front of her.
A few vague memories penetrate the fog that clouds her mind. The unending sirens of an ambulance. The concerned, meaningless platitudes of her homeroom teacher. The whispers of her classmates that surround her like a nest of snakes, hissing with suspicion and rumour.
She doesn’t have the will to counter them. She doesn’t have the will to do much of anything. The hospital room is her only reality; a sterile, white-walled purgatory just for her and the boy she almost killed.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The guilt. The anger. The sadness. They all feed the voice that pounds at her mind, scratching at her self-worth, a voice that keeps her coming back, to open that door, to sit on that uncomfortable plastic stool and watch his chest rise and fall.
This is your punishment. Your penance.
Stay.
Stay with him.
That’s the least you can do.
She obeys, even when every minute, every second, pokes another hole in her heart.
So, she stays. She sits. She waits. Hour after hour, day in, day out, she watches over him.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
She stays as Hisao is wheeled in and out of the room for uncountable surgeries, the nurses and doctors a rolling wave that drifts in and out like the tide.
She stays as he slowly begins to awaken, the anaesthesia clouding his words and perception. His eyes are foggy and confused. She says a few words of comfort, but they are as meaningful and automated as the output of a vending machine.
She stays as her classmates crowd the room, a colourful flock of birds that shower him in gifts, flowers, sympathy and platitudes. None of them spare a glance in her direction.
She stays as they disappear, as the rabble begins to thin and the presents begin to vanish, as though Hisao himself is fading from the class’s collective consciousness.
She stays as he begins to retreat inside himself. It’s like the real Hisao died that day in the snow, to be replaced by a zombie bearing only his physical likeness. Gone is his somewhat awkward but earnest smile, the drive that pervaded his movements, the clearness in his voice. He simply stares, vacantly, at the walls or out the window, expressionless whenever his parents or the medical staff try to reach him.
She stays as the seasons begin to change. Through the window opposite her, she watches as the snow begins to give way to sunlight, the world awakening from winter into spring.
The distance grows. They’re less than thirty centimetres apart, but Hisao may as well be on a different continent. Even his close friends begin to drift away, one by one, unable to break through the wall he’s put up around himself.
Once again, it’s just her, Hisao, and the never-ending beat of the EKG. It’s as if they’re back to day one, when he was first wheeled into the room that now serves as their prison.
Why stay?
It’s a question she keeps asking herself, every time she’s at the door, her hand on the doorknob.
It’s because, back then-
Shut up.
If she could just stay by his side, for just a little longer.
Maybe…
Maybe things would turn out alright.
Iwanako feels that strange sense of déjà vu, like she’s spent her past life, and the life before that, and the life before that, in this chair, waiting.
And yet, words fail her.
Say something.
Anything.
Please.
She wants to give comfort, to tell him something that will ease his pain. Anything. Anything at all. Anything beyond the automated greetings and meaningless, pre-cut phrases of sympathy that are so painful to say.
Iwanako wants the words to bridge that impossible distance. They whirl in her mind, collecting and dissipating every time she parts her lips.
The words once tumbled from her mouth with ease, like she was reading from a script. Now, it’s like a vice has been clamped around her jaw, physically preventing her from reaching out, as Hisao drifts further and further away.
Just one word.
Please.
Nothing.
It’s as if he’s given up altogether. Silence reigns, broken only by that infernal EKG machine.
But she can’t abandon him.
She has to stay.
She has to.
So, she returns.
Again, and again, and again.
Nothing’s improving. Nothing’s changing. He’s still in that bed. She’s still on that stool.
Stay.
Stay.
You have to stay.
Don’t you remember what happened last time?
She does, she does.
But…
There’s only so much pain she can take. Only so many stabs her heart can survive. Only so much weight she can carry on her shoulders.
It’s all…
It’s all becoming too much.
I…
“I can’t take it anymore.”
She doesn’t even realise she’s whispered the words until they’re past her lips. The first words she’s said that aren’t greetings or platitudes.
The first words she’s managed to say from her heart.
Something warm and moist falls onto her cheek. She faintly realises that it’s the first time she’s cried since she started coming to the hospital.
Iwanako stands up. There’s no reaction from the boy in front of her. He doesn’t even seem to have heard her words.
She wants to stay. Every neuron in her brain seems to be begging her to resume her seat, to keep playing this game. Her body doesn’t listen. She turns for the door.
I…
I never want to come back here, ever again.
She’s going to leave him behind. The one thing she swore never to do.
You’re cruel. You’re heartless.
Something claws at her mind, fighting her, fighting every move she makes.
You can’t do this. You can’t. You can’t.
You haven’t changed at all, have you?
She needs to get out. Now. Before she breaks down entirely and can’t make it out the door.
As her hand grasps the cool metal of the doorknob, Iwanako turns her head, one last time, to the boy lying limply on the hospital bed.
“I’m sorry, Hisao.”
She pulls the door open. There’s no hospital hallway this time. Instead, an oddly familiar black void greets her.
Before she can even process what’s happening, she takes a step forward, as though her legs have a mind of their own.
Oblivion rushes up to meet her.
The last thing she remembers is the sensation of cool autumn air.
(Previous Chapter) (Next Chapter)
Let's get this show on the road.
I haven't hidden my somewhat unhealthy fascination with Iwanako as a character, if my oneshot library has anything to say. There's just something about her role in the story, simultaneously vital yet irrelevant, that's strangely captivating in a narrative sense. I can't wait to give Iwanako the spotlight she deserves.
As usual, updates will be infrequent with the rhythms and tempo of my life.
Oh, and don't be fooled by the structure: this is not a pseudo-route.
Without further ado, I hope you enjoy.
Stay safe, everyone.
Chapter 1-3: Again
Hey, ‘Nako…
…can I tell you a secret?
Her back hurts.
That’s the first thing that crosses her mind.
The second thing is that her bed has become unusually hard and disjointed, as though she’s sleeping on piled wood.
She opens her eyes to find her bedroom weirdly gloomy, like it’s illuminated in a strange half-light glow.
Did something happen to my nightlight?
She tries to turn over in her bed.
Instead, she finds herself tumbling out into nothing but empty air.
She’s spinning, falling, and totally disorientated.
Light floods her vision in the millisecond before she hits the ground.
The impact knocks the wind right out of her, cutting her voice off mid-scream of surprise, sending her sprawling over the linoleum floor.
She clenches her eyes and hands shut, trying to regain control of her heart that’s beating wildly out of her chest.
A pregnant, eerie silence descends, broken only by the dull thump of her heart pounding in her ears.
Slowly, she opens her eyelids just a crack, taking in her surroundings. Above her, a plain, white ceiling checkered with smooth tiling, like the kind they use at school. A single rectangular fluorescent light. One of those fire sprinklers with a jagged metal head poking out towards her.
And the upside-down face of a strangely familiar pink-haired girl, golden eyes looking down on her from above.
The girl smiles a big, broad grin, like she’s been expecting her all this time.
“Welcome back, Nacchan.”
…
Tick. Tick. Tick.
There’s a clock hanging up on the wall at the front of the classroom, above the blackboards. The minute and hour hands are frozen at 12 o’clock, yet the second hand continues to make its way around the clock face, ticking on without a care in the world.
She briefly wonders if it’s broken; though, considering what she’s just witnessed, she wouldn’t be surprised if something much greater is in play.
“You don’t have to sit like that, Nacchan. We’re not in class, you know.”
Iwanako is jolted out of her ruminations. She turns her head to see Misha sitting opposite her, across the single wooden table between them, lounging back in her seat, a thin, teasing smile on her face.
“I mean, look at you. Your back’s not even touching the chair. You look like a soldier, Nacchan.”
Iwanako looks down at herself. She’s indeed ramrod straight, her back clear of the chair, legs together, her hands on her thighs in the manner of some high-class lady.
It’s not comfortable, she knows, but it’s how she’s always sat in class, with people she doesn’t quite know around her.
She looks to the side, almost ashamed.
“This… this is how I normally sit.”
Misha shakes her head and seems to giggle, though it comes out more like a huff of disbelief.
“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you, Nacchan.”
Iwanako tries, slowly letting her back touch the wood of the chair, but she can’t truly relax. Not when she’s still not sure… what Misha is, or where she is, or anything about this…
Well, she’s not sure if it’s still a dream world or not. She’s not sure of anything at all, actually. She notices her fingers ever so slightly shaking, over her maroon skirt, and she balls them into fists.
Misha drops the thin smile and lowers her head, scratching at a chip in the wood in the corner of the table.
For a long moment, an awkward silence reigns between them.
Finally, Misha opens her mouth, all traces of that bubbly cuteness long gone, replaced by a seriousness that clashes strongly with her bright pink hair.
“Nacchan… do you happen to know a… Hisao Nakai?”
Iwanako’s heart stops.
Every muscle in her body seems to instantly tense, her mouth turning to sandpaper.
That’s not a name she wants to hear.
Her mind immediately begins to whirl.
What?!
How…
How does she know him?
Her breath catches, choking her. It’s as if she’s the one having a heart attack.
As Iwanako fights for air, Misha looks up, cocking her head, as though repeating her question with but a gesture.
Sputtering, she finally manages to force the words out.
“Wha… I… I do, but… how do youknow him?!”
Just… who is this girl?
Misha raises her eyebrows but doesn’t seem particularly surprised, only nodding sagely in response.
“Yeah, figured you knew him. Seems to be a common theme, here.”
Iwanako shakes her head, slowly.
“That… doesn’t explain how you know Hisao…”
Misha pauses, opening and closing her mouth repeatedly, as though wondering if she should answer Iwanako’s repeat questioning before proceeding. Then, she relents, sighing once and turning her gaze to the white void just outside the slatted windows.
“I’m Hisao’s friend. Or… was. He’s in my class, and we have a mutual friend, so I know quite a bit about him.”
She’s… Hisao’s friend?
Iwanako’s brain rapidly begins to cycle through what few memories exist inside her head. The faces of her classmates are all blurry and indistinguishable, like she’s viewing them through frosted glass, but she knows for a fact that this Misha girl is not among Hisao’s friends at school. Her totally different uniform gives the game away immediately.
“I’m… pretty certain we’ve never met before, have we?”
Misha shakes her head.
“Nope. Never seen you before in my life, Nacchan.”
She tugs on the white blouse and green skirt she’s wearing.
“This is the uniform of my high school, Yamaku Academy. And because Hisao is both my friend and my classmate, it’s his high school, too.”
Iwanako blinks at Misha. None of this is really clicking with her.
“Okay, but… how is Hisao able to be in two different schools at the same time?”
Misha seems to have figured something out, as she taps on the edge of the wooden table with her index finger.
“He isn’t. He only recently transferred to Yamaku from his old high school…”
Misha slowly looks up, golden eyes staring into… well, what probably counts as her face.
“… and he transferred… because of his condition.”
It all comes together.
Oh.
Oh my god.
This Misha girl… knows about Hisao’s heart. She may even know about the incident.
And it’s all because…
She knows… the future?
She knows what happens to Hisao… after the hospital?
Iwanako’s heart is positively roaring in her ears. Every fibre of her being is hanging onto every word and gesture from her pink-haired opposite.
Misha’s serious face suddenly disappears, replaced by that big, broad grin she greeted Iwanako with on her second arrival. Her voice takes on that high-pitched, bubbly quality that’s so divorced from her earlier solemnity it’s as if a different person is speaking.
“Now, time for me to ask the questions, Nacchan”
Again, that almost instantaneous switch from her serious to her cutesy demeanour. It’s almost scary how well she pulls it off.
Misha abandons her lounging posture, leaning in over the table, until she’s almost face to non-existent face with Iwanako.
“How do you know Hisao?”
“I… I...”
The choked sounds escape from her lips. Iwanako is like a deer in the headlights.
Misha has likely figured out that she’s from Hisao’s current… well, at least for her, old high school. She’s possibly already trying to figure out the exact nature of Iwanako’s relationship to the boy.
Panic fills Iwanako’s veins.
She can’t know.
There’s no telling what Misha knows about Hisao’s future that Iwanako doesn’t. She has no way to know how her… abandonment of Hisao affected him, and what he’s told this girl about it.
She can never know about the hospital.
She can never know about the confession.
At the very least, unless Misha has some special skill in hiding her thoughts, she doesn’t know who instigated Hisao’s heart attack, as Iwanako’s name doesn’t appear to be ringing any bells.
Still, a prolonged silence would only make her look more suspicious. She needs to answer, and fast.
She chokes the words out.
“I’m a… classmate of his. At his… old high school.”
The barest of truths. A lie of omission.
Misha nods, though her golden eyes keep flicking up and down Iwanako’s body, the grin still set on her face.
“Okay and… were you friends with him?”
It’s like running hurdles, every lie a barrier she needs to jump. She vaguely wonders if she’s being remotely convincing, praying that Misha doesn’t know enough to challenge her version of events.
“Sort of… we’ve… spoken… now and then.”
Another series of nods. Misha’s grin begins to drop, though her tone remains upbeat.
“So… you know about his condition and all that stuff, right?”
The irony would be laughable, if her heart wasn’t beating in her throat.
“I do.”
More nods. Misha’s smile dies a little more. She turns, nodding her head towards the classroom sliding doors. She springs her final question.
“And when you went out there, did whatever you do… involve Hisao?”
The tree.
The ambulance.
The hospital.
The silence.
It’s still all about Hisao, isn’t it?
That day in the snow, she was irrevocably wedded to the boy, not through love, but through sheer, tragic circumstance. A bond as distant as the moon, yet one she can never break, tethering her to her nightmares, her isolation, her guilt.
You, you, you.
Who am I?
“Yes. We… we talked, but… it was… nothing important.”
An utter, bald-faced lie.
She can never know.
For a single, heart-stopping second, Misha frowns, as though she’s not entirely convinced by Iwanako’s words. She braces for her cover to be blown any second.
To her relief, the pink-haired girl relaxes, sitting back in her chair and relinquishing the look in her golden eyes.
“Yeah… that pretty much confirms what I was thinking, Nacchan.”
Her heart starts beating again.
“What… what do you mean?”
Misha takes a deep breath
“Nacchan… do you remember, just before you left, how I told you that this place feels like a dream, and that the real world isn’t like you think it is?”
Those same insane explanations, the same riddles.
“Yes…?
“All of that is true. Now that you’ve gone through the door… do you understand what I mean?”
The black void? The strange sense of unreality? Maybe, but…
“Not really.”
Misha puckers her lips, fidgeting with her fingers. She lowers her head, clearly trying to find the words she wants.
“Nacchan, when you were out there, did you ever feel that… someone else was in control of your body? You said things without really meaning to say them, like the words just tumble from your mouth without thinking about it?”
“I…”
At the confession. When she was saying her lines to Hisao. She was so nervous that she didn’t know what to say, yet, when she started speaking, it was as though she’d practiced it all her life.
And her arms, her legs. Dragging Hisao. Screaming for help. Stepping out that hospital door. Staying rooted on that cursed hospital stool, week after week, as though physically chained.
She wasn’t in control, not really. She was like an observer, forced to feel the pain of every move, every day, yet unable to change her course, like it was preordained for her.
“Yes… yes, I did.”
“And did you also feel like… umm, what’s the word? That you’d been there before? Like everything was weirdly familiar? Uhhh…”
“Déjà vu?”
Misha’s wide smile returns for a second as she snaps a finger.
“Yeah! Déjà vu… did you feel that?”
Has this happened before?
The ever-present feeling of unreality. The feeling of repetition. The endless cycle, the days and weeks melding together, until time itself was meaningless.
“Yes.”
Misha nods.
“That’s because the ‘real world’, or whatever’s outside that door, Nacchan, has a script.”
Huh?
“A what?”
“A script, like for a movie or a play. I don’t really know what it actually is… but that’s the closest thing I can think of. When you go into the ‘real world,’ you stop being yourself. You lose control. You start saying things without meaning to, you start doing things like you’re a little puppet on strings. You don’t even notice.”
Iwanako’s mouth hangs open in shock. Misha’s almost perfectly describing her experience out that door, being swept away on the current of events beyond her control.
“I mean, Nacchan, outside of that feeling of déjà vu, you didn’t realise anything was wrong, did you? You just sort of went along with everything as it happened. You didn’t even remember what I told you here, right?”
Iwanako bobs her head. Misha continues.
“From what I’ve been able to figure out, this ‘script,’ or whatever it is, it’s all centered on Hisao’s… story, if you get what I mean. I don’t know how, or why. But everything that happens seems to be connected to Hisao, and Hisao alone. All the places, all the people, everything leads back to him. When you were out there, do you remember doing… well, anything that wasn’t directly related to Hisao?”
Every scene. The confession. The rescue. The hospital.
You, you, you.
Always you.
She shakes her head.
“Right? There has to be a script. Nothing else explains it. You’re still stuck at Hisao’s old high school, while I’m at Hisao’s new one. I just happen to be further along in the script than you. That’s how I figured out you had to be from his old school, and why I know about Hisao’s… condition.”
It’s almost surreal, being blindsided by the knowledge of a girl with Misha’s looks. Clearly, this pink-haired girl is not all frivolity. She, in a quite literal sense, knows about the future.
Despite the sheer illogicality of everything presented before her, Iwanako is struggling to reject the evidence from her own eyes.
She saw what was outside that door.
“Yes, but… then… what is this place?”
This old classroom, filled with cleaning materials and discarded furniture. What is it?
Misha, again, seems to be unexpectedly full of answers.
“We’re in the dumping ground, Nacchan. Whatever it is out there- the world, the universe, the story- it’s done with us. We served our purpose. We made our exit from the script. Whoever- or whatever- made this world decided that we needed to be put out of sight. So, they’ve put us in the Yamaku cleaning room where no one can find us.”
The dumping ground.
“So… this is your high school?”
“Pretty certain, yeah. Same walls, same ceiling, same chairs and tables, same windows. This is Yamaku, alright. There doesn’t really exist a world beyond Hisao, Yamaku, you and me, and a few other people. It’s just when you’re out there, you don’t notice the gaps because you’re stuck playing out the script. When you’re out there, the script is all there is.”
The script is all there is.
“Everything is about that script, Nacchan. Everything. That’s why you don’t have a face, or why you can’t remember your last name, or anything else about your life. You come from before Hisao gets to Yamaku. The world, or whatever it is, never filled in the details. It needs you to just be Hisao’s classmate, just like all my ‘classmates’ here. All the other things don’t help with that, so they were never made.”
Something doesn’t click with Iwanako. It’s because… she’s so much more than a mere classmate to Hisao. She was essentially his living, breathing arrow to the heart.
So why?
Why don’t I have a name? A face?
Who am I?
She wishes she could ask Misha, but she’s already established herself as just another one of Hisao’s classmates. There’s no chance.
She asks something else, instead.
“How… did you figure this all out?”
Misha shakes her head.
“I haven’t. I don’t know a lot about what’s going on out there, Nacchan.”
Her eyes cloud over, like she’s remembering ancient history.
“I always ended up here after… well, it doesn’t matter. I would play my part, live out what I thought was the real world, and then end up here. I’d head out again and again, to escape what I thought was a bad dream and back into reality. And I’d go right back to where I started, saying the same words, doing the same things… well, some things were different here and there, but the end was always the same.”
A small smile creeps onto her face.
“A few times, I managed to ‘wake up,’ if you get what I mean. I went off-script. I didn’t say the things I was meant to say or do the things I was meant to do. For a little while, I was free.”
The smile disappears.
“But no matter what I did, the world would always make me end up in the same place. I could never fully control my feelings, or my words, or my actions. Even if I knew what was about to happen, I would always end up returning to the script, saying my last few lines. It always finds a way to force the ending it’s written out for me. And then it sends me back here.”
She sighs.
“I’ve never been able to break the cycle. I’ve tried, Nacchan, I’ve tried so many times. No matter what I do, it always stays the same.”
That’s how she knows.
It’s all starting to make sense, in a crazy sort of way.
“So then… why are you still here? Instead of out there, trying to break the cycle?”
Misha dips her head, her expression suddenly morphing into a mix between sadness, frustration and anger. That level tone she’s managed to maintain all this time begins to crack.
“There’s no place for me in that world now. They’ve replaced me, Nacchan.”
Iwanako’s heart sinks.
“What do you mean, replaced?”
“Out there, there’s a whole new Misha, exactly like me, just with a different script. I can’t go out there as myself. There’s no place for me in that world anymore, Nacchan, so it rejects me. If I try to go through that door, all I can do is watch from afar, and then it sends me back to this place. I’m stuck here.”
Misha’s expression turns even more downcast, and Iwanako belatedly notices a tear beginning to form in the corner of Misha’s right eye.
“Whatever the world is, it’s written me, my words, everything, out of that world. I don’t exist anymore, Nacchan. Not to Hisao, and not to my friends.”
Silence fills the air between them. Iwanako doesn’t even know how to respond. She’s still struggling to understand the absolute avalanche of insane explanations that have come her way. Misha looks up at her, her golden eyes roving over… her ‘face,’ until she suddenly turns away and covers her own face with her hands.
Iwanako immediately gets to her feet.
“Are you-”
“Sorry, Nacchan. It… it’s just kinda hard to deal with the fact you don’t have a face, you know? It’s a bit horror movie-y, even though I… I know you’re still breathing and seeing and talking like a normal person...”
Misha gives a breathy, somewhat scared-sounding laugh, but manages to uncover her hands from her face.
On reflection, it probably would be a crazy experience trying to converse with someone who has no facial features. Considering how long they’ve been talking, Misha’s done an admirable job of holding it all together.
Still, it… rankles Iwanako. Even in this reality-bending space, no one’s looking at her. No one’s seeing her.
You, you, you.
“I wonder if I have a face when I’m out there.”
Misha sits back up, flicking her pink curls with a finger, though she makes a point of not looking anywhere near Iwanako’s direction.
“You probably don’t. It’s just that the script forces everyone else, including you, Nacchan, not to notice.”
Yet another awkward silence. Iwanako resumes her seat, while Misha goes back to scratching at that chip in the wooden desk.
Then, the pink-haired girl makes an unexpected offer.
“Hey, Nacchan, why don’t we make a deal?”
“A deal?”
Closing her eyes, Misha takes two deep breaths, before opening them up and trying her best to look at Iwanako’s head.
“I think we can both agree that we need to get out of here, right?”
That’s indisputable. Leave, wake up, whatever. Iwanako wants out of this place. If her story is truthful, Misha’s been trying to leave since she got here.
“Yes.”
Misha glances at the door next to them.
“I can’t go out that door anymore, but you can, Nacchan. You can head out there and still act as yourself, though you’ll still be trapped by the script.”
Iwanako can see where this is going. Misha breaks out that ingratiating, cutesy smile yet again.
“So, how about we help each other~? I’ll tell you how I managed to escape the script and break the cycle, and, in return, you head back out that door and into the world. Then, when you do manage to escape, you come back to this room and help me leave. How does that sound~?”
“Ah…”
Head back out there?
Do the confession, the rescue, the hospital, all over again?
The very thought makes her sick to her stomach. Like escaping from a burning building before being told to head back inside.
It’s not even a particularly great deal. For one thing, Iwanako cynically observes, Misha’s in a bad bargaining position. If Iwanako does manage to escape, she’s under no obligation to return to this godforsaken room and rescue Misha. That is, if she can even find her way back here.
“What if I refuse?”
Misha drops the smile and puckers her lips.
“Then you’ll have spend the same hundreds of cycles I did to figure out how to break out yourself.”
Iwanako grimaces. It’s not a pretty thought.
“You know that if I do escape and refuse to come back, or if I just can’t find my way back here, it’d have the same end effect, right?”
Misha sighs, resignedly, slumping back in her chair.
“Yeah, I know. But… I’d really like you to try, Nacchan. Besides, once we escape, we’d be much better as a team. Two is better than one, right?”
That’s true. Having a partner would be really useful if they manage to escape from this place. In any case, Iwanako can’t bear the thought of leaving this poor girl behind in this lonely purgatory. Her already overburdened conscience wouldn’t be able to take it.
She can’t abandon her here.
Not like she abando-
“Alright. I accept.”
Misha stands and extends a hand.
“Let’s shake on it. Promise me.”
Iwanako stands, but stares at the outstretched hand.
A part of her still refuses to accept Misha’s explanation, or even her existence. Despite all she’s witnessed and all she’s learned, a part of her wants to believe that this is still a bad dream, that all she needs to do is pinch herself, and she’ll wake up, under the covers, beneath the faint glow of her ladybug nightlight.
But dream or not, she still needs to escape. Sitting here and doing nothing won’t help. She grasps the girl’s hand. It’s soft and warm.
“I promise, Misha. I promise I’ll come back to help you.”
Misha’s lips extend in a small smile, much smaller than her usual big grin, yet Iwanako can’t help but feel it’s a bit more natural, a bit more genuine.
“Thanks, Nacchan.”
Both break the handshake and resume their seats. Strangely, Iwanako’s confusion seems to lessen somewhat, and suddenly she’s all business. Maybe having a simple goal in mind is helping.
“So, how do I escape the script?”
Misha leans forward.
“It’s… kinda simple, actually. Remember how, when you’re in the world, you don’t notice how you’re playing out the script, because the script is all there is?”
Iwanako nods.
“Okay, but remember that feeling of… uh… uh… what was it…”
“Déjà vu?”
“Right! Sorry, I keep forgetting the word. Déjà vu?”
Another nod.
“That’s the key. That feeling is the only way I realised that I was in the script, and the world around me wasn’t real. You need to… use that feeling to wake yourself up.”
“Use that feeling?”
“Yeah. When you notice that things look a little familiar, or that things are repeating, you can’t let yourself brush it off and carry on. You need to actually stop and think about it. You don’t remember anything that happens here because the script won’t allow it. Only by trying, really, really hard, to think about why you feel like that, can you actually break out.”
It’s all a little… weird, but Iwanako does get the gist of what Misha is saying.
“Remember, the script isn’t some set thing. It changes to force you back onto the path it wants you to go on, so you’ll say the last few lines it needs you say, and then it dumps you. You need to fight it, Nacchan. You need to fight the script with everything you’ve got, okay?”
She nods.
“And… what about coming back here? How do I find this place from out there?”
Misha’s face falls a little.
“I… don’t really know, Nacchan. You’ll have to figure it out yourself, because I never got that far. The one thing I can tell you is to look for the gaps.”
“Gaps?”
“Yeah. The world isn’t really real, so there’s like… limits to them. The places in the world aren’t that well made, so you’ll find things that don’t really line up, things that look a bit weird or out of place, or…”
Iwanako raises an eyebrow as Misha’s explanation seems to break down. She stumbles for a bit, trying to gather her thoughts, but eventually capitulates, shaking her head vigorously.
“I-It's a bit hard to explain. Both of those things, you have to experience it yourself to really know what I’m saying. You’ll get what I mean when you see it, don’t worry, okay?”
Iwanako can’t help but feel woefully unprepared. Then again, she wonders if there’s even preparation for the madness she’s experiencing.
“Okay, I understand, Misha.”
Another thin smile from her pink-haired opposite.
“Good luck~ ”
Her tone is sweet, cheerful, though Iwanako can’t help but feel how ominous Misha’s words are.
She stands, steadily making her way over to that wooden sliding door, her fingers finding the cool metal latch. She’s going back. She’s going to have to relive all her pain, all her suffering. She’s going to have to watch Hisao wither and sink into himself. She’s going to have to carry that guilt in her heart, every time she steps through that hospital door.
She’s voluntarily jumping back into hell.
But it’s either a guaranteed eternity in this purgatory, or the chance of escape out there.
What a choice.
Iwanako closes her eyes and takes a deep breath; in, and out.
Steeling herself, she grasps the latch, and slams open the door with all her might.
Instantly, she’s met with that same black void. The cool sensation of autumn air coils around her body.
She takes another breath. Then another. And another. Her fingers grip the sides. She’s once again the spacewalker.
Then, a thought suddenly pops into Iwanako’s head. For all her bluster, Misha has been noticeably coy about the specifics of her relationship to Hisao.
She turns to face the girl, who’s standing right behind her.
“What… actually happens when you head out this door and into Yamaku? What happens in your script, Misha?
The girl suddenly freezes. Now, it’s her turn to be caught in the headlights. Her golden eyes look this way and that, as though searching for a way to escape.
Then, her expression changes, one Iwanako hasn’t yet seen before. The tiniest of smiles crosses her lips. It sends chills down Iwanako’s spine.
Her voice takes on a dangerous tone.
“I’ll tell you… if you tell me what’s really going on between you and Hisao.”
Iwanako tenses.
The look in Misha’s eyes is unmistakable.
She suspects something.
It seems that both of them are keeping secrets.
For a moment, they're frozen, daring each other to make a move.
Iwanako breaks first. She simply turns away, facing into the inky darkness beyond. There’s no point in getting hung up on it now. They have a job to do.
She takes one final, deep breath.
Unexpectedly, Misha’s voice pipes up behind her, her tone no longer cutting, but softer, more comforting.
“When you go out there… don’t hurt yourself too much, okay, Nacchan?”
Taking one last look at her pink-haired companion, Iwanako nods…
…and leaps into the long dark.
Happy Halloween!
Kindly edited by Piroska.
Stay safe, everyone.