Months had passed…
After an absence of a month, I returned to the realm of the living, my true name and surname almost forgotten in the recesses of my mind. An overwhelming sense of elation washed over me as I realized that I had faithfully chronicled every twist and turn of my tumultuous existence. However, the past few months, consumed by the relentless pursuit of sustenance and shelter, had left me with a dearth of recorded memories. Yet, despite the hardships I had endured, I managed to survive, aided by the presence of a young woman named Shina.
She possessed an otherworldly beauty, her brown tresses exuding a radiant brilliance similar to the fiery sun. Almond-shaped eyes, resplendent like twinkling stars, captivated all who beheld them. Her visage, as delicate and pure as freshly fallen snow, boasted a smoothness reminiscent of porcelain. A subtle flush of pink adorned her cheeks, endowing her with an ethereal luminescence, as though she hailed from a realm far beyond mortal reach. Her porcelain-like complexion, unblemished and flawless, seemed to emit an inner radiance, casting a gentle glow upon all in her presence.
She embodied grace itself, her eyes shimmering with warmth and benevolence, her smile exuding an infectious joy capable of illuminating the darkest corners of a room. Her spirit, infused with boundless generosity, manifested effortlessly through selfless acts devoid of ulterior motives. She possessed an innate ability to soothe even the most shattered souls, her voice a balm, her touch a tender salve. Whether it be a kind word or an altruistic gesture, she readily extended her hand to those in need, without expecting accolades or recompense.
Her innate sweetness permeated every facet of her being, from the gentle caress of her fingertips to the fluid sway of her hips as she moved through the world. Her laughter resonated like a symphony of joy, and her embrace, a warm cocoon of solace.
She was the sole being who extended a morsel of sustenance to me. Lost and adrift in the streets, my stomach a constant reminder of my hunger, I navigated a world cold and merciless. People, with their scornful sneers and mocking taunts, exacerbated my already profound sense of isolation. Their words pierced like daggers, impaling my heart and exacerbating my ever-growing sense of alienation. I had believed that no one would ever embrace my existence.
Yet, my past traumas, a haunting shadow that lingered within, rendered it arduous to place my trust in humanity once more. A multitude of uncertainties and unanswered questions gnawed at my psyche, leaving me wary of such scenarios.
Days stretched into weeks, weeks morphed into months, and still, happiness eluded me. Yet, a glimmer of solace emerged in the fact that someone, Lady Shina, was willing to offer me sustenance. It came as a shock that she was not repulsed by my disfigured countenance or the pungent odor that clung to me. I had not bathed in what felt like an eternity, perhaps three months or more. I faintly recollected someone leading me to the bathroom, allowing me to confront the reality of my own foul stench. Fragments of the scene lingered within my fragmented memories.
My parents, ever indifferent, had decreed that I was to remain confined within the depths of our Mansion, banished to a subterranean realm hidden away from the world above. In this subterranean recess, a space unlike any other unfolded. It was a realm of shadows and secrets, where whispers and echoes played their eternal games. Time seemed to stagnate within those walls, the air heavy with the weight of forgotten histories.
This was the basement, a world unto itself, a sanctuary where memories took root and abandoned remnants found solace. Cobweb-laden corners and dimly lit alcoves defined its essence, while creaking floorboards and rustling fabrics added to its mystique.
Here, in the embrace of darkness, solace could be sought, sheltered from the chaotic tempests of the world above. The basement provided refuge to those who sought it, a place where minds could wander and souls could find respite. I had been relegated to this forgotten mansion, deemed useless and cast aside like an obsolete tool, no longer serving its purpose. Occasionally, my stench would reach unbearable levels, and it was during such moments that an unidentified individual would guide me to the bathroom, helping me confront my own repulsiveness. But unfortunately, the identity of this person remains shrouded in the depths of my fractured memories.
Nevertheless, in the presence of Lady Shina, a sense of tranquility and comfort washed over me like a gentle tide. Seated at my makeshift desk, fashioned from discarded remnants salvaged from the junkyard, she observed me with unwavering attention, admiring the grace of my penmanship and lauding my writing prowess. Her kind words ignited a warmth within my heart, a warmth that had long been absent from my life.
I poured out my soul to her, revealing the tragedy that had befallen me. As she perused the pages of my written account, I could discern the sorrow etched upon her countenance. It was as if she had traversed the very fabric of my existence, living each moment alongside me. My astonishment grew when she shared with me an article she had stumbled upon, shedding light on the Lei family and corroborating the veracity of my experiences.
Enveloped in Lady Shina's embrace, my wounded spirit found solace, and a profound happiness washed over me. No longer did I face the desolation of solitude; she stood beside me, a flare of light in the darkness. In her presence, I discovered a newfound hope, a flickering flame that illuminated the path ahead.
Despite my reservations born of past betrayals, Lady Shina extended a gracious offer of shelter and sustenance in exchange for my assistance with household tasks. The allure of her proposition proved irresistible, and I accepted with heartfelt gratitude, eager to unravel the enigma of this woman who had effortlessly captured my heart.
Yet, intertwined with my anticipation was an undercurrent of trepidation. The scars of previous transgressions etched deep within me, and doubt lingered like a shadow. Would Lady Shina eventually succumb to the same cruelty that had plagued my existence? Could I trust her with my fragile vulnerability? These haunting questions clouded my vision, threatening to darken the nascent light of our connection.
I recognized the need for caution, to protect myself from further harm. But I also understood that succumbing to fear would shatter the fragile hope I had just begun to embrace. I resolved to shield my doubts, concealing them deep within, for I could not bear the thought of pushing away the one person who had extended a hand of kindness.
As Lady Shina departed to procure provisions, a momentary respite allowed me to exhale the weight of uncertainty. In the stillness of her absence, I pondered the uncharted path before me. It was an opportunity for rebirth, a chance to relinquish the shackles of past torment and embrace the promise of tomorrow. I vowed to seize this newfound chapter, to navigate the trials that lay in wait with unwavering determination.
No matter the obstacles that might beset our journey, I resolved to confront them head-on, drawing strength from the fragile trust I had forged. In the resolute beating of my heart, I sensed a glimmer of resilience, a flame that refused to be extinguished. Together with Lady Shina, I would chart a new course, a proof of the regenerative power of the human soul.
As her footsteps echoed in the distance, I held fast to the belief that this partnership, built upon mutual trust and unspoken understanding, would transcend the traumas of our pasts. It was a fragile hope, delicate as the wings of a butterfly, but with each breath, I fortified my resolve to embrace this second chance at life, come what may.
Ojo 03/22/1999
Greetings, I am Ojo. It has been a span of four months since I last graced the pages of this notebook. Lady Shina has unveiled my true name, and the remnants of my skeptical self have dissipated. In this sanctuary, I find solace and security. This apartment resonates with the essence of home. Lady Shina, in her benevolence, has bestowed upon me a computer, thereby endowing me with the ability to fashion tales, should I desire. In the hours of solitude, surrounded my tormented days, I immerse myself in the words of novels. Through these narratives, I find ample material to construct and envision the execution of my own stories. Perhaps, an opportunity awaits my grasp. Lady Shina has proclaimed that writing stories may serve as a means to procure sustenance. Consequently, I find myself engaged in daily pursuits of weaving my own narrative embroidery.
During my nascent years, I became ensnared within a cultural conundrum, ensnared between my Japanese heritage and my Chinese roots. My name paid homage to the land of the rising sun, while my veins coursed with the mingling essence of two distinct civilizations. The palpable tension between my parents' families permeated the air, especially when my maternal grandmother graced our presence. She harbored no inclination to conceal her disapproval of their union, an ever-present reminder of the lingering cultural chasm. However, unbeknownst to me, our relocation to China would usher forth an unforeseen transformation in our fortunes. We found ourselves abruptly enveloped in wealth, proprietors of a flourishing enterprise. It appeared as though the stuff of dreams had manifested before our very eyes.
Yet, the past, equivalent to a relentless specter, haunts me ceaselessly. I shall endeavor to navigate this labyrinth somehow, for the realization that my grandparents, and indeed, any kin from both lineages, would be devastated upon learning the truth weighs heavy on my conscience. Nevertheless, their indifference looms large, as they failed to extend a helping hand from the very inception. My parents, upon amassing their wealth, severing all ties with their respective families, embarked on a vengeful journey.
Oh dear, in the end, the riches my progenitors amassed stood atop a foundation of deceit. The notion of sacrificing their own offspring's spirit and well-being for the sake of pecuniary gain remains incomprehensible to my fragile psyche.
As I strolled alongside Lady Shina, she emanated an aura reminiscent of Cinderella, with me, her humble attendant. I, shrouded in a cloak of shame, bemoaned my visage. Our journey paused momentarily, prompting me to rummage through my refuse bag, wherein I kept salvaged remnants. With my bare hands, I fashioned two apertures in a paper bag, granting it a semblance of a nose and a mouth. Resuming our promenade, Lady Shina graced the atmosphere with a mellifluous laughter, her delicate fingers interlacing with mine. A comforting warmth permeated my being, near to a cozy hearth on a frost-laden eve. Her touch exuded a gentle yet resolute assurance that all shall be well.
Her gaze, penetrating and profound, rendered me mute. The intensity with which she regarded me conveyed an unspoken truth—I was the sole individual in her universe whose existence truly mattered. In that ephemeral juncture, I experienced a profound sense of belonging, an ethereal connection hitherto unknown.
With each step we took, her grasp upon my hand remained resolute, an unwavering deposition to her unwavering presence by my side. Her touch enveloped me with a shield of safety and serenity, assuring me that naught could inflict harm upon me as long as she held my hand.
As we approached the petite house, its quaint allure captivated my gaze. A gentle palette of pink and white enveloped its exterior, while a vibrant array of blossoms adorned the surrounding garden. A meandering path of cobblestones led to the front porch, adorned with a dainty ensemble of white wrought-iron furniture.
Upon crossing the threshold, I was instantly embraced by the essence of femininity that pervaded the space. Lavender-hued walls danced with an ethereal glow, while an amalgamation of vintage and contemporary furnishings curated an atmosphere of warmth and hospitality. Atop the hardwood floors rested a resplendent pink rug, while delicate lace curtains framed the windows, veiling the room in a subtle embrace.
Every facet of the dwelling had been meticulously adorned, bearing witness to the delicate hand of the individual who claimed it as their own. The bookshelves, burdened with an overflow of literature spanning diverse genres, paid homage to the timeless classics as well as contemporary tales of ardor. A minuscule vase, harboring a bouquet of fragrant blooms, graced a side table, saturating the air with their gentle perfume.
Venturing further, my eyes alighted upon a couch of utmost comfort, festooned with plush pillows in shades of pink—a haven to nestle into whilst delving into the realms of literary splendor. The diminutive kitchen, though modest in scale, boasted an array of vintage appliances in harmonious pink hues. Adjacent to a window, a petite table and accompanying chairs offered an intimate nook wherein to relish a cup of tea, while feasting one's eyes upon the picturesque vista beyond.
Despite its modest proportions, this domicile exuded an air of sanctuary—a bastion of tranquility and solace. It was evident that this haven had been tenderly crafted, an embodiment of love and devotion, each facet attesting to the unique soul who laid claim to it. It was a place wherein one could escape the trials of the external world, enveloped in a cocoon of personal treasures—a sanctuary wherein joy found its eternal home.
In this poignant moment, all I yearn for is to cast my gaze upon the heavens and express profound gratitude for the fortuitousness bestowed upon me by Lady Shina. I am overwhelmed by a desire to reciprocate her kindness in the most meaningful manner possible.
Remarkably, this marks the inaugural instance of dating these pages. I am uncertain as to the impetus behind this sudden inclusion, perhaps a subconscious yearning to trace the origin of my newfound existence, and to chronicle the dates wherein both moments of splendor and tragedy unfolded. Indeed, the word "tragic" bears significance, for I no longer dwell within a realm ensnared by tragedies.
Lady Shina, in her boundless benevolence, proffered me treatments to alleviate the scars of my mental trauma and cerebral injuries. She vowed to pursue any means necessary to heal the wounds inflicted upon me by those callous individuals. However, I harbored no desire to subject myself to the realm of plastic surgery, nor did I wish for her to bear the burden of exorbitant expenses. In truth, I remained apathetic to my disfigured countenance, so long as it met with her acceptance. Such thoughts, devoid of negativity, consumed my consciousness henceforth.
Ojo 07/25/1999
The frigid tendrils of December embraced my being as I gazed pensively through the windowpane. Delicate snowflakes pirouetted from the heavens, adorning the earthly realm in a pristine veil of white. It seemed inconceivable that in just a few weeks. Christmas would grace our presence—a joyous occasion hitherto foreign to my existence. Lady Shina, my compassionate confidante and companion, took it upon herself to immerse me in the splendorous festivities of the season.
Those four months, oh how they radiated with vibrancy and delight. Lady Shina would whisk me away into the world beyond these sheltered walls, and there, I would splay my arms wide, surrendering myself to the serene embrace of existence. In those moments, a profound tranquility would seep into my very core, soothing the turbulent echoes of my past. However, there existed a disconcerting facet that troubled my soul—the lecherous gazes cast upon Lady Shina by those vile men. My mind would conjure fantasies of torment and retribution, visions of their gruesome demise. Yet, I swiftly dismissed such thoughts as futile and wasteful, for my paramount duty remained the protection of Lady Shina. Should their foolishness manifest, the blame shall not rest upon my shoulders. How difficult it is to understand how such macabre fantasies came to be in my mind.
During the initial week of August, the course of my treatment yielded promising results, granting me respite and the gradual reclamation of memories long lost. One question arose within this resurgence: "How did I comport myself in bygone days?" Ah, it becomes clear now. I had donned the guise of a jester, a purveyor of mirth, desperate for the attention and favor of others. In this realm, to be the favored one was to bask in an abundance of recognition and accolades. My siblings, their laughter resounding through the halls, reveled in my antics, and I, swept away by their mirth, danced along, playing the role of the court fool until their attention waned.
My siblings, their actions fraught with mockery, often set their sights upon me, devising pranks that sought to embarrass. The veil of kindness they wore was but a ruse, exploiting me as a mere tool for their amusement. Lamentably, my father, even then, reveled in cruelty. Upon the anniversary of my birth, I would beseech the gift of a new set of Yu-Gi-Oh cards, yet his decree superseded my desires. Instead of cards, he presented me with a ludicrous costume, designed to elicit laughter at my expense. I wore a smile upon my face and refrained from protest, for I knew it to be futile. Throughout that chapter of my life, I played the role of the household jester, where every facet of my existence—my emotions, desires, and volition—succumbed to the artifice of deception.
My brothers, despite the staleness of my jokes, would oftentimes repeat them. The rationale behind their actions eluded me, but I surmised it stemmed from their own insecurities—a common occurrence, it seems. Though I did not mind, a cringe would involuntarily grace my countenance during such instances. And then there were the times when my father remained oblivious to my jests, prompting my brothers to embark upon mimicry as a means of amusement.
The act of penning these narratives serves as my refuge, a coping mechanism to contend with the ceaseless torrent of negative emotions that besiege my being. It stands as one of the rare few joys that I possess, an escape from a reality in which I feel like an interloper, offering respite from the misery that engulfs me, if only momentarily.
The intricacies of human nature remain inscrutable, yet I am gradually acclimating myself to its enigmatic ways. As long as I have someone to live for, it is sufficient to tether me to this realm of mortals. It amuses me, in a peculiar manner, how I engage in endless internal debates and question the very essence of my existence, yet my tenacious grip on life remains unyielding. Even I, in all my complexity, find myself subject to an array of inquiries.
These memories reside deep within the recesses of my being. In the past, I would renounce the words I uttered during those times, but now, I strive to preserve them. I shall not retract the things I am about to express. I find myself infused with a newfound vigor as I recall these recollections, for although they were not always steeped in joy, they remain an indelible part of my shade of memories. HAHAHA! The irony is not lost on me—how I incessantly wrestle with my traumas yet yearn to hold onto these reminiscences. I confess, I am quite the enigma. But it matters not, for I find solace in the present. Reflecting upon these past events merely serves as a retrospective of how my family once treated me. Life, a marvelous enigma, often delivers strangers who prove more virtuous than those we are acquainted with. Lady Shina exemplifies this truth.
During the third week of September, the second round of treatment commenced. Within its depths, I stumbled upon a memory that momentarily petrified me. Lady Shina, ever inquisitive, implored me to divulge the newfound recollection. However, I found myself ill-prepared to articulate it coherently. Thus, I shall inscribe it upon these pages and elucidate its contents to her at a later juncture.
Fragmented flashbacks of my bonds with my siblings resurfaced within my consciousness. As I had mentioned before, I perpetually assumed the role of the jester, and they, in turn, they laughed at my comments and couldn't believe I was being sincere.
The revelation of witnessing my parents engaged in a sinister act, offering up a deceased child, shook me to my core. In that moment, my disbelief wavered, and I found myself wide awake, grappling with the weight of fear pressing upon my chest. Without a doubt, they were malefactors, perpetrators of a heinous act. I mustered the courage to confide in my siblings, hoping for solace and validation. Sadly, they ignored my words as mere nonsense., accusing me of daydreaming and clowning around as was customary. So, I relinquished the truth and went along with the charade, exclaiming, "It was a joke, MWAHAHA!" They laughed in response, ridiculing the very notion of our parents engaging in such behavior. The trauma clung to my being, etched into the fabric of my existence, an indelible scar that time failed to erase. Yet, I maintained my composure and carried on, for that was the path of least resistance, a means to avoid trouble.
Months rolled by, and I chose to accept the reality of what had transpired, carrying the weight of that knowledge within me. Christmas approached, and though I anticipated a festive atmosphere, the prospect of receiving gifts held little allure. I had resigned myself to receiving whatever was bestowed upon me, so long as it did not manifest as one of those humiliating costumes.
Yet, regardless of my protestations, they persisted in selecting absurd outfits that reduced me to a spectacle, an entire circus unto myself. "Will it be a monkey costume or a horse costume? It matters not, for you won't care, right? I shall determine what you desire. Alright?" The tragic words, "I shall determine what you desire, alright?" cast doubt upon my worth, leaving me to ponder whether I was naught but a plaything in my father's eyes. It was a difficult question to answer, yet I acquiesced once more. The cycle repeated endlessly, offering me the same limited choices. While my siblings reveled in receiving new gadgets for Christmas, I was left bereft, receiving nothing but the erosion of my dignity. The mistreatment persisted, the only variation being the addition of physical abuse to the narrative.
From a tender age, I was devoid of free will. My mother compelled me to learn subjects that held no interest for me, imposing her own desires upon my intellectual pursuits. I was forbidden from venturing outside to play with the children next door. Their wish was for me to embody my father's intellect, and any attempt to escape the confines of the house would be met with scolding and cutting remarks from my mother. She would utter those piercing words, "What did I tell you? You are not allowed to play with those lowly creatures. I have had enough of you! You shall not eat until you have memorized the multiplication table!"
The chains of control tightened around me, suppressing my individuality and suffocating my spirit. I yearned for liberation, for the freedom to explore my own passions, but it seemed an unattainable dream. My existence became a continuous struggle, navigating a labyrinth of expectations and abuses, all while donning a mask to preserve my facade of normalcy.
As the third week of treatment progressed, I could feel myself growing stronger with each passing day. I held my traumas at arm's length, as if they were nothing more than dark fantasies. But one name persisted in my mind, haunting me like a living nightmare within the family: Izumi. The memories began to resurface, and with them came a newfound understanding.
I recalled a particular incident that occurred after Christmas Eve. My parents, inebriated and sprawled out on the floor, muttered incomprehensible words. Between their slurred speech, my father uttered, "T…morrow I…will...check." I was perplexed, unsure of what he meant to "check." Was it about my new costume? Oh, how I had resigned myself to a lifetime of playing the role of the family clown. I couldn't comprehend my emotions at the time, but whenever someone criticized me, I would break out in a cold sweat, trembling with fear. Criticism had never been part of my vocabulary, but I soon realized that it was an inherent aspect of the world. Proper criticism, when delivered with care, could guide us towards improvement and growth, while the absence of it left us stagnant.
However, things took a darker turn on that fateful day. I had ventured to the fridge to fetch some leftovers when suddenly, a blow landed on my head. It was unmistakably a woman who had struck me. There were no long-haired males in the household, so the culprit could only be Izumi or my older sister, Izeya. But as fragments of memory surfaced, I recalled Izumi's words from long ago: "I was nothing but a tool." It became clear to me. When Lady Shina had asked about the carved mark on my back, I had been clueless, but now the truth emerged. It was Izumi who had etched that mark after I awoke from my coma. I had descended into a personal hell, and their treatment towards me changed. Disgust emanated from them; they no longer laughed or spoke to me. The deception perpetrated by my sister was undeniable. Nothing felt real anymore. The gravity of that moment stripped away my ability to laugh, cry, or even feel anger. My emotions became an enigma, a puzzle I could no longer decipher.
These memories, resurfacing one by one, painted a picture of a past riddled with pain, abuse, and manipulation. The realization of the true nature of my family left me with a profound sense of loss and confusion. But even in the gloom, I found comfort in the presence of Lady Shina, who served as my guiding light in this turbulent universe. Her unwavering support and genuine care provided a glimmer of hope, reminding me that there were still kind and compassionate souls to be found. With her by my side, I vowed to confront the demons of my past and forge a new path towards healing and self-discovery.
Everything passes. What is the meaning of living in this world? What is the point of struggling to survive and pursue our dreams? I have found mine, or so I thought. I have decided that I want to become a writer, a successful one. I want to create stories that can touch the hearts of the readers, make them cry, laugh, rage, and feel anything at all. I want to break their shells of indifference and apathy. But I wonder if this ambition of mine can change anything in this merciless world. Perhaps it is just a futile attempt to escape from reality.
I have a question that bothers me sometimes. Why do people act differently depending on who they are with? For example, you might think that I am a freak, a monster, an outcast. And you would be right. But I cannot admit that to myself or anyone else. Because if I do, I will lose everything. I will be alone in this world, with no one to talk to, no one to care for me. The only person who ever showed me kindness was Lady Shina. That is why I hide my true self behind a mask of normalcy. I am afraid of losing her more than anything.
But nothing lasts forever in this world. I could not recover any more of my lost memories. I had to be content with the fragments that I had regained. They were precious to me, even if they were painful or unpleasant. They were part of who I was, who I am. I cherished them as much as I could. After some time, I spent the remaining months with Lady Shina, knowing that our time together was limited.
Ojo 11/05/1999
The night sky was filled with a myriad of twinkling stars, illuminating the darkness and filling me with a sense of wonder. Lady Shina and I laid on a blanket, side by side, gazing up at the vast expanse above us. The silence between us was comfortable, as we shared the beauty of the night together.
I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for Lady Shina's presence in my life. She had become my anchor, my confidante, and my best friend. Her unwavering support and care had helped me heal from the wounds of my past, and I knew that I was no longer alone in this world.
As we laid there, I couldn't help but reflect on the journey I had taken, from a lost and broken soul to a person filled with hope and dreams. Lady Shina had shown me that there was kindness and love in the world, and I was determined to carry that forward in my own life.
I turned to Lady Shina, a smile playing on my lips, and said, "Thank you for everything, Lady Shina. Today, on my eighteenth birthday, I can honestly say that I feel blessed to have you by my side. Let's cherish these moments together and make more beautiful memories in the years to come."
Lady Shina smiled warmly, her eyes reflecting the starlight above us. "Happy birthday," she whispered, her voice filled with genuine affection. "I'm grateful to have you in my life too. Let's make your wish come true, and may our bond grow stronger with each passing day."
And in that moment, under the twinkling stars, I felt a surge of hope and happiness. With Lady Shina by my side, I knew that I had the strength to face whatever challenges lay ahead. Together, we would create a future filled with love, laughter, and the pursuit of our dreams.
As we continued to gaze at the stars, I couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of purpose and excitement for the journey that awaited us. And as the night stretched on, we stayed there, hand in hand, dreaming and planning for a future that was ours to embrace.
Ojo 11/18/2000
It was on Christmas Eve, a night adorned with the flickering lights of festive cheer. In this momentous occasion, a wave of contentment washed over me, for I had the fortune of spending this joyous night in the company of another. No longer was I confined to the desolate realms of solitude; I had found solace in her presence. We were the only souls partaking in this gathering—I ventured to ask her why she hadn't extended an invitation to others. Her response, poignant and sincere, reverberated within me.
"I do not wish for the world to cast judgment upon the person who holds my deepest affections," she confided. "You are dear to me, and your significance transcends superficiality. That is why I implore you to conceal your visage behind a mask when we venture outside. It is not a matter of shame or embarrassment concerning your appearance, but rather a reflection of the world's harsh realities. I am unable to fight their prejudice, for it is the world against us. Confronting the diverse individuals who harbor discriminatory tendencies, those who pass judgment without considering the intricacies of one's circumstances, presents an arduous struggle."
Her words struck me with such force that tears welled up in my eyes. It was as if a weight had been lifted from my weary soul, and a profound sense of tranquility enveloped me. She possessed an enchanting allure, captivating me with her presence. I watched as she gazed out the window, fixating on a repugnant pile of excrement in the dimly lit street. Oddly enough, it seemed to possess a peculiar vitality, breathing with a life of its own.
True, we may encounter obstacles along our shared path, but she acknowledged my existence with an unwavering acceptance, treating me as a human in a world that sometimes dehumanizes me. I, who had grown accustomed to the notion of my own humanity slipping away, found solace in her regard. I yearned to validate my own worth, to lift my head high and affirm my status as a fellow human being, unburdened by regrets.
In the vast drapes of existence, I hold steadfast to the belief that problems deemed insurmountable do not truly exist. Each individual grapples with their own tribulations in this intricate realm we inhabit. It eludes me why, in the face of such undeniable realities, laughter wells up from deep within my being. Yet, one cannot deny the undeniable truth that every soul harbors their own battles, their own share of burdens to bear.
Ojo 12/25/1999
As the year draws to a close, Lady Shina busies herself in the kitchen, preparing a comforting feast of ramen for our evening repast. The tantalizing aroma wafts through the air, arousing both anticipation and hunger within me. The simmering broth, the delicate dance of ingredients, all attest to her skill in the kitchen.
During the preparations, I find myself pondering the passage of time, the ebb and flow of life's demands. I am acutely aware that these pages of my notebook, once filled with ink-stained tales and musings, have been neglected as of late. The vicissitudes of existence have led me down a different path—a path where I have made the conscious decision to embrace the vocation of a full-time writer.
The ramen is ready. The fragrant steam rises, entwining with the essence of our shared aspirations. As Lady Shina serves the bowls, a sense of fulfillment washes over me, mingling with the savory flavors. And with each spoonful savored, I embark on a new chapter of my life, where the pursuit of literature intertwines with the threads of my existence, forever etching its mark upon the curtains of time.
Ojo 01/01/2000
February first arrives, carrying with it the anticipation and excitement that heralds the approach of Valentine's Day. This day, I have resolved, shall be the perfect occasion to convey my deepest emotions to Lady Shina, unburdening my heart in a cascade of unabashed affection.
Surrounded the flutter of romantic musings, a thought slips into my consciousness, reminding me of a significant milestone in my journey as a writer. I find myself nearly forgetting that I have recently unveiled my debut novel, titled "Destroya," to the world. A work of fantasy, its creation owes much to the fertile imagination nurtured during my youthful years, when the extravagance of an eighth-grade syndrome gripped my spirit. It is this unbounded realm of fantasy that I have successfully transformed into a tangible reality within the pages of my book. And now, as fate would have it, "Destroya" has soared to the pinnacle of the literary charts, captivating the hearts and minds of readers.
But here is an unexpected revelation: the illustrator behind the exquisite illustrations that bring my words to life is none other than Lady Shina herself. The realization dawns upon me that she possesses a hidden talent for visual expression, one that she honed since her tender years as a child. It was a skill she pursued fervently, facing countless setbacks along the way, nearly succumbing to the depths of despair. Yet, she persisted, and with each passing year, her artistic prowess blossomed into a true mastery. However, life's winding path led her astray, forcing her into an occupation that did not align with her passions. The need for financial stability nudged her towards the confines of an office, suppressing her creative spirit.
In recognition of the invaluable role she plays in sustaining our shared existence, I made the decision to entrust her with the entirety of the proceeds earned from my novel. It is she who shoulders the burden of paying the bills and providing nourishment, for the world of writing and illustrating offers no guarantee of a steady income. And while I am content with the simplest of sustenance, as long as it fills my belly, I insisted on sharing the responsibility of expenses.
However, Lady Shina displayed hesitance, her gentle words etched into the recesses of my mind. "Keep it," she whispered softly, her gaze filled with tenderness. "Perhaps you have desires yet unfulfilled? A book, perchance? I am content with managing the bills. All I ask is that you continue to exhibit kindness in your interactions with the world." She concluded her words with a gentle laugh, her mirth echoing through the room.
Flattered by her selflessness, I graciously declined her offer. My voice resolute, I spoke with conviction. "Allow me to contribute," I implored, a sincere tone lacing my words. "Though I have no grand aspirations or extravagant desires, this place, this home we have built together, is where I find solace. Please permit me to alleviate the burden of expenses. It brings me a sense of fulfillment to be able to share in the responsibilities of our livelihood." And in that moment, a blissful smile graced her countenance, a demonstration of her consent.
In this sacred space we call home, within the confines of our shared love and understanding, the exchange of material possessions holds no true significance. Our commitment to one another transcends the superficial, bound by a bond that encompasses kindness, compassion, and unwavering support. Together, we navigate the labyrinth of life, embracing the joyous moments and weathering the storms that threaten to assail us. And as we stand united, hand in hand, I am reminded that love, in its purest form, is not measured in monetary terms, but in the immeasurable strength we derive from each other's presence.
02/01/2000
In a serene sanctuary, where the air carried the whispers of love and the melodies of nature, Lady Shina graced the world with her ethereal voice. Before indulging in her meal, she would delicately glide her fingers across the piano keys, as if engaged in an intimate dance. With each note, her soul soared to a utopian realm. She once confided in me that music had rescued her from despair, and it was through art—paintings and drawings—that she found solace.
Whenever Lady Shina played Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, an inexplicable sensation enveloped my being. It was a feeling that defied explanation, yet brought immense pleasure. It wasn't disdain for the piece, but rather a poignant emotion I struggled to express. Perhaps it was a sense of longing or an elusive yearning for something greater in life. Regardless, the phrase that echoed within me was, "Life is an empty door," despite the fact that I was unable to understand why this feeling persisted after hearing that particular tune.
As her gaze met mine, I applauded, unable to contain my admiration. "It was truly exquisite! I could listen to you play the piano forever."
Her head tilted, and she bestowed upon me a blissful smile. "Thank you, Ojo! This piano is a replica of my late grandmother's, who passed away before she could impart her wisdom to me."
My sympathy spilled forth. "I'm truly sorry to hear that."
She reassured me with a gentle touch. "Don't fret. Music holds such beauty, you know. But now, let's tend to our hunger. My stomach is already growling."
"You're right," I agreed, "and perhaps one day, Lady Shina, you could teach me how to play."
Her eyes widened in surprise, but soon a warm glow enveloped her face. "Really? I must confess, I'm not the best teacher."
"That's alright. We can take it slow, and I don't mind how long it takes, as long as it's you guiding me."
Her laughter filled the air, a melodious sound that tugged at my heartstrings. "Oh, you continually amaze me with your endearing words. Come, let us feast! Once we've savored our meal, I shall impart my knowledge upon you."
"Very well, then! Let's embark on this musical journey together!"
A melodic rendezvous with Lady Shina awaited me. I hoped to master the notes with grace, so as not to burden her. Although music was not my forte, the joy in her eyes upon discovering my desire to learn the piano was unmistakable. In her mind, she must have envisioned her late grandmother's legacy passed down to another. It was a bittersweet thought, knowing that her grandmother's music would continue to enchant souls for eternity.
Ojo 01/23/2000
February 14th has arrived, an auspicious day that holds immense significance for me. On this day, I summon the courage to confess my deepest feelings to Lady Shina, hoping that the fates shall align and grace our union with positivity and love. With bated breath, I tread upon this path of vulnerability, praying that no ill omens cast their shadow upon our moment of truth.
In this moment, I, Ojo, extend my heartfelt greetings to my future self. From this day forth, we shall be entwined as a couple, embarking on a journey where our destinies intertwine. To commemorate this milestone, I offer her flowers and chocolates, tokens of affection crafted with my own hands. The surprise in her eyes reflects her astonishment at this demonstration of my devotion— a sign of the power I have discovered inside myself to express my emotions rather than bury them. Her pride in my newfound courage swells my heart, and together, we revel in the joyous realization that our love has taken root, marking a new chapter in our intertwined lives.
As we stand here, enveloped in a newfound bliss, I find myself pleasantly surprised at rendering Lady Shina momentarily speechless. Our union as lovers feels surreal, a blessing bestowed upon me that fills every fiber of my being with overwhelming happiness. Such is the depth of my elation that I struggle to contain myself, my hand gliding across the page in an almost frenzied state, capturing the torrent of emotions that overflow within me.
In the days to come, my path shall be strewn with obligations and commitments that demand my attention. As I embark on the pursuit of my goals as a writer, I am determined to exceed Lady Shina's expectations, for her unwavering support serves as both inspiration and motivation. No longer can I claim to have devoted myself wholeheartedly to the craft of writing, but now, as an author, I shall weave words as if there were no tomorrow. I yearn to evoke a spectrum of emotions within the hearts of readers—joy, sorrow, and even anger—allowing them to traverse the realm of human sentiment. My intent is to pierce the veil of narcissism and insensitivity, to kindle empathy within each soul that encounters my words.
To my future self, I relinquish the burden of achieving greatness as a writer. It is in your hands to carve out a path towards fame and recognition. Write with abandon, with the fire that ignites your creative spirit. Let your words resonate with the hearts of countless readers, for in their connection to your stories, lies the essence of your success.
As I conclude this entry, I am filled with a sense of both trepidation and excitement for the future that lies ahead. The ink on this page signifies the beginning of a love story and the unwritten chapters that await our eager embrace. With Lady Shina by my side, I am strengthened in my commitment to pursue a career as a writer, ardently attempting to make an imprint on the fabric of literary achievements.
May our love and shared dreams intertwine, guiding us towards a future steeped in joy and fulfillment.
Ojo 02/14/2000
Time passes, engulfing me in a whirlwind of responsibilities and mounting pressures. The weight of my burgeoning literary career rests heavily upon my weary shoulders, as the demands for my books grow with each passing day. Fatigue gnaws at my spirit, and stress clings to my every thought. My distance from Lady Shina is growing as we spend fewer quality moments together and instead have sporadic exchanges within this hectic clamor of deadlines and expectations. Maybe my final tribute will be these words I'm writing right now.
At the age of twenty-three, I reflect upon my journey thus far, with a mixture of pride and frustration. The pages of my literary endeavors bear witness to the fruits of my labor, as I have published a total of fifteen novels—seven sprawling multi-volume epics and six concise one-shot creations. The pace has been grueling, even considering the reservoir of ideas Before becoming a professional writer, I had developed. A collection of twenty books have been produced over the course of three years, creating a following that is expanding and attracting a lot of attention. Yet, despite these modest successes, the specter of insecurity looms large, casting its shadow upon my visage. A fear of judgment rooted in my appearance compels me to maintain a low profile, veiling my features from the world's scrutiny.
I was able to find fragments of time to spend with Lady Shina despite the turbulent waves of my hard work. A pang of longing seizes my heart as I ponder the rare instances of connection we have shared lately. Her own professional obligations have tethered her to a relentless schedule, leaving us with meager moments to exchange fleeting words. Perhaps it is time to visit her office, to witness the realm that engulfs her days, to bridge the chasm that threatens to grow between us.
As I inscribe these words within the pages of this notebook, uncertainty clouds my thoughts. The frenzied pace of my existence affords little respite for introspection or reflection. Will this be my last thought on these pages? The arbitrary hands of fate, the decider of destinies, hold the key to the solution. The magnificent weave of time will be revealed, revealing the path I am meant to take.
Ojo, the one who aspires to ascend to the summit, scrawls these final words. Farewell, my future self, as we embrace the unknown that awaits us beyond the horizon.
Ojo 02/14/2005
Ten long years have crawled by, leaving in their wake an emptiness that engulfs my very being. Lady Shina, my once- eternal flame of my life, has departed from this world, leaving behind a void that I struggle to comprehend. The circumstances surrounding her passing remain shrouded in a haze of uncertainty, as if the memories themselves have faded into ethereal wisps. How does it feel to lose someone so dear? The sensation eludes me, as if the essence of grief has been erased from my very existence. In my pursuit of eternal happiness, I realize now the depths of my own greed and the inability to grasp the complexities of the world's judgment.
As I stand before this melancholic jukebox, its haunting melody resonates within me, an echo of Lady Shina's voice. The Acapella version, her voice stripped bare, held a special place in my heart. She found solace and purpose in the music industry, escaping the clutches of a soul-crushing corporate existence that perpetuated meager wages and exhaustion. I cherished her for this choice, proud of the path she forged.
But in the middle of these memories, one rushes back, slamming against the shores of my mind. It drowns out all else, exposing a truth I had hidden away. The realization strikes with a forceful impact, rending my fragile façade. I cannot articulate the enormity of my sins, the monstrous entity that resides within me. I have forsaken my own humanity, reduced to a mere shell of existence.
In a feeble attempt to expunge the weight of my transgressions, I commit my sins to paper. The gates of hell beckon me, and I feel compelled to document my misdeeds, to confront the burden that festers within. The vexation of untold regret gnaws at my conscience, tormenting me relentlessly in this accursed land.
At the age of thirty-three, I find myself plagued by senility. The passage of time mocks me, as if I have been robbed of the years I so desperately craved. I have not nourished my body for an entire year, nor have I encountered another human soul in that time. My stagnant existence is both bewildering and strangely exhilarating, for it defies the descent into madness that one would expect. Oh, how surprised I am, to find that my tenuous grip on sanity persists.
The demands of my readers, the hunger for my stories, continue unabated. I have saved them from the clutches of sorrow, while I remain shackled to these relentless emotions. I concealed that memory, burying it deep within the recesses of my psyche, in a feeble attempt to deny the weight of my guilt. I was but a coward, a self-contained circus of self-disgust.
I deceived myself, convincing my shattered heart that Lady Shina succumbed to an incurable ailment. It was a facade, a desperate act of self-deception. The truth is far more damning—I failed to protect her. The motives behind her untimely demise remain obscured, buried beneath layers of unanswered questions. I am left grappling with the incomprehensible acts of those humans, their actions forever a mystery.
My obsession with attaining happiness consumed me, blinding me to the tumultuous nature of the world. I yearned for peace, yet the universe persisted in shattering my fragile tranquility, leaving behind a desolate wasteland within my soul.
As I lay bare these confessions upon this weathered page, I am overcome by a profound sense of despair. The abyss of my own existence looms ever closer, threatening to swallow me whole. Can redemption ever be found within the confines of this tortured realm? I fear the answer may elude me, lost in the swirling depths of my own lamentations.
I found myself walking aimlessly in the midst of the chaos that swallowed my spirit when I was at my lowest point. The theaters and various places I frequented held no refuge for me, for the world outside offered no respite from the torment that plagued my existence. It was in this state of disillusionment that I resolved to retreat to the confines of my own home, seeking solace in the haunting melody of her voice, replaying over and over again.
Unfortunately, my poor attempt to find comfort failed because I was overwhelmed with a sense of failure. I had failed to protect her, the one I cherished most dearly. She had been subjected to an unimaginable horror, violated in a manner beyond words. As I turned on the television, the anguished voice of the news reporter echoed through the room, a reflection of my own inner turmoil.
What is my name? was a query that kept echoing through the ruins of my broken existence and pleading for an answer. Ojo or is it Jogo? The meaninglessness of such distinctions vanished in the depths of my misery. Names, mere labels bestowed upon us, served only to separate and categorize. They were but a means of communication, a feeble attempt to bring order to a chaotic world. But they had no real significance in the vast fabric of life. We all eventually give up to death, and as a result, our names get forgotten. What truly matters, then, are the connections we forge with others and the lasting impact we leave behind. Our names are but a fleeting fragment of the legacy we strive to create.
And so, the cruel reality unfolded before me, as if mocking my own anguish. The famed singer, a lighthouse in a darkness world, was said to have perished in an atrocious atrocity, according to the news. The sheer brutality of the act left her unrecognizable, her delicate limbs severed and mutilated, bearing the scars of relentless torment. A knife had pierced her most intimate sanctuary, a grotesque violation of her very essence. And yet, the perpetrators themselves had met their own demise, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions, their motives forever concealed. In the midst of this macabre scene, the head of the hapless victim remained missing, lost to the unforgiving abyss.
As the weight of these horrors bore down upon me, I found myself adrift in a sea of darkness, grappling with the haunting echoes of her voice and the agonizing realization of my own powerlessness. In the desolate landscape of my soul, the legacy of pain and suffering loomed large, overshadowing the fragile remnants of a shattered existence. And so, I became a vessel of grief, wandering through life, forever haunted by the merciless hands of fate, the insignificance of names, and the profound tragedy that had befallen her.
She was my world, the solitary light that illuminated my existence, much like my dear little sister in days long past. How cruelly time keeps doing the same awful things, sewing them into the threads of my life. I failed her, oh how I failed her. I have seen horrible horrors in this barren world the sort of nightmares one hopes never to happen. I have seen anger, felt its venomous fangs sink deep into my soul, awakening the beast within me. I have tasted the bitter nectar of revenge, seeking solace in the torment of those who dared to lay their hands upon me. But it was not enough. They forced me to witness the degradation of the woman I loved, the rape and torture were performed in a revolting display where the brutality absorbed her own being. If only I had possessed the strength, the power to shield her from such malevolence. Unfortunately, my frailty permitted this nightmare to happen, leaving my hands stained for eternity.
Those monsters, the wretched beings who kidnapped us, unleashed upon me a madness that defies comprehension. Madness, that twisted orientation of the mind, so inexplicable and yet so potent. But I tell you, nothing is more wretched than the collective insanity that festers in the masses. In my desperate quest for vengeance, I have become the harbinger of their demise. I have extinguished the nightmares that haunted me, the demons that lurked in the shadows of this world. I have unleashed the very beast I loathed, the incarnation of my darkest fears. Lady Shina, forgive me! I have become the embodiment of everything you wished me never to be. Tears trace rivulets down my anguished face, each drip acts as proof of the intense anguish that surrounds me.
Yet, even in the wake of such desolation, I yearn to see her once more. I have no choice but to carry her severed head with me, a macabre relic of a love that refuses to accept the harsh reality of her absence. I cannot bear to dwell in a world where she ceases to exist. But no matter what I do, no solace finds me, no respite from the haunting memories that plague my every waking moment. Everything crumbles around me, and it is the folly of humanity, our own wretched stupidity, that has laid waste to all that once held meaning.
In the abyss of my despair, I am left to wander, a solitary figure consumed by grief and regret. The echoes of her voice, the remnants of her presence, linger in the recesses of my shattered heart. I've evolved into a symbol of the transience of existence and the inherent evil that dwells within each of us. And as I traverse this desolate landscape, teardrops mingling with the dust at my feet, I am reminded of the tragic truth that our existence, no matter how fleeting, is marred by the capacity for unspeakable cruelty. It is the curse of humanity, the curse that binds us to a world of suffering and despair.
There is a book in the recesses of my mind, a book whose pages are filled with the chilling story of "The Manipulator." This story spoke of a master puppeteer, a sorcerer of minds who possessed the unnerving ability to bend others to his will. Such was his power, his cunning, that no soul could resist his subtle influence. His victims, once strong-willed and independent, became mere pawns in his malevolent game, compelled to commit deeds both immoral and unethical. This enigmatic figure, driven by a desire to reshape the world, sought to forge a realm free from the clutches of both good and evil. For he understood that within the purest of virtues, darkness lurked, and within the depths of wickedness, traces of goodness could be found. It mattered not how many lives he claimed, how many souls he extinguished in his quest. Yet, there was one whom he could not conquer—a being of manifold countenances, dubbed by some as extraterrestrial, by others as a demonic presence. The truth remained veiled, known only to the silent winds. The great manipulator was found dead in the middle of the wild woods, his face marked with everlasting horror, after their encounter.
Having traversed the chapters of this captivating narrative, I am left to ponder: Is there a being who, though once hailed as the greatest, ultimately succumbs to loss and oblivion? Can a life brimming with abundance vanish without a trace, leaving naught but a void in its wake? I know not. Yet, within the recesses of my consciousness, a whisper lingers—a truth buried beneath layers of regret and animosity. The grand architect of manipulation, burdened by remorse, swallowed his regrets, allowing them to fester into an all-consuming hatred.
As the echoes of laughter fade into nothingness and sorrow descends upon the stage, the grand scheme of the master manipulator unravels. It was a plan crafted with intricate care, its intentions not without merit. Unfortunately, this mysterious being, this thing with countless faces, ruined it all. What was his purpose? How did he thwart the manipulator's intricate web? Such queries elude comprehension. Only one certainty remains—I bear witness to the existence of this multifaceted monstrosity, the true harbinger of dread.
There was no hope for this world, the only sense of my motivation, was gone. The world pushed me through my limits, and I have enough. I am tired of this cruel world, I am sick of these so-called human beings.
A crafty mastermind has an elusive creativity that is comparable to a concealed symphony in the murky world of deception. Were I to possess their questionable prowess, the world would bend to my will. Yet, this out of this world being, shrouded in a multitude of disguises, casts its gaze from every corner of existence, forever watchful.
I see humans but no humanity.
The world had crumbled into a barren wasteland, a warning of time's relentless advance, after once overflowing with radiant hues and bursting with optimism. Yet, for me, time was an unyielding specter, forever bound to a ceaseless cycle of death and destruction. My hands, once pristine and innocent, were now eternally drenched in the damning pigment of crimson, Each drop was a ghoulish memorial to all the lives I had put out. My words, once capable of tender solace, had transformed into serpents of venom, capable of inciting genocidal fervor with but a mere whisper. I had become a master of manipulation, a puppeteer orchestrating the demise of existence itself.
In the quiet recesses of my fragmented psyche, I pondered the weight of my actions, the true cost of my deeds. How many souls had I snuffed out like candles in the night? The answer eluded me, obscured by the thick haze of my twisted consciousness. The darkness within of me took great pleasure in its sneaky dance, spinning with cruel glee and erupting in an uncontrollable chorus of malice. With each life extinguished, I questioned the motives that propelled me forward. Was it love that spurred my every move? No, a derisive laugh would escape my lips, resonating through the desolate corridors of my hollowed soul. Love had long since departed, replaced instead by an insatiable greed that devoured my very essence.
The world, with its relentless theft of my joy, had left me no choice but to unshackle the dormant beast within. Vengeance coursed through my veins like a volatile elixir, driving me to strip away their happiness and subject them to the indescribable depths of suffering. Every kin of those wretched creatures, every innocent bystander, would fall victim to the wrath that burned within me. In this cruel existence, where treachery seemed to whisper from every shadow, everyone became an enemy to be vanquished.
In my depraved mission, I achieved a twisted victory, a symphony of suffering orchestrated by my hand. I was a broken vessel with no comfort as I stood amongst the debris as the dust fell and the agony's echo faded. Madness, like a ravenous beast, had devoured my very essence, seeping into every fiber of my being. The hands that once held promise, now forever tarnished, were merely a sign of the lasting impressions on my soul. All the bloodshed, all the torment, had yielded nothing but an empty void, a hollow pit that echoed with the hollowness of my shattered dreams.
And now, as I stand here, my spirit worn and battered, I look upon you, the harbinger of my ultimate demise. If it is so, then I implore you, let the curtain fall upon this tragic spectacle. I am weary, so very weary, of this callous world that has driven me to the precipice of my sanity. I had yearned for a brighter future, for a version of myself untouched by the grotesque tendrils of despair. But the looking glass reveals only a reflection of horror, a visage disfigured and unrecognizable, marred by grotesque scars and crude stitches. My humanity, which was once a source of illumination, has been completely destroyed, leaving only the strange remains of the monster I have become.
My life is a series of predictable occurrences that dance before me like a well-rehearsed play, with no clear goal in sight. We are born into this world, stumble through the corridors of education, chase after the illusion of stability in our jobs, seek the ephemeral warmth of love, procreate to perpetuate our existence, and eventually succumb to the icy embrace of death. We are but small threads in the vast symphony of existence, merely cogs in the endless wheel of life. Our existence, it seems, is but a fleeting flicker, an inconsequential blip in the vast expanse of time. We toil away, our labors filling the coffers of an indifferent government, only to be discarded, forgotten, as the cycle repeats itself with ruthless efficiency. We are but expendable entities, mere pawns in a cruel game orchestrated by forces beyond our comprehension. They are all the same, dishonest puppets who hide behind a mask of public service when in reality they only serve themselves. I don't trust any politician, they are all a bunch of corrupt liars who will say anything to get elected and then once they are in office, it's all about self-service. I can't stand politicians, they are all corrupt. Every. single one.
As I sit here, embracing the memories that once brought solace, I realize that perhaps the world itself was never cruel. It is the inhabitants, the very beings who inhabit its realm, who have infused it with darkness and malevolence. In the arms of this fleeting respite, I long for one more chance, one final encounter with the one who used to love me. Oh, how I beseech the cosmos for that bittersweet reunion. Please, let me be loved once more.
The irony is not lost on me, as I pen down these fragments of my tormented existence. Who will bear witness to my sorrowful serenade? Whose eyes shall peruse these ink-stained confessions? It matters not. I leave a visual memento of my horrific change. It is not merely my physical appearance that is repulsive; my actions, my very essence, scream of the monstrous being that resides within. And as I gaze into the mirror, a sinister smirk etched upon my disfigured face, I realize with chilling certainty that I no longer recognize the person that stares back at me.
Finally, I am free…
"That was the end of the diary," spoke one of the men, his voice tinged with a mix of resignation and melancholy. "The man who committed these atrocities, the one who penned these haunting words, has long since decayed into oblivion. These notebooks, weathered by time, bear witness to his tormented soul. Some pages have been ravaged by vermin, while others remain illegible. If only he had walked a different path, if only he had turned away from the darkness that consumed him. But in the end, he was no different. Diabolical thoughts festered within him, unrelenting in their grip on his twisted psyche. Don't you agree, Kyon?"
The other man, Kyon, paused for a moment, his gaze fixed upon the two lifeless figures before them, their identities obscured by the passage of time and the gnawing hunger of rats. "I suppose..." he murmured, his voice heavy with the weight of the tragedy that unfolded before them.
"I don't even know his true family name," continued the first man, a tinge of frustration lacing his words. "He never divulged it in his writings. Our investigation has been exhaustive, spanning years, and yet we have found no trace of his lineage. No records, no indication of any arson or a burning house on the day he mentioned. This mystery, it seems, shall forever remain unsolved, forever etched in the archives of history."
A solemn silence settled between them, their thoughts drifting to their own personal histories, their own struggles against the cruel currents of existence. "All we can do now is offer prayers," the first man said, his voice tinged with a somber hope. "Prayers for the souls of those he mercilessly took from this world. Perhaps, in the afterlife, he may find redemption, a chance at a better existence. I consider myself fortunate to have avoided such a fate, despite the harshness the world has shown me. Wouldn't you agree, Kaizou?"
Kyon nodded, his expression a mixture of gratitude and contemplation. Time seemed to slow, hanging in the air for a fleeting moment, before it shattered into fragments. Both men instinctively covered their ears as an ear-splitting clamor resonated through the air, temporarily affecting their composure. It was the voice of a deep, commanding figure emanating from a radio.
"Kaizou, this is headquarters," the voice boomed. "Both of you are being recalled. I repeat, both of you are being recalled."
"Roger!" Kaizou exclaimed, urgency etched across his features. "Let's go, Kyon! The case is closed, and the killer lies dead."
With that, they turned away from the scene, leaving behind the remnants of a haunting tale that would forever haunt their memories. The enigma of the man and his deeds would remain a chilling chapter in the records of history, a monument to the depths of human depravity and the enduring mystery that lies within the human soul.