I felt like an intruder as I flipped through the pages of his diary, reading his most intimate thoughts and feelings. He had seemed so cold and cruel, but his words revealed a different side of him. A side that had been broken by the horrors of his past. A side that had never known kindness or warmth. I was torn between disgust and pity as I learned more about his life.
He had suffered unimaginable pain and loss, and it had twisted him into something maleficent. He had done terrible things, things that I could never forgive. But he had also been a victim, a product of his circumstances and upbringing. It made me wonder how much we are shaped by our own experiences and the people around us.
How much of our personality is innate, and how much is learned? How do we decide what is right and wrong, when the world is so full of gray areas? But in the end, he had chosen his own path. He had let his anger and hatred consume him, and he had become a monster. I felt a chill run down my spine as I closed the diary, feeling his dark presence linger in the air. I stepped out into the night, feeling overwhelmed by the stories I had uncovered. Three diaries, each one a window into a different soul. Human emotions are a complex puzzle, capable of making us do amazing or terrible things depending on how we use them. I couldn't help but think about the destructive force of hate, of how it could make even the sanest person do insane things.
The history of humanity was full of bloodshed and violence, often caused by greed and jealousy. It was a sad truth, but one that I couldn't ignore. Innocent lives were often sacrificed in the name of war and power, and even those who hated it could be caught in the crossfire.
As I turned to the second diary, I felt a renewed sense of curiosity and determination. I am Emil Nines, a paranormal investigator with an insatiable thirst for the unknown. My story promised to be a wild ride, full of strange apparitions and otherworldly encounters.
I steeled myself for the journey ahead, knowing that the secrets I uncovered might forever change how I saw the world. But isn't that the thrill of discovery? The possibility of uncovering something that no one else has ever seen before?
With a deep breath, I turned the page and plunged headfirst into the unknown.
…
The tempestuous days loom ahead, don't they? Who am I, you ask? What am I? Such inquiries unravel before me as a ceaseless enigma. My name, if it can be called that, remains elusive—a wavering specter caught between Isamu and Akemi. How could one expect certainty when the very essence of my being is shrouded in a perplexing haze? Am I a boy? Or perhaps a girl? Sadly, I lack the authority to make such decisions, but in the clutches of my mother. She alone decides my identity, shaping not just who I am, but also how I exist in this world.
"You shall blossom into a splendid model, my dear. You are and always have been a girl. I will brook no dissent," her words assaulted me, venomous and vile. The utterance, "You are a girl and always have been," bore into my soul, pushing me perilously close to the precipice of annihilation. My mum referred to my beauty quite somewhat, a notion that brought her an eternal bliss of sorts. But her happiness, tethered to the depths of her desires, clashed bitterly with my own wishes. This is not the life I yearn for, but trapped within this wretched existence, I find myself bereft of alternatives. Despite the torment she inflicts, I cannot deny that I love her. In the tumult of this warped reality, a twisted sentiment was born.
It all began when I was but an infant, barely conscious of the world around me. This dwelling, marked by its destitution, housed the cataclysmic force that is my mother. My childhood, far removed from any semblance of paradise, resides in the realm of bitter memories. From the moment my father departed, abandoning us for another woman, my mother assumed a monstrous form. I was naught but a babe, no more than two months old, when the chasms of her cruelty enveloped my tender existence.
Within these dilapidated walls, I remain tethered to a woman who hunts me relentlessly, day in and day out. Had I possessed the strength to defy her whims, I would have long escaped this oppressive yoke. Yet, I remain silent, concealing my truth, choosing instead the life of a subservient slave.
Yearning for a daughter to cradle within her womb, my mother was left crestfallen by my emergence as a boy. In her maddening fervor, I was coerced into a world of girlish playthings, manipulated into becoming what I was not.
Forced to assume a female guise, unimaginable was the spiraling into lunacy of my mother. Why could I not break free from her clutches back then? Perhaps because within me, a maelstrom of emotions festered, an inferno of conflicted sentiments. Yet, these very sentiments now lie dormant, frozen by weariness, fatigued by the ceaseless absurdities they endured.
Pity enveloped my being, a pitiful existence near to that of a minuscule ant. Even among the torment, I continued to regard her as my mother. Love, however distorted, persisted within my heart. But now, as I write these words, I find solace in the act of escaping this cruel world, if only through the conduit of pen and paper.
Oh, curse this wretched existence! My heart, once brimming with life's elixir, has withered and desiccated. These words, perhaps, are my only respite from the relentless trials that beset me in this malevolent realm.
In a distance, a child cries out for help. I immediately approached the little girl. I tapped her back, and when she averted her head she immediately screamed "Help!" and ran away.
Indeed, it is this countenance of mine that bears the scars of mistreatment—a reflection of the world's cruelty, compounded by the society that once surrounded me. A curse I am compelled to endure, navigating a desolate path, bereft of companionship. And yet, such solitude, I have come to accept. For within this desolation, I yearn to carve out a tranquil existence, shielded from the perils of toxicity.
To mend one's soul, it falls upon oneself to embark on the arduous journey of healing. But even as I strive to distance myself from human interactions, their relentless pursuit remains unyielding. No matter how resolutely one attempts to shun their presence, they persist, relentless in their hunt.
Friends? No, I do not indulge in forging such bonds. In the end, they only seek your company when they require something or when your fortunes are abundant. Yet, when you find yourself languishing in the depths of despair, they vanish like ethereal spirits, dissipating into thin air.
Friendship, I have come to understand, is but a construct of power. It grants one dominion over others, a tool to be utilized against those we despise. Manipulation holds a stronger sway than sullying one's own hands or bearing the burden oneself. Even in the realm of gossip, the process remains unchanged. Spreading false information, the second party strikes at the third, while you deny all that was spoken in those deceitful accusations. A profession of gaslighting. I, too, was once a victim of this intricate dance, a macabre ballet of deception.
Now, I perceive the world for what it truly is—a grand theater of humanity's darkest inclinations. This tale begins when I was a mere year old, uncertain of my own identity. Boy or girl? Surrounded by a sea of girlish accouterments, confusion festered within—bewilderment over why these memories remain etched in my consciousness.
My mother, in her quest to mold me into a girl, sought to instruct me in the ways of femininity—to think, act, and love as a girl would. But whenever a Barbie doll was thrust upon me, I could only weep in protest. My tears, however, were met with punishment, a cruel reminder that my weeping served as an affront to her desires. What recourse did I have? At a mere one year old, my cries persisted, ultimately resulting in bruises marring my fragile limbs.
The act of forgetting, akin to a wound, requires time to heal. Yet, the trauma etched upon one's soul remains, transforming into a scar—a lingering reminder of the pain endured and the emotions once felt.
Her second desire, born from the depths of her ambitions, was for me to amass riches and elevate myself through the pinnacle of education. The weight of this expectation became an unbearable burden, one that gnawed at my spirit with each passing day. I was compelled to study with relentless fervor, denied repose until I could solve the riddles of basic trigonometry, even while still in the tender grasp of kindergarten.
Whenever my weary form succumbed to sleep while attempting to answer her demands, my mother would subject my fragile legs to scalding water, accompanied by chilling threats. "The next time I witness you slacking off," she would hiss, "I shall pour this boiling water upon your face!"
In those moments, I envisioned her uttering those same menacing words to her own flesh and blood. I comprehend the urgency that drove her actions, the dire need for financial sustenance. However, every action she undertook seemed to traverse the boundaries of reason. My humanity, my very soul, remained captive within her grasp. I possess nothing but shame—the shame of succumbing to the very flaws that plague the rest of this world.
Days turned into nights, and I found myself trudging forward, bereft of choice, adhering to her whims. "Hehe... I am so weary of this existence," I once murmured. And yet, here I stand, still entangled in the intricate web of life at the tender age of twenty-five.
I awaited this juncture—the phase where harmony might finally manifest. Alas, I remain perplexed, unsure of the path I must tread. The yearning to forget it all persists, but no matter how ardently I strive, the specter of my past relentlessly haunts me, its ghostly presence forever looming.
That notebook, in which I documented the narrative of my former life, eludes my grasp. I yearn to rediscover its pages, to revisit the archives of a world that exhibited such inhumanity towards my existence.
There exists no semblance of respite in the memoirs of my life. I recall with acute clarity that whenever I was introduced to others as Isamu, my mother would don a false smile and hastily whisk me away from their presence. Upon returning to the confines of our abode, she would clutch my throat, her grip tightening, and demand with vehemence, "What is your name again!?" Trembling, my words would escape me—a mixture of fear and irrepressible madness—as I would utter those simple words, "I am Akemi." In response, her grip would gradually loosen, and she would utter those vexing words, "You are such a good girl!" The final touch, the gentle stroke of my hair—a peculiar gesture, or perchance her own method of soothing her tumultuous soul. I cannot say for certain. Yet, one thing remains clear—I would attest that she personified the very embodiment of insanity.
Long hair became another symbol of her aspirations, a poor substitute for the unattainable realm of plastic surgery. It was through my rigorous studies and the pursuit of untold wealth that she hoped to fulfill her grand vision.
The identity of my father remained an enigma, an unanswered question that dared not be spoken aloud. For I knew all too well that such inquiries would ignite a ferocious fire within my mother, a conflagration I could ill afford to face. Thus, I treaded carefully, guarding my words as though they were fragile shards of glass.
As if there were someone out there yearning for my presence, I momentarily forgot my profound solitude. Yet, I am starkly reminded that I am utterly alone in this vast world. There is no place for me to call home, no sanctuary to retreat to.
Eventually, I stumbled upon the elusive notebook, its pages brimming with the horrors of my existence. It is now within my possession, its weight heavy upon my hands. But what purpose does it serve? I shall leave it behind, forsaking its grip on my life. I shall roam this world freely, crafting my own destiny, emancipated from the shackles that once bound me. Finally, there is no one to exert dominion over my existence.
To you, the reader, I am indifferent to the fate you bestow upon these words. Should ennui grip you as you peruse the banal chronicles of my life, cast this notebook into the flames. It holds no sway over me any longer, for I have severed its hold upon my being.
"My life of Suffering"