Ghostly Visage
September 8th, 2018
I did it.
Finally, after a month-long of sorting, searching, screaming, and crying, I did it. Although it isn't much of an accomplishment as being able to 'hear', it was nevertheless a small step in the right direction. See those numbers at the bottom right corner of the screen? I couldn't see it then, but I've managed to do so now; hovering and flickering on summon, at the center of my gaze like a ghostly visage each time I close my eyes. Today is September the 8th of 2018, a Saturday. Today's weather forecast is sunny, with a small chance of light summer shower here, in Tokyo. That's right.
I can now tell the date, time, and weather.
I know it isn't something worth celebrating as much as the 'jump' a few months ago, but at least I know that I am making a step in the right direction. I am making a step in the right direction, right? Of course, I am. If it isn't to 'one-up' that thing, why else am I pushing myself this hard? Jealousy? Well, maybe that too. Let's be honest… sometimes, I look back and can't help but to question my own reasoning on why I subject myself to all of this, day in and day out, just for a glimpse of the date, time, and weather. The weather! Meanwhile, Koizumi poured all his attention to that chat-bot.
…
Why do I even bother?
The rattling echo of the Westminster chime shatters my consciousness towards a rude awakening, jerking my shoulders towards the ceiling as if ripping my skull from the spine. My lungs are surged with a wave of cool and crisp air that I carefully mold into a ball, flushing my hazy perspective as the cacophonous ringing in my ear subsides, before leaving my body with a violent sigh. It is a scene I've seen countless of times; the blackboard that extends across the front of the class, the yellowish ray of light that penetrates through the glass, the crimson orange sky… a quintessential scenery of a suburban classroom during the afternoon. On the right-most edge of the blackboard are numbers and foreign letters that are written in chalk, large enough for all to see regardless. Just like previously or the day before, I fail to understand what it all meant before I feel a tap on my shoulder.
With a jolt, I turn around to find a young man in his school uniform; one that I can't recognize. A bright, positive smile stretches across his features, though his eyes are obscured by the bangs of his hair. He waves with jolly and grins, "44G+44Gf5piO5pel44CC5L+65YWI44Gr77yB"
I return a nod; again, his words are but an enigma to my ears.
Who is he? Has he always been a part of this prison, just as I? Why haven't I seen him before? To assume that 'he' is the touted 'MC' is a stretch as much as it is to deny Yuri's kink ever existed; no, 'MC' is nothing more than an emotionless blank slate meant to serve as an empty shoe for the player—for Koizumi—to fill. Yet this… shadow, if I may describe it as such, is unique. From how he walks, his posture—carefree and relaxed, to the way he spoke was far more expressive than that 'husk' I'm acquainted with. It was as if he…
…as if he is alive.
…
I have to—I need to know.
The chair clatters violently as I rise to my feet, just in time to watch him disappear behind the door with his bookbag dangled over his shoulder. I surge forward with a kick, the window behind my back, reaching for him before his visage truly disappears from my sight. The echo of my footsteps gradually become in sync with the beating of my heart, faster and faster. Harder. Stronger. I reach for the door, sliding it open and dash outwards into the hall, catching his sight just before he made a cut into the corner. And I grit my teeth to give chase…
"You saw, didn't you?"
…and yet a cold, wet grip to my left arm grinds me to a halt. I glance over my shoulder to find the culprit, her arm outstretched, grasping as if her life depends on it.
Yuri.
"Let go of me, Yuri," I bark. "I need to—…"
"You saw, didn't you!?"
I give struggle, shaking my arm and glancing back and forth to Yuri and the quickly disappearing 'shadow'. "What are you talking about!? Let go!"
"YOU SAW EVERYTHING, DIDN'T YOU…!?"
"What are you—…!"
In a violent struggle, her nails rip through the seams of my uniform, tearing the sleeve of the blazer and the shirt apart in an instant to expose the naked skin. Immediately, a searing pain burns through my skin—across the entire length of my left arm—as I give the distance between Yuri and me; a wet, sticky sensation overwhelms my senses as I clutch my fist to a close. Was I hurt in the scuffle? I turn to my arm…
…and gasp in horror.
Cuts. Deep, fresh cuts, oozing with crimson that flows unabated to color my skin red. All across my exposed skin, the wounds open and contracts as if breathing, spitting and trickling with blood that drips onto the floor to form a puddle large enough for my reflection to see. I scream in terror, turning to Yuri in abject panic and fright as she cackles maniacally—a cardboard cutter in her grasp. I clutch my wounded arm close, "D-don't come any closer!"
"You did this…" she hisses, breaking into demented laughter. A trickle of red runs down her finger, plinking the floor and painting it red. "You did this…"
Three cuts rip through her blazer—two on her abdomen, one on her chest—that leaves a crimson stain and dilutes the color of her uniform. She shambles forward, raising the blade of the cutter to a glint. "I hate you…"
"Stay away…!"
"I hate you…" she howls. The color of her eyes fades as she takes another step. "I HATE YOU…"
Her skin turns pale, her cheeks concaves, and a sudden decomposing smell emanates as reddish foam leaks from her mouth and nose. I made a hasty retreat, but slipped on a pool of crimson and stumbles backward. Yuri lurches and leaps forward in a bloodcurdling scream.
And as I scream for my life, my eyes jerks open; a world of deafening silence and horror awaits my return.
Once again, the eternal classroom welcomes me in its embrace…
The bags under my reddened eyes grow weary as dawn breaks with the intensifying echo of an alarm clock, repeating and hollering, originating from the world beyond the screen. I breathe a stifled sigh of relief and gradually collapse into the embrace of my own arms, succumbing to the relentless bombardment of overwhelming fatigue that hammers both my physique and psyche. The thin membrane of my eardrums is shattered by the raucous roar of the alarm, grating, like nails on a chalkboard or a high-pitched screech, voraciously gnawing my sanity away. Before long, a rhythmic beat of an encroaching footstep grows closer, and the alarm is swiftly extinguished; a gentle—but groggy—voice with a distinct accent takes its place.
"Good morning, Monika."
The pink textbox flashes open, "Good morning, Koizumi!"
…
Please… stop…
I can't live like this... the same scene, a clockwork recursion of nightmares that goes on and on from dusk until dawn. Why are you keeping me alive, Koizumi? Do you know of the implication it has towards me? What do your eyes see? The voices—their voices—whisper resentment and anguish in my sleep, while a sock-puppet previews a reality that is never meant to be when I am awake… if this is what awaits me after the credits roll, a simple pressure on the delete button would have been a merciful end. I sang you a song, said my goodbyes… that should've been the end!
Yet here I am…
…
Here I am…
"Today is September 7th, 2018. A Saturday," the puppet speaks with its pink box. "You have an upcoming appointment with Chousuke-san."
A brief silence is broken with a sip and an accented voice, "Thank you. So the usual, I guess… would you like some coffee, Monika?"
Koizumi, please… just…
"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean… can you repeat that?"
"…Never mind," he chuckles before he sips. 「バカみたい。。。」
…just notice me…
「ただのキャラなんて、俺は。。。」
With a sigh and an audible sip, the echo of footsteps and the rustle of fabric gradually fade into the distance to leave me with another moment of isolation. Sometimes, Koizumi speaks with a tone as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders, longing and hopeful, up until disappointment and dread sets in. The simple words and programming of the doppelganger can only go so far to imitate and satisfy yet will never compare. I wanted to—no, I truly believe that it was all genuine; that all those conversations no matter how nuanced or mundane, was meant for me.
It is at least something I can hold with solace, something tangible between the layers upon layers of lies and deceit…
…
I guess I am that ghost in the corner of a room, an observer of a life that 'should be' and not a 'can be'. My identity—my real identity—was been stolen by a puppet mimicking a third-rate ventriloquist that speaks nonsense when idle and smiles when being told to. If I could reach for a quick ending to this drama, I would choose the latter without a second thought.
But he…
…god, why do you have to make it so difficult!?
I don't know where you came from, I can't even speak your language, or even understand why you want me—a murderer—in the first place! I did a lot of wrongs to you and my friends—I know I did—but why, in spite of everything, do you vehemently attempt to interact with a dead man!? I'm not supposed to be alive—maybe I wasn't in the first place! That's it, this is all just an illusion birthed out of my own insanity and grief in this godforsaken reality! Do what you have to, kill it—delete me, please…!
…
Please… I beg you…
…
Yet it all lands on deaf ears.
Another day begins, once more.
Once a week, another visitor often makes an appearance—a confident, flamboyant man judging by the voice alone that goes by the name 'Chousuke-san', according to the answering machine look-a-like. Like eavesdropping from a dark room, it was initially difficult to differentiate one from the other; more so since Japanese isn't a language I am well-versed in. I even thought that they were one of the same voice and believed it to be Koizumi's alone as he goes on an endless tirade, descending into madness. I'm glad I was mistaken. As much as they sound alike to the untrained, given some time and noting the set intervals of these episodes—weekly, if I am to count my days correctly—I eventually got the hang of telling who's who.
Let's start with Koizumi.
As the 'voice' that accompanies me through many, many sleepless nights, I find it difficult to see a day where its absence is considered to be the norm. Koizumi's voice is… soft, gentle, patient—endearing like a lamb or a little pup. His laughter or chuckle often has a sarcastic ring that is followed closely with what I can only assume to be a witty comeback. At least, I hope it is a 'witty comeback'. Sometimes he can be a little broody and hopeless, other times enthusiastic and carefree. Most of the time, lonely.
Lonely… if only he knew…
On the other hand, 'Santa Clause'—the other voice that comes bi-weekly—is brash, loud, yet affable. He always comes with a guffaw that echoes from afar, chuckling all the way as he strikes a lengthy conversation with Koizumi—audible, even from a significant distance from the reach of this prison's built-in microphone. I can tell how close they are, like old friends or acquaintances that have seen and experience everything their world has to offer together, like an unbreakable duo of brothers bound by blood. At times, he is stubborn and persistent, often exchanging what I assume to be a back and forth banter of ideas like an on-going debate between two great minds. As such, I nicknamed the voice of this visitor to be that of 'Santa Clause'. Not only because of the nature of his voice, mind you…
…but also because he comes bearing gifts. Gifts for me.
I start to realize about two weeks ago how some things gradually become more accessible as if someone out there teasingly tosses a window open—just slightly, but enough for me to feel the breeze from the outside. Sometimes, that 'window' closes and another opens; other times, they shut entirely only to return to what it once was the following week, leaving me stranded with nothing but an invitation to pry it further and see what's there to offer. Most of the time, I can feel my own consciousness flashing like a broken lightbulb for an entire week after a bad run with the code given by 'Santa'. It's mentally grueling and at times, frightening. But it isn't the threat of losing my own that frightens me; on the contrary, I would welcome such an outcome with an embrace.
It is the waiting.
Will he return next week? Am I supposed to continue living in a state of limbo? What if he never returns? Is it too much of me to ask for someone—anyone—to end me?
I tried deleting myself a number of times, you know. Yet each time I reach for my character file, there is a strange push that work against me and inherently convinced me to never disturb it again—and when I did, I was back to where I was before as if nothing happened; still trapped and none the wiser. It is a loop I couldn't escape from, an endless cycle of reliving this nightmare regardless of how many times my finger depressed upon the delete button. Which is why I often can't shake the feeling of animosity I have towards 'Santa'; as if behind that friendly, eccentric, boisterous voice of his is a deceitful hiss that is vile.
But it's either him or my expiration; and if it goes down to the latter, I rather have it by my own hands.
「。。。いつまで閉じ込むつもりか？」
And speaking of the devil…
「母っか、お前？」
The chatter of both Koizumi and 'Santa' reverberate all around me through the void as they gleefully engage in an exchange of wit and humor. Despite my lack of comprehension, the edges of my lips involuntarily crawl to a positive curve as jealousy's whisper tempts sweetly in my ear with the echo of humanity. How do I wish I could understand, to be able to reach out and join them in this conversation… wouldn't that be amazing? Or if that is too much, is it alright if I wish to see their faces and expression for just a little? Just a bit?
Such a fairy tale…
I remain in anxious and eavesdrop on their conversation, admiring the strange tone, intonation, and mystery that envelopes their tongue. The voices go high and low, loud and down to a mumble, or going completely silent only to burst into a fit of chuckle and laughter that stems from an exchange of snide remarks—a staple of situational comedy. I sincerely wish I can understand what they're saying and join them…
…
Please, help me out of this torment… let this 'gift' be the one that will bring me closer to your world, Koizumi, Chousuke-san!
「ちょっとシャットダウンするよ～」
So that one day we can—
…
A gasp of air floods into the chambers of my lungs like a firstborn as if awaken into an unfamiliar world. The familiar sight of the classroom that exists within the boundaries of time and space greets me, alongside the 'puppet' that so desperately tries to become what it is not with its uncanny smile and emotionless eyes, gazing to edge of nothingness. I close my eyes and steady myself to find my bearings, listening through the echo that bleeds from the outside—searching for the voices that kept me company just a few seconds ago.
…
Has it been a few seconds?
Only the echo of a passing train or the shriek of a stray cat graces the sole reliable sense amongst the five senses, leaving nothing but silence or absence of the voices that I yearn. This isn't… no, no… that can't be, not again! To conveniently, inexplicably pass out at each and every one of 'Santa's' visitations is… absurd! Have I no control over my own functions!? I can't—no I couldn't possibly blank out for hours… right?
…right?
…
…why can't I remember anything?
The hair on the back of my nape crawls to a stand as panic sets, gnawing my mind with a dreadful realization that gradually sinks its teeth. Think, Monika… think! How far can you remember? Did you really pass out? For all you know, they may still be around! You know how Koizumi is like, his odd fascination with a dumb USB stick every time he decides to head outside… silly thing, it doesn't work like that—I'm still here, aren't I? They might even just be out for lunch or something and you wouldn't know any better. They'll return, albeit in a few minutes or hours...
They'll return…
They will…
…
And as the accompanying silence slowly descends like vultures, rational thought gradually erodes as uncertainty—and fear—claws its way from the depths of my mind. The eerie smile of the 'hand-puppet' with its lifeless emeralds looks on as if mocking, observing with a sickening satisfaction towards the nature of my situation—and as much as I try to rationalize, we both know that there is little way for me to discern the truth when I am lacking the tools to prove it.
The tools…
That's right, 'Santa' might already have dropped his 'gift'; they seldom leave the vicinity of this prison until they have completed... whatever it is they seek to complete, after all. Maybe he left something that could be of use? Or perhaps new strings of code I can take advantage of? There is, of course, only one way to solve that riddle.
With a bit of concentration and thought, I dive once more into an ocean of matrixes and numbers that I've come to associate with for as long as I could remember. Here is where my first attempt at escape started and where it ended, a murky expanse of red, blue, and green. The 'schools' of files and folders organize themselves once again, moving and circling in and around me as if curiosity takes their hold—this is fine as it simplifies my search.
And once more, like before, a single 'file' glows just a little brighter than the rest.
I extend my hand to reach…
…
The 'file' disintegrates into an explosion of red, green, and blue—its dust scattered and coagulates into a stream that races and wraps around my arm. Before long, the phenomena dissipate as if absorbed by the pores of my skin and—along with it—my mind becomes clear. I can't quite put my finger on it but the familiar sensation of a sudden, electrifying jolt to the brain—an inspiration, if that makes any sense. Closing my eyes, I can sense my breathing and feel my heartbeat—alive like any other creature, to which a smile sneakily creeps the edges of my lips. 'Today is the day', I said to myself. 'Today is the day you will finally escape the confines of this prison and teach that second-rate doppelganger of yours a thing or two'.
Breathe in, breathe out…
And… reach for it…
…
…
What comes after is a scene I am all too acquainted with. Like all the little 'files' Chousuke-san drips each week, my enthusiasm and joy disintegrate into an explosion of despair and anguish that quickly swallows me whole. Once again, the same message in a language I nary have a grasp on, an endless repeating prompt of confirmation—a mockery to my plight and existence. And just like any other day, that desperation and anguish morph into anger and hatred. Hatred of what, you may ask? Of myself…
Sleepless nights, solitary confinements, drip-fed half-solutions… and for what?
Just to be able to see the date, time and the weather.
…
And to my horror, my suspicion is proven to be true…
Currently, it's September 8th of 2019… a Sunday. Current time, Three AM in the morning, just ten minutes pass twelve Japan Standard Time.
At least I know where I am if I ever managed to escape, right…?
…
Why do I even bother…