The path to awareness isn't a short one. It's a road littered with pain, and confusion, and the feeling that something isn't quite right. The feeling that it's never quite right. Waking up in the morning and wondering where my parents are, and why I haven't called them yet- they said they wanted to hear from me, after all.
What were their numbers, anyway? And why didn't my cell have any contacts before Gekkoukan? Why does my file in the school office have nothing on it but the basics? An address, a contact number, and a birth date. I've got no allergies. I'm a blank slate. Not even asthma. Most students have something written in the 'notes' area. Parents divorced. Orphaned. The things teachers have to tiptoe around. No such things for me.
My teachers call me Mochizuki. Mr. Mochizuki, answer this question. Mochizuki, open the blinds. Mochizuki. Ryoji Mochizuki. My friends call me by my first name. Let's get some takoyaki, Ryoji. Ryoji, are you okay? You've got really nice hair, Ryoji. Ryoji. Ryoji Mochizuki. That's my name, right? Sometimes, it doesn't feel like it.
Feeling things is strange. As much as I hate to say it, I'm apathetic about so much in this world. It's like I'm seeing through shades of grey. Ms. Kirijo's father died last week. Kenji from my class is trying to put the moves on one of the teachers. We're travelling to Kyoto soon. Kyoto. For some reason, I'm looking forward to it. I don't like culture much, but it sounds like a nice trip. And he'll be in my room.
He's mysterious, just like I am. He never talks, only smiles and nods occasionally. He never says no, and he's always there—just there—ready to talk to whoever comes his way. We're both enigmas, but for different reasons. I don't answer questions about myself because I don't know how to. He doesn't answer questions about himself because, well, he just can't. It's like he's incapable of being his own person. He needs to leech off others to exist. Little leech-boy Arisato, that's who he is.
Sometimes I accidentally call myself by his name. I'll be chatting someone up down at Paulownia and it'll just slip out—'my name? I'm Minato Arisato'. I correct myself right away, every time, but the confused looks still target me. Everyone thinks I'm strange. Maybe I am. I think so, at least. My parents probably abandoned me because I'm a freaky amnesiac who doesn't even remember their own name.
I have to practice saying it to the mirror sometimes.
"This is Ryoji Mochizuki," I tell myself, looking at the chocolate brown hair and the two-toned blue eyes. I can't be fully Japanese, I've decided. I think my mother is European—her name is probably something plain and proper, like Elizabeth, or Mary. Or maybe I have foreign grandparents? I'm confusing myself.
I confuse myself a lot of the time. I tell myself I feel happy when I really don't. I'm not sure that I know what 'happy' even means. I think it's supposed to be a warm, fuzzy feeling somewhere… Who am I to know? I'm not even human. Wait, where did that come from? I can't kid about things like that. Only kids kid about things. I'm not a kid. I'm not ten. Or am I?
1999 seems like an important year to me. That's a decade ago now. Whenever I think about that year, I feel like I've done something terrible. When I think about that year, I start thinking about Minato Arisato. I read people's files sometimes-- I like breaking into the systems—and so I know everything about everyone. Minato's parents died in 1999. Something happened to me that year, too.
Every now and then, I get warped messages on my answering machine, with distorted voices and loud moaning in the background—like the audio is from a horror movie—telling me that 1999 was special. They never tell me why, or who they are, but one of the voices sounds like my mother. I know what my mother sounds like? Who is my mother?
Mochizuki. Mochizuki. The phone books have three other entries for that surname in Iwatodai, and none of them are my parents. There's an A. Mochizuki down Shirakawa, and a K. and Y. Mochizuki near Paulownia Mall. But there isn't an N. Mochizuki. Where'd I get the 'N' from? I guess my memory's getting better. I think… mother's name begins with an 'N'.
In one of our classes, we're learning about Tarot, and the various Arcana in one deck of it. If I were a Tarot card, I'd be 'Death'. A change in the plot of someone else's life; a turning point in my own. I'm not always clearly understood, and for the most part, I'm bad news. And I'm quiet. For all my chatter—I'm quiet. I'm never going to talk to anyone about how I don't know who my parents are, or the fact that sometimes I feel years younger—or years older—than I really am.
I'm Death, and I'm silently approaching my targets. And when we've met, it'll all change. And it'll all be my fault. I'm far from aware. And I don't know why. But that's where my life is heading. So tonight I say goodbye, Ryoji. And I pray that whatever happens, when I do find out why I'm linked to the thirteenth Arcana… When I find out who my mother is… When I find out why I'm like this.
That I don't hate myself for it.