My first bonus chapter for I disappear—I have these in a lot of my fics, though most aren't available here on Effnet, since most of them are "bonuses" because of inappropriate content.
This one, though, is here. Rated M for sexual content, LOTS of language, and a little violence, but here. The last time Eri saw Harima prior to the events of I Disappear, and her last night in Japan, as well.
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It's not enough / it never is / but I will go on until the end
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Chapter 3.5
Until the end
17 July 2010 do I still use that Japanese timekeeping system? July 17th, 2010. There.
I could never tell anybody about this before. Not my closest friends; not Nakamura; not the parents, of course. Not even him, who most of it revolved around. I don't know if he remembered it or not. I heard later that he eventually checked himself into AA; maybe it was best for me that he hadn't at that point.
Or maybe he remembered all of it, and this is all just a waste of time. Maybe I'm not the only person on the planet who knows that this happened.
I wonder if I would even be here, in London, if that were true. If he knew, if I didn't think I had to conceal the whole thing, if I wouldn't have just said, you know what, fuck all of you, I'm staying here and doing whatever the goddamn hell I want, and see if you can stop me.
Maybe. I do know that shame has never been enough of a reason to get me on my feet and running, and I was certainly ashamed, but I was also scared. Maybe that's why I kept my ticket.
Either way, I think I need to tell somebody. If I don't, I think I'll explode. Funny, this is the first thing I write in a diary that my first boyfriend gives me, and it's not even sort of about him; in fact, to keep that theme up, I won't even mention him here.
(Even in my own diary I pretend like I'm addressing somebody who gives a fuck I'm so fucking)
Two hundred and fifty eight words (I counted) and I've said the word "fuck" three times already. That's more than once every hundred words. Such a mouth I have on me. My mother would be so fucking ashamed. My father probably wouldn't give a flying fuck either way.
Three hundred and six words, and six "fucks." That's one every fifty-one words. I think I've said that word more times in the year and a half that I've been here than in all my time in Japan.
I feel like I should tell this story.
This is stupid.
I don't need anybody else to know. It's not even that big a deal. A high-schooler's stupid whatever the fuck (8) it was. Compared to the stuff I've done over here, it's nothing. I didn't even see his cock. That's what they call it here, a cock. Or a pecker. Prick. Plonker. I'm told Pillock was originally a word for it. I don't even know if they had a word for it back in Japan. If you were poking fun at its size, I guess you called it a peepee. Is that Engrish? I don't know.
This is stupid.
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25 July 2010 I'm still using that notation. He doesn't like it. Fuck it. Fuck him. He doesn't like that I might have had a crush back in Japan. I didn't, but he thinks I did. I think he's jealous. He doesn't exactly have a marvelous peepee (cock prick pecker) himself. Not that I'd know about anybody else's back in Japan. (Why am I lying to myself? In a private diary of all places? I'm a fucking idiot) I think it just makes him unhappy in general. That wouldn't surprise me.
What am I doing back here? I have a book to write, why am I scribbling in this stupid fucking thing? Hastening carpal tunnel syndrome? Can you get that scribbling in a stupid notebook?
My headphones on my desk sitting on top of my ipod (the only luxury I kept from Japan, I'm such a fucking bougie; that's what they call them here) looks like a screaming face out of the corner of my eye. I think I'll need to move it. I keep looking away and then seeing it out of the corner of my eye. It's distracting and a little scary. It looks like that painting, scream. Can I really say that if I don't look straight at it? Maybe I'll use it. I don't write horror novels, but I'd like to. A small-time writer has a lot of freedom that way.
Maybe what I'm doing here is getting all my fuckawful writing out so that I can keep a decent prose style.
What the fuck did I go to university for, then? Japanese and English double-major, because I have to master that fucking writing system someday, and look where it got me. Why didn't I go out for math? I did that fuck thing in my head. Just factor 306 into 6 times 51 and cancel with 6. Does multiplication skill a mathematician make? Probably not, but I was good at it. I'm no good at this. I published a book, but so did He, and he's a fuckawful writer.
This time it's been 340 words, and I've used fuck 10 times. That's one fuck every 34 words. If that was my average when I was writing a novel, I'd never get any work done.
Wow, that was dirty. I don't think I've ever made quite so explicit a dirty joke before. I mean, He and I do fuck a lot. He's a horny little bastard, and I enjoy it.
That sounds awful, huh. I lost my virginity riding a drunken college student with bad teeth, and about a second after he came, I threw up from the sheer volume of alcohol I'd put in myself that night. Get over it. My image of sex is not precisely romantic. I call it "realistic."
Once again, I speak to somebody who will never read this.
Why am I writing it again?
The story.
Stupid. Don't need to tell it, there's nothing to tell.
Good bye, dear diary.
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Fuck what day is it? Hell, I don't even know the hour, only that it's not light out and I have a plonker the size of his drunk. Dronk the size of his plunk. I think he had a big pecking. Maybe that was his cell phone ringing in my back. He had had a lot of to drin
It's six in the morning and I've had a nice, refreshing vomit and a few hours of sleep. I feel better. It's the first of August, and I haven't written anything in a week and a half. Except in this thing. This thing has haunted me. Maybe it's haunted. Maybe it's taking pieces of my life and it's going to kill and replace me once it has enough. Sounds like something out of a Stephen King novel.
I think it's time to get this out of my system. My writing is neater now, more cleaned up. I think my head's ready to get it out, and get it out right. The way my brain is moving right now, it's probably going to be like passing a kidney stone, but if it moves, it moves, and damn the pain.
I always kind of wonder why I became a writer. Akira was the good writer of us. She had a talent that I could never hope to match, and what did she wind up doing? Buying the book store that she worked part-time at. With what money? She would never tell me. She was always a genius with money; maybe that's why she didn't go into writing professionally. I am living proof that there is absolutely no money in it, talented or no. Stephen King is just the exception that proves the rule, and all the writers in Hollywood, that stinking hellhole of shitty art, prove it just as well—they have zero talent, and they make more off one script than I will off of four books, royalty checks included.
Focus. This is hard.
Okay. My last night in Japan. I will do this, and then I will finish Precipitate, and I will publish it and make next month's lighting bill with the advance so that I can see well enough to write something new afterwards. I will forget about it, because it's in the past, and there's no reason for it to come up now. It hadn't come up, until He gave me this diary.