“Why?”
“‘Why’ what?”
“Did I arrive too late?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Misaki is…”
“You were off by only five minutes. Maybe you should be a detective.”
I slowly turned my face to the right. Standing there was Misaki. She was wearing a black coat that blended with the darkness.
Perching on the edge of the bench, Misaki explained, “You finally said something. I didn’t know what to do because you were silent for so long.”
Part Three
A violent rage boiled up inside me. I felt as though she had made an ass out of me. Forcing those feelings back down inside, I said in as gentle a tone as possible, “Well then, let’s go home! It’s cold out here!”
“I don’t want to.”
What do you mean you don’t want to?! You, ah crap, just stop making a fool out of me. I nearly started railing at her as hard as I could; but somehow, I was able to control the impulse.
I tried to remember a book I had read long ago called The Psychology of Self-Injury. It had theorized, “Those who try to commit suicide actually want someone to save them. They want someone to listen to what they have to say, so try and listen to them with a kind demeanor, as gently as possible, without chiming in with any sort of negative comments.”
Those seemed to be the key points.
I turned to Misaki as I fixed my collar. That was proof of my gentle attitude. Then, I said, “Don’t die. Let’s keep living!”
Misaki smiled. It was a derisive smile.
I wanted to tell her just how much trouble I had gone through to get all the way here; of course, I held back. In a kindly voice, I asked, “Why did you attempt suicide so suddenly?”
“It wasn’t your fault or anything, Satou.”
“I know that. So…”
“I’ve grown tired of living.”
“Explain in more concrete terms.”
“I got sick of everything. There was no reason for me to keep on living.” She chanted these abstractions, a smile still on her face. Was she making a fool out of me, after all?
“Yeah, that’s right. I don’t think that I can get help from you any longer, Satou. You’re just a hikikomori, in the end.”
The blood rushed to my head. “Go ahead and die!”
“I will die.”
“No! I was kidding. Don’t die. If you die, you’ll go to hell.”
“You don’t have to be in such a panic. To begin with, I’m basically already dead, seeing how I took all the drugs I’d saved over an entire year. If my uncle hadn’t found me, I would have succeeded. No matter what you do, Satou, I’m determined to go ahead and die.”
There, in the winter, standing at a cape in the inky darkness, we continued discussing whether to live or die. The conversation was light years removed from the normal, everyday world.
It was already past midnight, and it was freezing. Misaki’s teeth chattered.
“Either way, I’m going to die.” She had grown defiant. “Go ahead and try to stop me if you want, even though it’s impossible.”
Clearly, the views on suicide traditionally retained by our society no longer held any merit. Without any shame at all, she was arguing for death.
I rebutted, “If you’re saying stuff like that, Misaki, then you don’t really feel like dying anymore, do you?”
In response, Misaki put her hand into her coat pocket and pulled out a metal object.
“I have a box cutter here.” The blade slid out of the handle. She declared, “Right now, I’ll cut my wrists with this box cutter!”
“That’s dangerous!” I tried to grab Misaki’s hand.
“Don’t come near me!” Misaki quickly jumped up from the bench to avoid my grasp.
“I don’t know what to do. I’m sure that I’ve gone crazy. If you come too close, I’ll probably cut you!” As she shouted this, Misaki stretched out her right hand, which gripped the box cutter, and put her left hand behind her back. She looked like she was attempting some fencing pose.
“What are you doing?”
“I learned it from a book called The Art of Murder that I read at the library. I’m employing the knife-fighting art of the Sicilian Mafia.”
Putting several feet between us, Misaki swung around the box cutter, threatening me.
“Aren’t you disgusted? Disgusted because the person you came all this way to save really is crazy? There’s nothing I can do about that, though, Satou. I’m sure you were thinking something along those lines, right? Like, you wanted to show how cool you are by saving some crazy girl about to commit suicide. That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it? But it’s impossible. It’s impossible!”
With the moon at her back, it was hard to see her, so I couldn’t tell what expression she wore. Though it sounded like a farce, it wasn’t. That much seemed certain. I asked her seriously, “If I told you I’m deeply in love with you, what would you do?”
“I wouldn’t do anything. I’m finished. I mean, you’re just a hikikomori to begin with, Satou. And you look like you’d change your mind quickly. Besides, in actuality, you don’t like me at all, right? If someone won’t be mine from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, it’s better for me to die. It’s not like my desires can be granted by just anyone. I always knew this. And that’s why, either way, I just need to die.”
“I like you! I love you! Please, don’t die!”
“Ha ha ha. You’re so funny, Satou. But it’s no use. I’m going to die!”
Our dialogue was somehow very much like a shoujo manga.
Still, I knew that words like “love” and “hate” probably weren’t that important. The problem likely lay in a deeper, more fundamental place. I thought that I should try my best to explain this to her. I should somehow put it into words for Misaki. However, the words would slip away at once. The second I pronounced them, they would lose all meaning.
I just didn’t understand. What should I do? What did I want to do?
What was I thinking…? It didn’t really matter if she died. That’s what I thought.
It’s all the same in the end. The only difference is whether death comes sooner or later. Even if I do keep living, there will he only more suffering and more hardship. There’s no meaning to it. There’s no meaning to life. It would he better to die. This was a thoroughly logical conclusion that no one could refute.
At least, I couldn’t refute it. In fact, I doubted that anyone was less suited to the role of convincing someone else to give up on suicide than I was.
“It’s not right.” I kept saying these ridiculous things. “Don’t say you’re going to die.”
All the words sounded artificial.
Deciding to rely on force, I stepped toward Misaki, who was still swinging the box cutter around. She backed up. Ignoring her wild movements, I lunged forward and reached out my right hand. Just before my hand touched Misaki’s body, the blade of the box cutter sliced open my palm. A second later, blood began to flow. It soaked into the snow.
It hurt, but the pain was wonderful.
Misaki stared at the bloody box cutter, a dreamy expression on her face. I gave her a smile.
Misaki looked as though she were also about to smile.
The wind blew, and powdered snow danced upward.
Finally, I understood. I knew what I needed to do: I would keep this girl alive. I would save her.
How? Does a hikikomori like me have the power to do things for others? Wasn’t that kind of thing impossible? Shouldn’t I know my place? Well?
Yet somewhere, there had to be a wonderful solution. I truly believed this. There had to be a way for everything to work out. There had to be a way to fulfill Misaki’s wishes and my own hopes. Surely, I already knew the answer.
I would erase her pain and make it possible for her to live on, laughing and happy. I would give her the vitality to make it until tomorrow, give her the strength to live. The method—I had to know it already, somehow.