Inuyasha: 24th May 2009

"Mr Takahashi - sir! I'm sorry I forgot to hand this in -"

"That's all right, Yumi, just leave it on my desk." With a fluster, she deposits the papers onto my desk, scurrying off out the door afterwards. I do wonder sometimes, am I really that much of a scary teacher? I never shout at my kids, but that's only 'cause they don't piss me off too much, they actually do what I tell them. I crack my knuckles, releasing the tension in my fingers. I hate writing on chalk boards, its so damn messy and writing at that angle all day is sore, I tell you.

You wouldn't think of me as a teacher, right? No, feudal era me is definitely not teacher criteria, I'd get the sack for smacking the kids probably. The only difference is it's now 2009 and I have just a tad more life experience to know that it's not a good idea to say everything that pops into your head. Especially if you're a peabrain, like me. I teach English to high school kids in Tokyo, and it's quite enjoyable actually. Most of the kids seem pretty engaged, and I can actually get some good stuff out of them, and I don't force them to read Shakespeare or any of that crap.

If I'm honest, I've had probably well over a hundred jobs in my life so far, since it became necessary to make money, anyway. Waiter, lawyer, shop assistant, librarian, you name it. I don't cause much trouble, 'cause if people found out about my real age, and the ears, I'd be pretty fucked. I don't know if there are any other surviving demons today, I don't know what happened to Kouga, Sesshomaru, anybody.

I live in a flat above a sushi bar, I don't smoke, don't do drugs, but I drink. Not a lot, the last time I got really pissed I was arrested for kicking the shit out of some idiot who thought it would be a good idea to try and find out what was under my bandana, but I luckily managed to break out of the handcuffs and kick the police car door open and make a break for it. I'm pretty sure I'm still on their wanted list, though.

I don't have any real friends, I can't afford to, and even if I did I'd just outlive them eventually. My flow of time is different from the people that live around me. I am and always will be a different being altogether.

I look at the clock, twenty to four. The sun is glaring at me through the window and I decide it's time to go. On the way out the foyer, the receptionist, Hatsu, gives me a look. I ignore her.

I cannot describe to you how difficult it is to restrain yourself for 500 years, not to tread beyond looking at another woman with lustful yearning. Besides, I'd probably scar the poor woman for life. I belong to someone else anyway. Someone who is probably with me right now, but just not this me, the me that exists 500 years ago. If that makes sense. I always wonder If Kagome has considered the concept that I might be alive in her present, which I am, obviously, but has it ever entered her mind? I guess not, or she'd probably have asked me in the past. I suppose I wouldn't have been able to supply an answer anyway, because I had no idea of my ageing differences from humans and demons, what with being a bit of both. I'm pretty sure I still look the same as I did some 500 years ago, I don't have any crows feet. Yet.

That's another thing - I can't look at any potential photos of myself, because I purposefully exclude myself from them - imagine what someone would think if they discovered photos from up to 120 years ago, up to now, depicting the same white-haired, hat-bearing idiot. Once again, I'd be pretty fucked.

I unlock my car and dump the huge pile of papers into my back seat - yes, I can drive. The journey home is nice, I keep the window open and the breeze rustles my clothes, caressing me with her soft, cool fingers. I park up and stumble up to my flat, banging my elbow on the pokey door handle on my way in, trying not to drop any papers at the same time.

"Chiyo, you stupid idiot -!" My dumb cat always seems to get under my feet somehow. She meows in contempt, observing me with her condescending eyes. She loves me really.

I stick on the oven and reheat a homemade pizza left over from last night, feed the cat, sit down and turn on the T.V. Nothing worth watching is on, only some shitty programs about gardening, or whatever. I look at my shelf, the familiar pile of notes sitting comfortably amongst the other debris. I sigh.

Those notes are about Kagome Higurashi. I'm not a stalker or anything, I just like to keep track how she's doing, so that when I reveal myself to her - which should be sometime soon - I know how to make my entrance without giving her heart failure. The information I have isn't extensive, just odds and ends. I know when she was born, who her friends and family are, and what she likes to do on weekends when she's not down the well nursing my predictably dented ego. If I'm anywhere near to being right in all this, she should be coming up to her 17th birthday soon.

I've only ever seen her face to face twice. The first time was the day after she was born - I couldn't help it - I just had to remind myself of what I would be taking away from her family if I failed. I drove up to the hospital and waited in my car until 4.13am when her parents left the maternity ward to take Kagome home. Her mother looked like shit, If I'm honest. I guess giving birth is no bed of roses, but she still looked really happy. Like, stupidly happy. And Kagome's father was there - I'd never seen him before, as far as I know he died when Kagome was a little girl. He looked happy too, smiling down at the precious little parcel of joy in his wife's arms.

The second time was about eight years ago, when I was walking a colleague's dog (I might add that I am never going near another dog ever again) and I stopped for a break next to a playpark. Kagome was hiding under the slide, with her knees drawn up in front of her. I could tell it was Kagome almost instantly, as her pissed-off-face was distinctive even when she was eight. She was wearing this little green dress with bows on it, and I have to admit, it was really cute. I watched while she made little patterns in the sand with her fingertips, still scowling of course. Eventually her mother came back with an ice cream from the shop across the road, and took her away.

I sit at my desk, pulling my feet up underneath me, and switch on my laptop. I've been a computer technician, too, so I know my stuff. I open my email account to check my next teacher course assignment. I do these short courses, about 6 weeks long, at other schools around Tokyo. I basically go in and do one unit with them – they are usually small classes, pupils who sign up to do something a bit fun and educational instead of lazing around during free periods. I teach something like poetry, a novel or a do creative writing portfolio. These sorts of things usually supplement students already taking English, just as something extra they can use for an exam essay or university entrance. I scan through the email – it's a school not far from here, large, modern. There are far too many notes for me to take in – teacher contacts, classrooms, recommended units, my class list.

Then something catches my eye. A name, bold and brave, standing like a proud soldier off the page on the screen. Kagome Higurashi. The first thought I have is that I thought she didn't like English. Then the shock sets in.