When you don't succeed, you give up. That's what she always thought. Doting, doting, doting, waiting for someone to say that she finally did something right. Was there a reason that the world said she was a failure? A reason that she cannot succeed? There is no success in the world. Only failures. Only things she'd been receiving since he left. Goodbye, Pops.
Her name is Nanako; at least, that's what it was until she joined her little posse of friends, rowdy enough to start a riot. Her name was Nanako, pardon, and she is seventeen. Her father died when she was eight, and life was none but chaotic. Her name was Nanako Dojima, she is seventeen, and she is accused of conspiracies to pre-meditated murder, first degree murder, gang activity, and treason. Of course, none of these are true, and she'll tell you why, starting now.
...
My name is Nanako Dojima, and I am not a murderer.
Our story starts in the little town of Inaba, where my high school year begins. Of course, I don't really care about my high school year; it's just the time where you gossip, gossip, kill, gossip, and kill again. But I wouldn't know, now would I? That's what the story's about. I made friends quickly, with my shy and enthusiastic nature; I had boys crawling at my feet and girls serving me at my fingertips, and, if you'd ever seen me, you would've said that's 100% true. You're thinking 'well, when does it get good', aren't you? Just wait and see, my pet, it's going to be a long ride. Buckle up your seatbelts, kiss your girlfriends goodbye, and send your parents a farewell card, because you're not going back.
It starts after school on the sunniest day of the school year, August 17. The sun is hot, hot, hot, and girls are fanning under their skirts with reading pamphlets and boys are scrambling to take a peek. This day is very important, so you might as well take note. August 17th, scrawled on a piece of napkin in bright red pen. And, no, that's not a metaphor or simile or what have you for anything. Go do that. Right now.
I'm sitting on the roof, with a friend of mine. I can't remember his name; but he was the... son of the owner of the Textile Shop? Something akin to that. He wasn't too nice, a bit rough around the edges, but that's how I liked him. A lean, mean, back-talking machine. I had fallen harder than the beer caps we shot every Saturday in the park. His last name started with a T, now that I think about it, and his dad's name started with a K. Kanji, or somethin' to the tune of that. His dad was just as rough, if not, more, and it was a surprise that he was the one making the cute stuffed toys on the counter when you go in to pay for fabrics or buttons and what have you. You should have seen my face. Priceless.
This guy is important too. Go get a map, or something with Japan on it, and scurry your long-ass fingers to Inaba. Now circle it. With that same red pen.
He introduces me to his gang of 5, but their faces are unclear, and their names are even more distorted. Some guy was a brown-haired fellow, with a job at Junes. That's all I know, and if my therapist tries to wiggle anything more out of me again, I'll rip her pretty little hair out, and her fingernails too. Maybe gauge out her eyes so she won't look at me with those gorgeous little blues that ask me more questions than her mouth does. But anyways, they turn against me, 'n stick their little noses in the air like I was a fragile little porcelain Barbie that you buy for a few hundred bucks at an auction bid. Would you believe it. So I changed. I cut my hair, I tattooed my arms and legs to the point of no return. Even got a few piercings. Needless to say, they bowed down to me, like I was a god. I liked the attention. I liked it a lot.
Next month, in September, where the pansy guys are chilling their dicks off and the girls would stare and laugh, we were sitting on the roof again, smoking a drag or three, shooting gunshots in the sky, killing a couple of birds, even. We were inseparable. I was the Crazy Glue keeping this shitty, punk, dysfunctional family together. And we liked it that way. We'd push freshmen around, skip classes, and start food fights, just because we liked the rush; and I loved it the most. It was like an shot of adrenaline going up and down my spine every time, and I could never get enough.
But things never stay happy.
This is where it ends. This is when the killings start, where my adrenaline runs out, where we stare at each other as if to ask each person if they were the ones who did it, if we were the murderer among men, the wolf among the sheep.
My name is Nanako, and I was just a sheep.