Dearest Catharsis
She stayed in bed until she could no longer stand it. Light still came in through the drawn curtains, an arc that cut through the room, and, at certain times during the day, fell squarely upon the television set that rested upon her chest of drawers, constantly on, the volume low, a stream of whispers. Sometimes, she would go to the window and be in time to see the shape of her neighbour, Moé, her pale, blonde hair falling down her back of her slender figure, the handouts from school left in the letterbox, waiting for dark, waiting for her to collect them.
She had read this in book, she thought, or at least, something like this, kids who didn't go to school, kids who found themselves haunted. Maybe it wasn't just the one book she had read, maybe it was many books, maybe it was all books.
Whilst in bed, whilst asleep, she did not think so much of what had taken place, of her reason for being off school.
Brainwashing, they called it, unwillingly under the influence, the face of her saviour smiling earnestly, reaching out and clutching her hands, holding her tight, reassuring her that she was not to blame, that she was not at fault; she was not so sure, however. In truth, Kasai Amane remembered much of what had happened, much of what she had done. It was disingenuous to say that she was not to blame, to pretend the responsibility was that of some outside force, that there wasn't a small part of her that had desired the outcome of her actions.
From a young age, she had been able to see the ethereal forms of the recipepe, her heart comforted by their appearance, by the understanding that they brought with them a joy to those who shared meals together. She had never understood their purpose, but she knew them to be evidence of what she considered something magical. The older she had got, the more commonplace they had seemed to become, and the magic that she had seen in childhood soon became something that she had questioned, that she had struggled to understand; it made sense to her that there were spirits of natural resources, and that they might manifest in the shape of onigiri recipepe, what she had questioned as she had grown older was the appearance of spirits of food that required some sort of human process for them to exist—curry bread recipepe, shaved ice recipepe, and the like. This was even further complicated by those spirits that arose from meat, such as roast chicken recipepe and hamburg steak recipepe. Kasai was not a vegetarian, yet she understood animals to have some kind of spirit, something that made them different from one another, and whilst she did not like to consider it in the same breath, she knew that meat was the result of an animal's death, so was not the suggestion of the spirit of processed animal produce somewhat horrific?
She had tried in vain to communicate with the recipepe, but the distance between them in terms of their understanding of the world was too vast, and thus her questions had gone unanswered. Perhaps that was what had pushed her over the edge, she thought, sitting on the edge of her bed, still dressed in pyjamas, her dark hair wild and uncombed.
On the television screen, a woman clutched her microphone and spoke softly, a serious look on her face, hair in a bun. It must have been approaching midday, somewhere near lunch, and she, student council president, was still here in her room, still in her pyjamas, the events of the past year or so weighing upon her.
When had she first met the Bundoru Gang, when had she first entered into Sir Godatz's service? She could remember the things she had done, she remembered that same girl who had so recently offered her forgiveness first standing before her in frills and lace, a transformation wrought in magics she could not understand, but there were details that were unclear, gaps in her memory.
Had it been Secretoru who had first spoken aloud the resentment she had been unable to voice? Had it been Secretoru who had wooed her to the cause, whispering softly that there were answers to be found in places where the light was absent? She thought it was. In the glow of the television, the crack of daylight that pierced the curtains, it made sense to her that it had been Secretoru who had seduced her, who had nurtured that resentment, drawn it up out of her and made it something that could be used in service of the Bundoru. Narcistoru had always been too self-absorbed, and Godatz, powerful as he was, remained beyond the veil, unable to influence the world without the necessary power drawn into his essence.
She recalled suddenly the presence of the other woman behind her, her hands on her shoulders, the sea green of her hair falling over one eye as she had positioned her before the long mirror, and, for the first time, Kasai had seen her sable hair fade to silver.
'Such power,' the older woman had whispered softly, her hands firm on Kasai's naked shoulders, 'such gentile grace. Surely this is your birth-right, Amane-chan.'
She was 14-years-old, and she thought she had been in control of the situation. It had taken that moment with Nagome Yui standing before her, reaching out and clutching her hands, holding her tight, to realise that she had not.
The television continued to whisper softly, gently, the light continued to pierce the room, and in the midst of the day, still dressed in her pyjamas, Kasai Amane found herself haunted by the great potential of her sadness.
