Six years ago and I'm 17 years old. Thick black makeup is melting all over my face. I spent a good hour and a half perfecting the imperfect look, but somehow I don't mind. It is unbearably hot, but my body is shivering. The strobe lights are blinding me, rainbow rainbow rainbow, but I'm laughing because this-is-so-much-fun. Tesla is smiling at me, making me dizzy. I'm sure I'm forgetting something important. But this is the day-to-day, and I think I enjoy it.

I'm 17 years old and I'm such a child. I'm enthralled with his hair and bored with my hands. I admit that I'm lackluster; I admit I had sex with him for too many reasons and no good reason at all. I think I had the potential to make good choices, but I'm just like anybody else and I traded them away. I decided I was no good for her and I traded her away. I'm too young for this. What good could I do for her when I could barely do for myself?

I didn't need to go college. I took odd jobs around town until I was 20, but in my spare time I came to the local art museum and memorized the names of paintings. I was afraid of becoming stupid, basically. I had to keep my mind active or I was sure it would evaporate. I can't really tell if what I'm memorizing has any real value, but by the time I was 21 I was modestly knowledgeable and moderately well-known among the museum staff. When the previous curator, Ukitake-san, passed away that summer, there was no time to conduct interviews let alone advertise the job opening. I had no formal art history education or degree, but with more visitors streaming in over the break, you could say it was time for desperate measures. I asked them to take me on, and with some persuasion and compromise on the uniform, I became the fill-in. Eventually, it looked like I wasn't just keeping the spot warm – people recognized me, noisy kids listened to me, not to mention no one else seemed particularly interested in the position. I became the new curator. If I managed to hold on to this job, maybe I wasn't so worthless?

I'm 21 and I study my ass off. I memorize every fucking scenario, every damn loophole, every fucking page. I know it happens, but not to me, not like this. I'm angrier than I have any right to be. I want nothing to do with it. The most beautiful thing in Tokyo tonight is white and it makes me forget everything. I forget Tia is in the car, I forget Toshiro is just a kid. I don't even remember where we're going. My head smashes through the windshield and before I see black I hear Tia screaming at him, so loudly I wanted to tell her to shut up. I don't remember being scared.

I'd like to tell you I became a lawyer because my father was a bastard attorney who decimated his opponents, or because a close childhood friend of mine was killed and the murderer escaped unscathed. But I just wanted money. I hated worrying about money. I hated caring about money. It was like this shadow in my brain, never letting me completely out of the dark. I hated seeing my mother stressed to pieces over rent; I hated how she looked when we couldn't go to the movies on the weekend. Even more than that – did she really believe I cared about any of those things? More than I cared about her? She shouldn't have to think that way. I had to fix it.

I could read and write better than my friends and I liked to think I was pretty fucking patient guy, so I figured it was a good fit. Reading case after case after case for hours and summarizing the important shit for guys richer than you, not like it was impossible. But I didn't want to be anyone's bitch; I wanted to be one of those rich guys in ridiculously showy suits.

I took the exam again a year later and I got into law school. Am I still a good guy?

Author's note: I came up with the idea for this story a while ago, but I'm pretty rusty on my writing. I apologize for such a short intro chapter, but if you have any interest in reading more, please let me know!