1
"I saw a demon with many faces—that I can no longer point."
"Am I human? I don't know…"
My uncle used to mumble those words, but not long after, he and my aunt committed suicide, an event I witnessed, filled with dread.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon on that fateful day, I felt an urge to break free from the monotony of my daily routine. Without any particular destination in mind. It was April 30th, 2060, and I was traversing through Japan when I stumbled upon something intriguing. My mind was instantly drawn to the infamous suicide forest.
The "suicide forest" is a nickname given to Aokigahara, a dense forest located at the northwest base of Mount Fuji in Japan. The forest gained its reputation due to the unfortunate occurrence of numerous suicides that have taken place there over the years. While it is a real place with a rich natural beauty, the association with suicide has overshadowed its other qualities.
Aokigahara has a long history of myths and legends, which are deeply rooted in Japanese culture. The forest itself is known for its thick vegetation, winding trails, and a quiet, eerie atmosphere that can evoke a sense of unease. The density of trees in the forest is so high that it significantly reduces external noise, creating a feeling of isolation and solitude. The reasons behind the association with suicide are complex. Some attribute it to a novel written in the 1960s that depicted a tragic love story set in Aokigahara, while others believe it stems from ancient Japanese legends about the forest being inhabited by yūrei, or vengeful spirits. Furthermore, the forest's isolated nature, as well as its reputation as a place of despair, has unfortunately attracted individuals struggling with depression, contemplating suicide, or seeking solitude to end their lives. That's what I've heard. I don't know if I could still feel fear, I have seen sceneries far worse than this.
As I ventured westward through the dense thicket, the forest itself seemed to hold its breath, its ancient trees adorned with lichen like weathered embroideries of forgotten secrets. Each step I took stirred an unsettling anticipation, as if the frail branches overhead yearned to surrender to gravity's embrace.
When I stepped beneath the ancient canopy, the air grows dense with an ethereal hush, the forest floor carpeted by a curtains of decaying leaves and fallen dreams.
Sunlight, timid and hesitant, dances through the slender gaps between towering arboreal sentinels, casting fleeting beams upon the moss-draped ground. The tangled roots, gnarled and twisted, grasp at the soil with an unyielding determination, intertwining like veins coursing with the forgotten tales of those who've wandered here.
As I approached the shack, it appeared to be a house suitable for a small family. However, upon entering, it was evident that it had long been abandoned. The walls were vandalized, with strange inscriptions that I couldn't decipher. One phrase, written in English, stood out to me: "Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enters Here." While this may have scared off other tourists, I remained surprisingly calm. Fear was a foreign concept to me, having been conditioned to remain composed in even the most terrifying situations from a young age.
Despite the unnerving atmosphere, I pressed on, eager to uncover the secrets hidden within the shack's walls. The interior was a gruesome sight, with grotesque paintings of humans engaging in peculiar expressions and furniture crafted from the remains of dead animals. The structure itself was in a state of disrepair, and I felt as though it could crumble at any moment.
I continued walking through the hallway, and a stair directing to the ground was in sight, "This must be the basement?" I uttered. It was only upon discovering the tiny, delicate cranium of a newborn that a shiver ran down my spine and a feeling of disquiet settled over me. I was overcome with fear, my mind racing with thoughts of impending danger. However, this anomalous situation led me to the point: What can I discover from this shack? Is there a history here? What odd phenomenon would occur in this period? Those types of curiosities.
As I continued my exploration, I couldn't shake the feeling that something sinister was lurking just beyond my reach. But even as my nerves were frayed and my thoughts were consumed by fear, I remained steadfast, determined to uncover the mysteries hidden within the shack's walls.
I left the room feeling as if my soul had already departed. I was panicking inside and didn't know what to do. As I pushed open the door to the second room, it broke off with a surprising force. In front of me were dresses on display, presumably worn by people, but all I saw were mannequins. Next to the mirror were cosmetics, and the mannequins were positioned five seats in front of me. Lastly, there were three paintings on display, all partially ripped. The first one depicted a grotesque woman who used a lot of makeup. Why bother? It only made her look even uglier.
The second painting was confusing and spine-chilling. It depicted a man who also used a lot of makeup, and he was no different from the first one. I didn't understand at all. What were these paintings trying to convey? My soul felt like it wanted to escape from this dreadful scenario—The feeling of malice flowing through the entire house, but I wouldn't allow it. It was only the beginning of my search; there were still two more rooms left. But before that, let's talk about the third painting.
As I stepped into the dimly lit room, I couldn't shake off the uneasy feeling that had been creeping up on me since the very start of my journey. The walls were adorned with macabre paintings, each one more unsettling than the last. But the final painting I stumbled upon was beyond comprehension. A boy and a girl, both with grotesque features, stared at each other against a backdrop of blood. What caught my attention was the fact that the boy was pregnant. It was as if their genders had been swapped in some twisted experiment. What kind of science or witchcraft could have produced such a terrible thing was beyond my comprehension.
The girl had horns, and her breasts had been replaced by the boy's. He had four eerie eyes on the side of his head, which seemed to bore into my soul. I tried to shake off the shivers that ran down my spine as I gazed at the painting. This was not something I ever thought I would see in my life. The horror of it all left me speechless.
As I made my way out of the room, I noticed that the skies had turned darker. I checked my watch, and it was still only two in the afternoon. It seemed like the weather was about to take a turn for the worse. I debated leaving the search and retreating to safety, but my curiosity got the better of me. I needed to know what lay beyond the next door.
As I approached the second door on the right corner, I heard a loud bang that echoed through the hallway. My heart raced, but I steeled myself and opened the door. The room was empty, and I let out a sigh of relief. But my eyes soon caught sight of a diary lying on the ground. The cover was made of animal skin, and some pages had been torn out. I couldn't resist the urge to pick it up and examine it closely.
The diary was filled with cryptic entries, some of which were completely illegible. But one thing was certain: whoever had written these words was a troubled soul. Their thoughts were plagued with darkness and despair, and it was as if they were grappling with something beyond comprehension.
I knew that I should leave and abandon this search for my own safety, but I couldn't help feeling drawn to this diary. It was as if it held the key to unlocking the mysteries of this place. I made up my mind to continue my search, despite the horrors that lay ahead.
With a trembling hand, I opened the diary, the pages creaking softly under my touch. Inside, I found three pictures, each one more unsettling than the last.
The first was of a man, his face twisted into a sinister smirk. He looked like something out of a horror movie, with a countenance so ugly that it made my skin crawl. The painting I had seen earlier paled in comparison to this image of pure monstrosity. As I gazed upon the picture, I couldn't help but wonder what kind of person could look so inhuman. Was he an asylum escapee, or something far worse? The questions swirled around in my mind, like a whirlpool dragging me under.
The second picture was of a towering woman, her face obscured by makeup and a grotesque expression of anger. She was so androgynous that I couldn't even tell if she was male or female. Her nails were long and sharp, and just looking at her filled me with a sense of dread. I found a note scribbled on the back of the picture, claiming that her beauty was absolute and that gazing into her eyes would bring eternal happiness. It was a disturbing sentiment that left me feeling nauseous.
The third and final picture was of two children, a boy and a girl, hugging each other tightly. The boy had a joyful smile on his face, while the girl's expression was unreadable. But as I looked closer, I noticed something strange in the background.
A man was staring out of the window, his eyes fixed on something that I couldn't see. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as a shiver ran down my spine. There was something about that man that made my blood run cold.
And then, there was the blurry figure in the background. I couldn't make out what it was, but it filled me with a sense of unease that lingered long after I closed the diary. The pictures were like a window into a world of darkness and despair, and I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this story than met the eye. However, I didn't have much time, so I opened the first page of the diary.
…
My name is Jogo, or perhaps it was Ojo? I don't even care anymore; that's all I can muster to write. Exhausted from recounting the intricate details of my existence, I find myself drowning in a sea of loathing and remorse. The flicker of hope, the glimmer of light, seems extinguished in this wretched world. The sensation of starvation, once etched in my bones, and the fleeting touch of joy have become distant echoes. The desire to live fades into obscurity, leaving me utterly adrift, bereft of purpose. Not a single word I utter feels worthy of existence. The embers of enthusiasm have long since smoldered into oblivion, leaving me devoid of any interest.
As I immerse myself in her music, its delicate melodies whispering gently in my ears, I strain to recall the last time harmony caressed my soul. An idyllic place lies beyond the boundaries of my description, a realm I can only daydream of, its ephemeral nature teasing my yearning heart. Yet, a whiff of prosperity wafts through the air, mingling with my senses. It was the last memory I retain of her—the enchanting symphony of violins and pianos that filled our days. But the roses, once vibrant in their bloom, now wither, and the sunflowers, once radiant, fail to ignite again. And so, I find myself clinging to hope, longing for her return. Her final words echoed in my mind, "When you gaze upon the moonlight and let the music embrace you, eternal happiness and tranquility shall be yours." Her joyous smile accompanied those words, but little did I know, it marked the culmination of our shared bliss, dissipating like smoke into the air.
It was all a grand illusion, a web of deceit spun around me. No matter what paths I tread, happiness eludes my grasp. Tranquility remains an illusory mirage, for she departed, leaving me behind with a hollow heart. She existed only within the realm of dreams, a figment of my imagination. It was all an illusion. "Wake up to reality," whispers the ever-present voice within, a bitter reminder of my folly. The notion of a peaceful life, a respite from torment, dangles just within reach, teasing me mercilessly. I stand here, a mere husk, stripped of my humanity, shackled by a fractured state of mind. The echo of her music reverberates, a haunting reminder of what was lost. As I peer into these books and bulbs, the truth becomes painfully clear—I am no longer myself, a mere fragment of the person I once found myself lost in the incomprehensible recesses of my own consciousness.
The ethereal melodies that emanated from her, much like her own enchanting presence, held a captivating beauty. They stirred within me a sense of déjà vu, as if I had experienced this profound music before. But now, she is gone, and with her departure, everything has crumbled to dust. My hope evaporated, leaving me adrift in a sea of despair, with life itself slipping through my fingers. Where do dreams originate, and where do they vanish to? These questions lingered in my mind, like whispers of forgotten memories, haunting me relentlessly. Oh, if only she could comprehend the depths of my sorrow, the year-long journey through desolation, where my heart has become a hollow vessel, devoid of solace and stability.
In an attempt to escape the suffocating grip of despair, I sought refuge within the walls of the theater. The choice to find solace there wasn't arbitrary; it felt as though an unseen force had guided me, nudging me towards this sanctuary when my mind was lost in chaos. Regrettably, I cannot recall who that guiding presence might have been, but their influence remains undeniable.
Within the theater, I sought refuge in the realm of comedy, for laughter is often prescribed as a balm for sadness. The first film I encountered was a clown with insatiable hunger, attempting to devour another being. The bizarre concept seemed poised between amusement and revulsion. After all, cannibalism was never meant for the realm of humanity. Yet, the clown's jests unraveled a deeper truth, exposing the agony hidden beneath the painted smile. It reminded me that appearances deceive; one can never comprehend the depths concealed within another's soul. Regardless of how we assess it, the reality is complex and obscured by a web of perceptions.
Then, a somber twist of fate led me to a tragedy. Ah, tragedy, a scent of melancholy, seeping into the very fabric of my being. Despite my reservations, I found myself irresistibly drawn into its embrace. What choice did I have but to surrender, sinking into the depths of sorrow, awaiting the deluge of tears that surely awaited me?
The second narrative unraveled before me, suffused with an unbearable sadness. In the midst of my own turmoil, I struggled to grasp the magnitude of the protagonist's suffering. A woman, tormented by a dreadful illness, clung to life by a thread. In this perplexing world we inhabit, I struggled to understand why anyone would engage in acts of violence or greed. Animals and humans, we are not so different after all—both capable of destruction, theft, and domination. Accepting this harsh reality felt like swallowing bitter medicine, yet it was the very fabric of our existence. Not everyone possesses a benevolent heart. Perhaps the woman's untimely demise was a consequence of familial vendettas, a retaliation against her kin. I couldn't help but muse, "Maybe her music served as a poignant reminder of her fleeting existence in this unforgiving world." From the day I was born, the world has taken and taken, leaving me bereft.
The third movie unfolded, blurring the lines between tragedy and comedy, leaving me with a jumbled array of emotions. I grappled with the essence of this genre, unsure if laughter could coexist with tears cascading down our cheeks. Nevertheless, I dismissed my contemplations and pressed on, engrossed in the unfolding story. It centered around a renowned singer whose voice wove drapes of sorrow and amusement. Her melodies tugged at my heartstrings, evoking a peculiar blend of emotions. Yet, as the narrative reached its culmination, tragedy befell the characters. I found myself questioning the cruel hand of fate, wondering why both of them had to suffer. They possessed a delightful synergy, much like us. Why does the world snatch away those who brings us joy? The grand enigma lies in the functioning of this world, a vast and bewildering landscape that often defies our expectations. Religion, too, remains an enigma, with its countless branches and diverging paths. Among the maze, I struggle to discern which one to follow. While I acknowledge the existence of a holy trinity, embracing religious practices proves arduous. This world, it eludes my understanding, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.
The final tale unfurled, a poignant melodrama that elicited no words of remorse from within me. For it was in this genre that we found solace, our favorite refuge. Oh, how vividly I recalled those carefree days when we were but teenagers, inseparable in our pursuits of joy. Laughter echoed through the corridors of time, a treasured memory now lost. Yet, as I grapple with the present, I find myself entangled in the suffocating grip of loneliness, similar to the very essence of this story. Perhaps it was all a fleeting daydream, an illusion I yearned to make real. If only I had been granted more time, the ending could have been rewritten, fate altered. Regret courses through my veins, whispering, "Had I not surrendered myself so wholly to the demands of work, I would not be mired in this desolation." Regrettably, this is the nature of our human existence—imperfect and irreversible. Lessons are learned, but often at a cost, and why must they manifest now, when the hourglass runs dry? Lost in the whirlwind of my duties, I failed to grasp the significance of our bond. And now, she has vanished, lost to the realm of absence. The world, unyielding in its indifference, reveals its relentless truth. We humans toil ceaselessly to quell the gnawing hunger, to stave off starvation, and to ward off genetic strife. It is no wonder that I succumbed to the siren call of work, for I was gripped by the fear of failure. But it was not my own hands that sculpted this cruel existence; it was the external forces that surrounded me, shaping me into a mere cog in the grand machinery. I can no longer recognize the remnants of my humanity.
"Love or hate?" A question hangs heavy in the air, as the dichotomy taunts my senses. It's undeniable how favoritism can permeate our world. People constantly seek attention, allowing their desires to overpower their rationality. I, too, find myself caught in this intricate web. Driven by a deep desire to prove others wrong, I felt compelled to defy their judgments and show that I am not a failure. This determination has been with me since the very beginning of my dreams. I longed to be the one who stood out, to receive admiration from everyone around me.
I made up my choice. I refused to bring myself to the depths of hatred. It was only a feeling of grief. It was only a feeling of despair that made me like this. But what happened to her made me realize that I should choose the right society that would chase me away from downfall decisions. I realized how competitive I was. I experienced attacks of dread and panic at the realization that I was the sole individual who was completely different from the world. I found talking to other people to be all but impossible. "What should I discuss? How do I phrase this? I'm not sure." But now, everything has changed. I became who I am today because of the songs she left behind. This is the sound of music, and this album was filled with our memories, Thank you! And Goodbye. I have always loved you from the very start. I am no longer swallowed with hate, and now, I can see the world in a bright light once again.