Chapter 06

It feels surreal coming back, walking the streets of the world I used to live in. I know the other place, Gantz, is not my home, but out here in broad daylight on my way to school I can't help but feel misplaced.

I've always despised this machinery we call society. Like chicken in a laying battery we function in sync with the beat of our schedules. We get up to the sound of our alarm. We shower, dress ourselves, some of us eat, others just take a coffee and a cigarette.

Two years ago my life was a war. I can't remember a time in which I ever felt comfortable in my own skin. I hid in bushes, closets and the basement. I hid myself away, because I was too afraid to fight. I never hated anyone personally. I hated what was happening to me. And I knew there was no one else to blame but myself. I was a coward.

Now that I know death is war I've learned to hate people. Gantz has taught me all the emotions I wasn't able to feel when I was alive. I've learned to blame others. I've learned to protect myself. I've learned that being on my own isn't the worst that can happen. I'm not a coward any longer. I'm a fighter.

On my way to class I meet all these people and I can't tell if it's really me who's changed and if they always looked like this. So many people cross my way each day and no one looks at me. Whenever our eyes meet they look away in an unavailing attempt to become invisible. They don't want to exist in my presence. They cannot stand the thought of sharing space with another person at all. So they avoid each other's sight. They communicate as little as possible through words as well as gestures. They duck their heads and hide just like I used to.

Busses and malls are always packed. It doesn't disturb me anymore the way it used to. I'm the only person who matters now so why should other people bother me? But on some days the air is filled with rage and they lose their temper easily. Instead of asking to move they start pushing and pulling at each other's clothes and bump elbows into ribs. "Ouch!" you can hear from girls who don't fight back. "Watch out, asshole." is more common among guys. Sometimes someone pushes back and that is when it becomes interesting.

It always depends a little: on the level of rage, first and foremost; on the impact of the push, of course. Sometimes for a second – and this is my favourite part – you can see something flicker in the eyes of the attackers. Their grey faces match their grey work attire, but in this one second when they've met someone equally as fucked up as themselves and understand they've found a way to let some of their suppressed aggression bubble to the survive, their eyes become piercing. I love that expression on peoples' faces, because just for that one second before they fight or fold, they are like me. They enjoy their power. They contemplate attacks and they struggle to assert themselves, although no one really cares, or because no one really cares. And suddenly I'm not so lonely anymore. I'm among equals. And because of my experience with Gantz, among equals I'll always be superior.

Also, it's quite entertaining to see a couple of adults beat the shit out of each other for no reason.

Gantz has shaped me. I see things differently now, crisp and clear and through the death I'm confronted with and through the hundreds of people I've witnessed fight and scream and hide and die I've gained a greater understanding of life. Reading people has become easy. Maybe they know. Maybe that's also a reason why they duck their faces and stare holes into the ground whenever my eyes challenge them to look at me. They don't want to be understood. They just want to get through their day and vanish back into the safety of their homes. They want to be left alone.

Every now and then a stranger's glance hits me and we make eye contact. It's like magnetism, because every eye I get to look into resembles mine. Those are lost souls, about to accompany me in death sooner or later. Sadness radiates from their faces like a dark halo and we are sucked into each other's misery. I hold the stare as long as possible. The teenager in me just wants to belong. And if sadness and the prospect of death are what connects me to people then so be it. I take what I can get. I bathe in their desperation and sometimes they plead with me. They're asking for help without asking at all. Especially kids of my age. There're plenty of them and I meet at least one of them every day. They don't want to live, but they are too afraid to die. They keep existing, going through the motions, floating through their day until the darkness swallows their tears at night. And I wonder: Why did no one ever see my pleas? Why does no one help these children? Isn't their innocence worth protecting?

Of course, once they reach me, I won't be helping them, either. I'm no one's good Samaritan.

I've transferred school a couple of times since my death. Not that anyone even notices if I'm there, but I cannot stand the sight of the people who never cared about me. I died right under their noses and no one even acknowledged my coming back. No one even knows I'm not alive anymore. I didn't expect anyone to show up at my dad's funeral, but a "sorry" would have been nice.

The basement, of course, is another reason to never look back.

My current destination: McKinley, Lima. It's as good as any other place, but in a small crappy ragged up town like this one no one will raise a fuss about the little bitch that I am. I can blend in with the other scumbags. In a town full of losers another "daytime lantern" won't stand out. Even if the people here will get suspicious, even if some newspaper should carry a story about a girl who miraculously jumps whole flights of stairs and smashes walls with her bare hands (though I'd never be that dense), even if anyone should ever notice me, it would never leave this place. People gossip until they find something more interesting, like a rat with two heads or another crop circle or something. I'll be safe here, undisturbed. And once I'm noticed I'll just move again.

Math.

As always I sit at my desk and pretend to be the dreamy kid in the back row. No one will bother me here. I let my dark hair fall into my face in order to create a shadow shell and teachers as well as classmates ignore my existence. They are occupied with more important things and people, like this Finn guy, for example. He's the quarterback here and apparently a golden boy. I wonder what everybody sees in him. He looks pretty average to me. I'm not even sure anyone actually likes him. It's more like some people agreed on that he's dope and now it doesn't matter what he does anymore. If you're popular, then that's that. Admittedly, a part of me wants to poke his dimples and pinch his cheek and give him a cookie every time he shows his dopey smile.

I stare out of the window or in my book and pretend to read. I doodle into my scrapbook. Not the hearts and unicorns other kids fill their papers with. My mind is full of death. Poetry has never been my style and I'm not a crazy talented artist, but the lines I get on to the sheets unmistakably form silhouettes of the unspeakable. Sometimes they resemble people I've met and it scares the shit out of me. Quickly I'll tear the piece of paper out of my notebook and fling it across the room. Those drawings cannot exist. If they did, that would mean these images would occupy my mind. I would be thinking about others. I can never let that happen.

The clicking noises of the pens around me remind me of the clockwork I'm trapped in. It's only a matter of time until I'll be called back and I'll have to fight again. Fight without any real reason, surviving being my only aim; which is kinda hysterical, considering two years ago I had the opposite in mind.

The formulas on the blackboard make all the sense in a world that doesn't matter to me anymore. They don't matter to most kids in this classroom as no one I've ever met really wants to study math when they grow up; if they're lucky enough to grow up that is. Yet they copy every line with the intention of learning them by heart, just because they're told to do so.

"We don't learn for the teachers or the school, we learn for life." As if life would give a fuck about As and Fs. Ratings are only important to people. We compare ourselves to each other, because apparently we can only be someone if we're better than someone else. "Life" won't love you less if you fail a test or don't get that job you applied for. Maybe your parents will.

Of course, Gantz keeps rating me, too. It's a part of the cruel game, a reminder that my life is not my own. Gantz replaces teachers, parents, grades and schedules. My life never belonged to me, but no one ever admitted owning me. "You can be anything you want." Bullshit. At least Gantz also rewards me every now and then. For every creature I kill I receive points. A hundred points get me a treat.

I let my gaze wander through the classroom as the teacher's voice becomes a muffled background noise. I like observing people as they're doing nothing special, just being there. It's fascinating, really. Some of them are true characters. I can recognize their kind by just looking at their clothing style and haircut or by the expression on their faces. Gay, straight, Goths, Emos, Punks, Jocks, Trogs. When I was still alive I didn't really fit in anywhere. Sure, I tried out for the cheerleading squad, but I never got in. Once upon a time I, too, cared about popularity. That's part of why I understand the concept so well.

Others haven't found themselves and are easily overlooked because of that. I never overlook them, though. They are the saddest of them all. Their clothes don't tell me anything and their true identities lay hidden way back behind dark pupils. Whilst others express themselves through necklaces and ties and shoes and make-up those lost souls don't even know what they want to say. They don't have stories to tell, yet. They're insecure and they never have friends. Again I can only shake my head about how obvious the disaster is. They don't cut themselves so they don't deserve to be heard. They cry silently in their bedrooms and do their best to shine during the day, but are really never seen. Teachers, parents, peers, everyone who should love them, doesn't. Not enough to grab them by the arm and guide them through the toughest years of their lives.

We're too busy with As and Fs to stop and listen to those silent little sobs that emerge from between lockers or from inside bathroom stalls. Nishi could tell you a lot about those.

I let my gaze wander and I know no one will ever look back at me. No one has ever caught me studying people in the classroom. There's so much to learn here. Not what the teachers tell you. Screw them, actually. People are such interesting creatures and learning about them helps me survive. Individuals have strategies and characters go by a pattern. A glimpse into their faces can tell me if they are the offensive type, the sneaky attacker, the scaredy-cat. Ambush, run and hide or go with your head first through the wall. They all could learn these precious lessons if they'd just pay attention. But no one ever really does.

And then blue eyes find mine and I startle. She's sitting three seats away to my right and just like me she doesn't care. Her notebook is full of doodles, hearts and unicorns, and her cat-like blue eyes pierce me like she understands. No one has ever looked at me like that, open and fearless. She doesn't want to hide. She's curious. She knows who she is and she looks right into my mind before I can close the curtains. One second is enough and I'm already lost, sucked into her presence, unable to turn my head, unable to protect myself. I don't want this, but it happens. I try to fight it, try to shut her out, but it's too late. The doors are open and she knows me. Suddenly no one else is there anymore. The teacher's muffled voice has faded away entirely and the clicking of the pens has stopped. She's sitting there across the room and although I should be the one studying her it's the other way around. Her gaze lies calm on my face, traces the lines of my expression as all blood is drained from my cheeks and I start to freeze. She doesn't tell me anything about herself. Is she a friend or a fiend? She must be one of those, because unlike everybody else, she matters.

She smiles and turns her head and disappears again, blending back into the background. I wipe my eyes and wonder if I just imagined it, if I'm making her up, but blonde hair whips around a second time. "Could I borrow your notes from last week?" she asks the kid sitting next to her.

I don't know who she is, but I'm drawn to her.

What does she want from me?