I've developed the habit of tuning into the evening news upon arriving from school and completing my studies for the day. I want to say it provides me a form of pleasance to tune out of my own life if only momentarily, but I understand there are better mediums from which to derive this feeling. The news aren't meant to comfort; the news are meant to report the truth, and that truth can be dulling at best or disturbing at worst. A man was killed over a monetary dispute; a woman was raped last night for simply meandering around the wrong parts; a financer was arrested today for embezzling funds meant to benefit the community and will probably be walking out of jail this very night with little more than a slap on the wrist. Frankly, seeing this everyday is exhaustive. It feels like things continue to happen and society doesn't learn, or doesn't care to learn that they will continue occurring for as long as exemplary justice is not enforced. The setting sun begins to seep a shade of orange into my room - yet another day like all the rest, soon to come to an end. With great effort, I am able to move my shaky legs off of the bed and delicately plant them on the floor to avoid the immense pain that comes with their slightest motion. I've become accustomed to the feeling that my limbs could simply fall out at any given moment, but that doesn't mean it will ever feel any less painful. I grab my bedside cane and begin for the bathroom, the pressure applied with each step feeling like a flurry of snake bites stinging all over my lower body. I struggle for a moment to open my doorknob, the tension caused by the mere closing of my fingers around the knob burning all over my hand. As I slowly pace down the hall, I hear the faint sound of a reporter discussing today's most profitable story: an ongoing hostage situation. Great, another intriguing incident before I hit it for the day. Having reached the bathroom, I retrieve an amber bottle of painkillers from the top sink cabinet and down a pair with the running water. The frigid sensation of the water running down my fingers grants me a strangely soothing feeling, so I lean in to exfoliate my skin and alleviate the aching of my skin muscles. I turn my gaze up to the mirror, being faced with a dying person. As if for a second hoping that my condition has magically disappeared, I attempt to flex my eye muscles. A sudden jolt of pain spreads all over my face, quickly disencouraging me from continuing. I stand up, as far up as a hunch cripple can, and simply stare into myself - a fading reminder of what once was. Against my best wishes, I slowly begin to remove my shirt; it's an internal urge in me that demands I see everything I've lost, that demands I understand the full extent of my body's cruelty. I had gained a percentage of muscle mass I was considerably proud of a few years back, before any noticeable symptoms took hold, but now that muscle had now vanished along with a substantial percentage of what would be a healthy person's body mass, courtesy of my difficulty chewing and processing food. My drooping eyelids and brows do their best to illustrate the utter melancholy I feel looking at my own self, the living depiction of a withering corpse. I stumble back into my room to see the crisis currently on TV.

Newscaster: "...taking eight people hostage at this daycare center."

I reach the bed and slowly support my back against it, attentively taking in the information broadcasted.

Newscaster: "His captives include both children and teachers. The police have now identified the suspect as 42-year-old Kuro Otoharada, currently unemployed. We expect negotiations to begin immediately."

I can feel my gaze widen upon the revelation of the suspect's identity on the screen. That's the guy who was attacking people in Shinjuku yesterday! How is it possible that a known assailant ends up holding a daycare center hostage a day after being featured on TV?

Newscaster: "At the present time, that's all the police are telling us."

Newscaster #2: "You can't help but feel concerned for the safety of those hostages."

Newscaster: "You're absolutely right. We'll continue to monitor the situation from here."

Newscaster #2: "Thank you for that report. What do you make of this, Mr. Hashimoto?"

Mr. Hashimoto: "Well, one can only hope for a quick resolution to this situation."

My eyebrows furrow in spite of the pain it causes me to do so. This is the consequence of ignoring the obviously vulnerable; things like these shouldn't be happ-

Newscaster #2: "Wait, we're seeing something here! Looks like there's movement at the front entrance!"

Newscaster: "The hostages are coming out, and they all look to be unharmed! The Special Forces are taking action; they're moving in! We don't know if the suspect's been arrested. Huh? Yes? Ok, we now have confirmation. The suspect has been found dead inside! I repeat, the suspect is now dead!"

What, he's dead?! How?

Newscaster: "The Special Forces are denying allegations that they shot the suspect."

Newscaster #2: "So, it's quite possible that he felt cornered and decided to commit suicide?"

Newscaster: "Well, according to testimonies from the hostages the suspect just suddenly collapsed."

Collapsed? Just like that? I turn my eyes away from the screen, perplexed. How doped up did he get to do this? I shut the TV off, pondering in the silence. To say I'm confused would be euphemistic. A tense hostage situation ended by the aggressor's sudden collapse? Not one I've heard of so far. Could he have been taking stimulants? The stress of the conflict could have catalyzed his heart rate and induced cardiac death. That must be it, his heart stopped. Nonetheless, it appears to have been one of the better outcomes. Who knows what he could have done? If they had caught him and tried him, he would have likely been deemed mentally incapable to stand trial, and how long would it have taken for the system to spit him back out onto the streets? As harsh as it sounds, sometimes the best answer to a problem is the elimination of the problem. With a degree of struggle, I am able to crawl my way back on the bed. Being in this state has pretty much ruled out any activity after school, so I prefer to knock out early - at least then do you get a break from the body ache. Eventually I am able to fall asleep, a fraction of my mind still curious about that peculiar incident.

My eyelids open again. It's quite dark outside now, though it wasn't really the time I wished to be awoken at. Actually, the time I wake up at doesn't really matter, does it? Be it three, eight, or eleven in the morning, I won't be going out for anything that isn't school or a hospital visit anyways. "Remember," the voice of my father comes to mind, "dedicate one hour and thirty minutes to get ready for school." Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Monday, Tuesday… all that has remained of my once schedule-oriented life, the only thing besides my medication hours. I remember the first time I read "The Yellow Wallpaper" in primary school. I wasn't a social butterfly back then, nor was I ever in truth, so naturally I found the concept of a person falling into madness because of loneliness to be entirely unrelatable to me. Back then, I would have given everything to be enclosed in a room in which I could spend my time reading until the end of time. I suddenly feel compelled to chuckle. I guess I got my wish granted after all, didn't I? Unmoving, my eyes follow a small line along the ceiling of my room. Laughing and crying tend to be uncannily similar to each other a lot of the time. When you run out of tears, you can laugh the sorrow away. In that same vein, tears often come as a complement to overwhelming joy, and nobody can judge you for it. Enclosed in these four walls are me, myself, and I - my only judges. The ends upon reaching the edge of the ceiling so I turn elsewhere, landing on the desk by the corner of my room. That walnut desk has sat on the edge of this room for the past six years; it has seen me grow and regress throughout the years. In a way, that desk might know me better than many people in my life. That desk was once decorated with my many competition trophies, trophies that have since been relocated to the furthest corners of my closet. For many years, that desk held the varied amassing of books and papers that kept me one of the best academic scorers in Japan. Now that desk spends a good deal of its time simply holding my head, resting upon its surface, as I reminisce about everything but the present. I sluggishly remove my blankets, grab a pillow, and get off the bed, silent except for the occasional grunt of pain. I finally seat myself in my desk chair and turn on the lamp. I always felt so harmonious sitting in this very spot, regardless of what it was I did. Whether I was studying for exams or doing homework, this desk never failed me. I slowly rub my fingertips along the veins scattered on the desk, as gracefully as one would play the piano. I can't help but smile, nostalgic as my fingers direct my eyes along the many roads of the wood. Each of these lines is a story that lived through the tree this wood was gathered from and made into the desk that then ended up here in my hands. We all embark on a road along the tree. Occasionally, the road we embark on will intersect with the road of another person, with their story, and the pattern of your respective lines may forever change because of it. My finger suddenly takes a dive after reaching the end of the desk, bringing me back. I bring my pillow up to the desk and set it neatly for my head to lay on. I fall asleep, finally pacified with happy memories.

That afternoon, I ready myself for another day of high school - the best hours of my life. On the drive there, I stare out the window to see the massive amount of pedestrians all making their way about their days, living on their roads. Though it's a predominantly forlorn emotion, there is a hint of happiness in getting to imagine myself among that crowd, walking about without a care in the world. We reach a red light, by which a group of people around my age wait to pass.

Teenager: "Hey, how about we head to the arcade instead? I don't want to walk all the way over there, I'm already tired as is."

Teenager #2: "It's not even that far, come on! We'll be there in no time."

Catching on the topic of conversation, my dad quickly turns up the windows.

"It's a bit chilly, isn't it?" he expresses in a good-humored tone.

I continue staring out the window, dejected. It sure is frigid, just not the weather. Though I don't see them, I can feel his eyes formulating a solution to this problem, he's always been like that.

"I was thinking that you and I could have a night out together one of these days, perhaps. Would you like that? We can go wherever you'd like."

I turn to him, less to acquiesce to his request and more to appease his discomfort.

"Sure… that would be good," I reply.

He smiles jubilantly, turning back to the road. The last thing I want to do is upset my father, but it's hard to do so sometimes. We arrive at school where I finally depart from my father. I've continually requested that he does not assist me with my bags, but he can't help himself from at least bringing my bag out of the car. In addition to being my favorite place to be now because of its dismission of my illness, it also comforts me to know that he won't be as worried when I'm at school. I walk, or stagger, along the school hallways until I finally enter my classroom. Upon seeing me, my teacher quickly switches into his compassionate persona.

"Good afternoon," he greets me with vigor, "How are you feeling today?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Aizawa. I'm fine, thank you," I assure him.

"Would you like me to help you with that?" he asks, approaching my bag.

"I'm alright," I answer, instinctively gripping my bag a little tighter.

In spite of all his cutesy nature to me as of late, he makes this classroom a place for me to breathe a little easier specifically because he doesn't treat me as something other than a student, which I value greatly. Slowly, I make my way towards the seat I have designated for myself and sit down. I like to be near the window to be able to look outside, but a row away as to avoid the glare of the evening sun. As I fix myself into the seat, I accidentally bump my bag, making it fall to my left and out of my immediate reach. I sigh, vexed, and slowly move back out of my seat in order to retrieve it.

"Here," he reaches for the bag and nears it to me, his tone blank as he does so.

Of course. I grip the bag and return it to my desk.

"Thanks," I reply, neutral, but his gaze has already returned to the outside, daydreaming elsewhere like he tends to. Mr. Aizawa notices his action, pleasantly surprised.

"Thank you for that, Mr.Yagami."