Sacrosanct is the rhythm of her life.
Repetition courts her each and every day. First her alarm steals her from the realm of sleep, drawing her into consciousness. Then it is her mother, so proud that her daughter that will usher their family legacy into the future. She departs for school after putting on her face. Her best friend meets her halfway, voicing her thoughts on things, mostly menial, that invariably (read: always) results in her love for beef. Not once has she dared to question her faulty storytelling or her rambling monologues. Just nod. Stay calm; smile when necessary.
She is used to the stares which hound her up and down the halls of Yasogami High. She sees their gawking faces; they are not looking at her, but rather, her presentation. Something they can readily see but cannot identify with. For she exists on a plane all her own, neither above nor anyone else. She hears them catcall and bray for her attention, but she does not register their voices. She dismisses their words and carries on, an invisible parasol shielding her from the world that views her as nothing more than a trope, something expendable. That has never sat well with her, but such sentiments are best left alone—think of your family, her mother-voice warns. She tucks away her doubts, her angst, and seals them in the back of her mind to fester in a heart-shaped envelope. The rest of her day resumes uninterrupted, as it should be.
Her afternoons are her mornings in reverse: lustful eyes, best friend, mother, bedroom—and her face. She has a closet full of them, sealed behind by a golden lock. A menagerie of expressions, ranging from bookish to blasé, indignant to ignorant and everything in between can be found. None of them match, and they feel awkward when worn for too long. However, they are an invaluable asset; without them, she is utterly meaningless.
She organizes them based on priority, starting left and ending right. The middle rack is by far most important, designated for the face labeled 'ingénue'. She removes her face, aligning it onto the metal bar. When she is done, she closes the door. A wave of dread ensues, but never lasts for more than five minutes. Heartrending is the best word to describe it. Her entire body becomes hollow and collapses to the floor, where she clutches herself in pain. And all at once it fades, like it had never happened. The bed is where she always goes next—shutting the blinds and locking the doors—and she rests as the evening spills into night and stars fall.
The following day goes without a hitch. Returning home, she relieves herself of her bags and makes a beeline for her closet. Instead of doing away with her face, as she always would, she fetches for a large cauldron, just below the 'coquettish' face. With all her strength, she pulls it out into her room, where a column of smoke begins to rise. A ghastly fire follows, exacerbated by her feeding it the contents of her closet with joyous abandon. She smiles something wicked, obviously proud by her feat. The fumes grow in size and density until all the contents of her closet are completely emptied. She stands back, watching as chaos unfolds from a pot the size of a car. She feels a mixture of all the feelings she is told to feel, along with several which are entirely new. They resonate inside her, rocking the core of her very soul. The smoke is dense and black and cold, making her shiver with anticipation. The flames must have dropped her body temperature one or two degrees. Such a feat was humanly impossible; the very existence of logic found itself defied in the face of abstraction, now claiming dominion where rhythm and repetition once reigned supreme.
After a while, the fire and the smoke, as well as her feelings, dissipate. But her room is not back to normal. It has transformed, however unchanged it appears. She believes that she has been purged. The word just came to her mind; she has no idea what actually happened.
Appearing in the cauldron is a new face, different from anything she had ever seen. The other faces are gone, erased, forever banished from existence. She examines it, her fingers carefully propping it up. The face resembles nothing she had ever seen before. The nose is dainty and the eyes, brimming with of intrigue. Its skin is porcelain smooth and complements her hair, which cascades down her back not unlike the smoke she had just seen. She hesitates before putting it on. But when she does, she is elated that it is a perfect fit. Her usual emptiness is replaced by a kind of humanity she is unable to describe. And that is alright; she has all the time in the world to figure out what it means.
The ingénue is dead; from its ashes, Yukiko Amagi is reborn.