This story, to the best of my knowledge, ends in death.
…No, that isn't quite it. This story ends with a beginning, a new being arising from two mating beings in the most unimaginable circumstance few in the world could comprehend. An unconventional birth of a very unconventional boy, the very same that sits before you.
This is not as much a story my recollection of their memories, rather what I perceive to be relevant as I, Sakiyama Touji, lead my life each day. It is difficult to…to even believe that I am a direct blend of two humans, two very, very special humans, and that in two years I have become a vastly different person than The One before me. My guardian once knew The One, but he explained to me (once I understood speech and could respond) that all he had known was "a mummified mass of odd flesh in the Master's basement." There was also talk of me as a Purebreed, a holy being, and as such I should be consumed eyes first in some diary he'd discovered, but that he found the cult to be a perverted ideal of Western beliefs. It seemed as though he had strong feelings about the subject, as if a small part of his heart had been wounded by it's system, but to this day I have never prompted him to further elaborate on the topic. Personally, I suspect it is related to the boy in the photos, the long-haired and smiling one wearing an eye patch and playing with Christie, our iguana. Kitani-san, that man, often stares at it for hours with a bleak and desperate expression. I will one day ask his name, but until then I simply burn incense every day after breakfast.
I attend a certain school, the same as my "Mother" and "Father". It haunts the chemistry teacher there to see me around. He says I look so much like him, that quiet and sickly "Youji" who "Makoto" would follow around here and there. They all watch me, all say I am such a beauty and so refined with the most peculiar bloody eyes, and yet again they speak of me as if I were meant to be their worshipped meat. Some days I would rather stay home, but Kitani will pick me up from bed as he did the first time and set me at the table, red apron stained with spices and grease, and urge me to go. "Not another delinquent," he always says. I suppose this also means that boy, one who's name I cannot remember. "Mother" will not give me the satisfaction sometimes of knowing everything, like how to translate English or to find my Aunt, but "Father" is often a bit more willing. All he will show me is Kitani-san fighting with him, and the death of that boy, but never do I know who committed it. I can decide to believe my own inferences, but before I ever have enough time to ponder, I'm stopped by the sickening memory of skittering flesh-monsters seizing "Mother", "Makoto" with a box cutter to my jugular, and a gunshot wound to the shoulder. My thoughts begin to wander elsewhere, and under this careful parental conditioning I am to remain safe from secrets before my time. This is a constant and daily routine, the same story playing over and over in my mind until the senselessness of it all becomes fiction, and all the senseless people become petty characters save for my caretaker. Even in the stories, he is made out to be a bad man, a killer and on the wrong side, but were he truly so evil I would be a lump of rotting refuse in the cellar. So, I consider the possibility that all this is a lie, a fabrication I've come up with to explain why I would not be able to remember fifteen years of my life and why I would be so stunted after a long coma. This is all a dream, a game I play with myself to stay busy and catch up with myself, another mystery of the lovely Sakiyama-kun for the boys to ponder. And thus I continue with my life, with living in a dream and in forgotten, lost footsteps. Footsteps that none are tempted to track, ones that would lead back to the single end, the junction of those feet and bodies into one mass of perfect, pure human. A Purebreed, a lovely binding of luck and lust and confusion and-
-but that is enough. I ponder enough in my spare time, enough to fill books. This story, this story of how I came to be, has potential to end with me. This whole cult that worships my birth has fallen, and yet the love, lust, and lives involved in it have barely begun! My life is precious and terrifying, beautiful and ugly, wonderful and dreadful for anyone, and everyone, who isn't me. That is why this story is a beginning, an end, a fiction in a reality. This story…is mine.