Disclaimer: I do not own any of the works of Ryohgo Narita. I can only hope to be as amazing as him :(

Additional Disclaimer: Before any of you see an OC narrating the first chapter and run off screaming, rest assured that I dislike Mary Sues as much as you. She's not going to take over this story. Just the beginning.

Counterpoint: In music, the relationship between two voices that are harmonically interdependent, but independent in rhythm and contour.

Confession of an American Exchange Student

一期一会

"Once in a Lifetime"

I guess what I remember most about that night was the overwhelming need to throw up.

Every few hours, I would suddenly wake up, and the wave of nausea would rise up to my mouth as my stomach emptied itself on the floor, or did its best to once it was already dry.

"Ara, mata ka yo..."

"Sore iutcha dame desu yo, kanjasan no mae ni."

"Da~ka~ra, nihongo wakarahen ya!"

I could never figure out where I was at first, and I remember panicking at the strange language surrounding me, and wondering if I had forgotten English. I fought back when unfamiliar hands tried to grab me, and even more when I saw the tube in my arm. After a few moments, though, I would remember that the gibberish I heard was Japanese, although my brain was too foggy to decode what they were saying, and that the tube was an IV.

And about the moment I put together that I was in a Japanese hospital, the last thing that had happened would come to the surface again. And, unlike everything else, it was crystal clear.

Specifically, the moment he died.

The boy with the brown hair. The one who had come to save me. The one they shot over and over...God, I don't know how many times…

...

…Um, sorry, do you have a glass of water?

No, no, I'm fine. I just…don't think I need to tell you all this. That was usually how much I remembered before the sedatives kicked in, anyway.

Ah, I'm telling this all wrong. You've probably read all of the important stuff in the papers by now, but I should start from the beginning, shouldn't I?

I guess you could say this started from when I was little. I never really left home much—I went to the same school in South Carolina from kindergarten through twelfth grade, and my graduating class was only 34 people. I knew everyone, and everyone knew me: salutatorian, straight As in everything, perfect driving record, perfect behavior, scholarship to my university of choice. Boring as fuck, too.

I mean, what is there to say about a straight arrow? It always goes in the direction you expect, like it's supposed to.

I was careful to never like anything unpopular, and if I did I hid it expertly. I never demanded anything, never stepped on any toes, never rocked the boat. And if I did I made sure to apologize profusely.

Maybe that's why I like Japan so much…

Oh, um, I mean, Japan is very interesting, but you have to admit, your culture at large is a lot more openly conformist than mine.

Anyway, even in college I never managed to break out of my straight-ness, keeping up my streak of As and majoring in Japanese and Linguistics. After my sophomore year, one of my Japanese professors suggested that I study abroad if I really wanted to be fluent.

Actually, I had wanted to study abroad since I was little, but since my parents were still supporting me, I wasn't sure if they would approve of something so expensive. In the end, I earned enough scholarship money not only to go on the summer program, but to have a decent stipend left over. My parents said that if I wanted to, I could stay in Japan a few extra weeks, do some touristy stuff and soak up the culture.

Heh.

The six weeks of the program were fine, except for my host mother's cousin Misao, who came over for dinner every week and spent the whole time rambling on and on about his ex-wife. After the program officially ended, I had to find somewhere else to live because my host family was going on vacation. All the other American students went home, and for the first time, I was completely alone, away from anyone who knew me.

And it was fucking awesome.

Imagine living your whole life among the same people, with the same parents, and everyone expecting you to be a certain way because that's how you've always been. I didn't want to disappoint my parents the way my divorced alcoholic brother had, and I was just too scared to find out what would happen if I ever took a step off the straight and narrow.

But here, if I did, just once—nobody would ever know, would they?

I guess you could say it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I had no idea what I was doing, but I decided to go to a club in Shibuya since I had just turned 20. It was smoky, loud, and smelled terrible, but I met a girl there—one of those girls you see at the station sometimes, with long, painted fingernails, bleached blond hair and way too much makeup—who wanted an American friend and said she would show me where the good places were.

We went to all kinds of bars, casinos, host clubs, and I fell in love with the Tokyo nightlife. Not because I enjoyed the taste of alcohol, or the boys, but because for the first time in my life, I was doing something that I wanted to do. I even tried drugs for the first time.

Although really I just hit my rebellious phase a few years late.

Looking back, I can remember wondering every so often—usually when I was falling down stairs or throwing up after I got back home—if this was actually fun, but I never gave it a second thought.

But then...well, you've read the newspaper.

That's what I'm here to talk to you about.

In the version you know, I was kidnapped by some rogue members of a drug cartel, for what purpose I'm not really sure. They drugged me and left me in a warehouse, and then the police say they ended up fighting over what to do with me and killed each other. The evidence they left behind ended up being instrumental in arresting some important members of the cartel.

But I don't think that's what happened.

There was a boy who came to rescue me. I don't know what happened exactly—it's all a little fuzzy—but he tried to save me and they killed him. I think the reason they fought was because of him, not me. If it weren't for him, I don't know where I'd be right now.

When I talked to the police, I was hoping they would tell me something about him, so that I could thank his family—and apologize. I don't think an apology is nearly enough, but I wanted to do something. But they all just kept saying that the only bodies they found were from the cartel, all of the bullets that were fired were accounted for, and I probably hallucinated the boy from the drugs. I tried to tell the reporters, and even though they said they would mention him, there was nothing.

I actually called one of them because I was so angry—and then he told me something strange. He said that he had tried to see if he could find anything, but then he got a call telling him to cease and desist, so he just wrote the article you read. Then he told me that if I really wanted to know what was going on, I should talk to you.

I don't know what all this means, but there's something going on here. Somebody died to save me, and somebody else is trying to cover it up. My selfishness is what caused all of this, and I want to make up for it however I can.

But how I feel is beside the point, isn't it?

The point is, I want to know who that boy was, and I'll do what it takes to find out.

Can you find him for me, Orihara-san?