Footsteps crunched through the grass, growing louder. Closer. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out the rustle of the wind. A shadow fell over me, elongated and distorted by the fog-a silhouette that loomed like a specter. I dared not move, dared not breathe. A hand gripped my arm, calloused and unyielding, its touch searing through the thin fabric of my sleeve. The man's fingers dug into my flesh, not cruelly, but with the clinical efficiency of someone handling cargo.
"Yosō shita yō ni, karada wa karuku, muku de aru," he muttered, his breath carrying the sour tang of fermented grain.
(Translation: As expected, her body is light and untouched.)
He hauled me upright with a single motion, my limp frame collapsing against his chest. My head lolled backward, and for a fleeting moment, I glimpsed his face-a sharp jawline shadowed by stubble, eyes as dark and unreadable as the night sky. His expression held no malice, only a detached resolve that chilled me more than any cruelty could.
The world tilted. My vision blurred at the edges, darkness creeping inward like ink spilled across parchment. I felt myself being cradled-not gently, but with a grim practicality-as he began to walk. The rhythm of his footsteps jolted through me, each step a hammer strike to my fragile awareness. The fog thickened, swallowing the landscape whole. Shapes flickered at the periphery: the jagged outline of stone pillars, the skeletal fingers of leafless trees, a distant glimmer of firelight that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"Kamigami ga kanojo o motsu toki, wareware mo kyūsai sa reru darou," a woman's voice murmured from somewhere ahead.
(Translation: When the Gods claim her, perhaps we too will be saved.)
My thoughts frayed, dissolving into fragments. Where are you taking me? The question formed in my mind but died on my tongue, soundless. The man's grip tightened, as if he sensed the flicker of resistance. Cold air bit at my exposed skin, and I realized my feet were bare, toes brushing against moss-slick stones as we moved.
The last thing I felt was the heat of his body against mine-a paradox of warmth in this desolate cold-before consciousness unraveled entirely. I sank into the void, carried not by arms, but by the inexorable pull of fate.
When consciousness returned, it did so in gentle, wavering waves-first as a vague awareness of warmth on my back, then as the sharp, almost blinding sensation of sunlight filtering through glass. I lay motionless, my body pressed against what I soon realized was a glass balcony door. The morning rays spilled in, painting the room in a golden haze, illuminating motes of dust that danced lazily in the air. The glass was cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the sun's warmth, and for a moment, I simply breathed, letting the sensation anchor me to reality.
Beneath me, the mat was soft yet resilient, its woven texture pressing faint patterns into my palms. There was something achingly familiar about it-the faint, grassy scent, the way it yielded beneath my weight. Tatami. The word surfaced from the depths of memory, accompanied by a rush of images: laughter echoing through serene hallways, the gentle clack of sliding doors, the delicate fragrance of green tea. My heart lurched. This was the same floor design as…as…Hana's house. The realization struck with the force of a lightning bolt, electrifying every nerve. No way. My mind whirled, the words repeating in a relentless, staccato rhythm-no way, no way, no way-like raindrops pelting a silent pond.
Then, as if summoned by my mounting dread, a single word surfaced, clear and inescapable. Omeen. I was in Omeen.
The thought had barely settled when the silence was broken by the soft, deliberate scrape of a door sliding open. My breath caught. Into the room glided three women, each draped in sumptuous kimonos, their every movement a study in elegance and restraint. The fabric of their garments shimmered with intricate patterns-cranes in flight, peonies in bloom, rivers winding through golden fields. They carried with them vast, ornate pieces of cloth, trailing behind them like the tails of celestial comets.
Behind them followed four more women, their arms laden with lacquered boxes and delicate trays brimming with hair ornaments, combs, and makeup brushes. The air filled with the faint, powdery scent of rice flour and camellia oil.
But what unsettled me most was their faces. Each bore the same smile-polite, practiced, and utterly impenetrable. It was a smile that chilled me to the core, a smile that spoke of secrets and silent intentions. My body still felt foreign, as if I were wearing someone else's skin, but fear lent me a brittle awareness.
One of the women, the closest to me, broke away from the group. She moved with the grace of a dancer, her kimono whispering against the tatami as she crouched before me. Her smile widened, revealing perfect, pearly teeth. Her eyes, though gentle, held a glint of something unreadable.
"Goshinpainaku, ojōsama. Watashitachi ga shikkari taiō itashimasunode, go anshin kudasai," she intoned, her voice as smooth as silk.
(Translation: Don't worry, Miss. We'll take good care of you. You can trust us.)
My mind reeled. HUH? WHAT? The words echoed, hollow and absurd, as her slender hand reached out, fingers cool and precise. She grasped my right arm-not roughly, but with a firmness that brooked no resistance-and, with a single, fluid motion, pulled me upright. The world spun, the golden light now harsh and unforgiving.
I was surrounded, hemmed in by silken smiles and the rustle of fine cloth, my fate spinning out of my grasp like a kite in a storm.
*30 minutes later*
Thirty minutes had slipped by in a surreal haze, each second stretching and folding in on itself, thick with the scent of camellia oil and the rustle of silk. I sat utterly still, a living doll in the hands of strangers, as they worked with quiet, practiced efficiency-tugging, pinning, smoothing, and painting.
The tranquil spell was abruptly broken by the sharp, urgent sound of the door sliding open. Another woman entered, her features strikingly similar to the others, yet her demeanor was different-her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line of worry. She spoke with a voice that cut through the gentle murmurs and laughter, her tone edged with anxiety.
"Isoide! Kekkonshiki wa mōsugu hajimaru wa! Kamisama-tachi ga matteru wa."
(Translation: Hurry up. The Wedding's starting any minute now! The Gods are waiting.)
One of the women attending to my hair replied without looking up, her fingers deft as she secured a final, ornate clip in place. "Hai, hobo kanryōdesu."
(Translation: Yes, almost done.)
I sat in the center of their whirlwind, the words swirling around me in a language that only half-revealed its meaning. Their conversation was punctuated by soft giggles, exchanged glances, and the occasional, unsettling smile directed my way. Each time their eyes met mine, their laughter seemed to grow, as if they shared a secret I could never hope to understand. What is wrong with them? The question echoed in my mind, growing louder with every passing moment.
One of the women, who had been painstakingly perfecting my lips with a delicate painting brush, suddenly straightened. She regarded her work with a critical eye, then, apparently satisfied, turned away and glided across the room, her kimono whispering against the tatami.
It was then that the mirror before me was finally revealed. The others stepped aside, and, for the first time, I saw my reflection unobstructed.
My eyes flew wide, breath catching in my throat. HUH? The person staring back at me was both familiar and utterly alien. My hair was swept up in an elaborate style, adorned with lacquered pins and delicate flowers. My skin was flawless, luminous beneath the powder, my lips painted a vivid, ceremonial red. I wore a kimono of breathtaking beauty-layers of silk in shades of ivory and gold, embroidered with cranes and blossoms, cinched tightly at the waist.
I looked… different. Startlingly, heartbreakingly different. I looked as I had the first time I wore a kimono-when I visited my mother in Omeen, years ago. But this was more than nostalgia; it was transformation. I was no longer myself, but a vision conjured for a role I did not choose.
My gaze dropped, unable to bear the sight.
Mother.Mother… Mother… The word echoed endlessly in the hollow chambers of my mind, a desperate, silent chant. I could see her face, blurred by memory and longing, hovering at the edge of every thought. My feelings for both my parents were a tangled knot of resentment and yearning. I knew they had suffered, perhaps even more than I could imagine, but did that justify treating me as less than human? Shouldn't they have remembered what it was like to be a child, to ache for kindness, to crave understanding? Or was I simply wishing for the impossible-a kindness that never existed, even in their own childhoods?
What am I even hoping for? In a world where I have come to envy the peace of a dead rat, does existing hold any meaning at all? My life had become a cruel, monotonous cycle: faint, awaken, be attacked or kidnapped, unleash too much power, collapse again, fever, dramatic family confrontations or waking up in strange places, abuse, mistreatment, Cillian's nonsense-rinse and repeat. That was my existence. A loop of pain and disappointment, where nothing ever bent to my will.
As the women finished packing away their tools and trinkets, their hands moved with the same practiced grace they had shown in dressing me. They approached, their faces still masked with those unreadable smiles, and gently took my hands in theirs. Together, we left the old minka-the traditional Japanese house-its wooden beams and tatami floors fading behind me like a memory I could never quite claim as my own.
Outside, the world was dazzling and strange. The women unfurled enormous parasols, their canopies painted with swirling patterns of cranes and cherry blossoms. Two walked ahead, two flanked me on either side, and two more followed behind, their footsteps silent on the stone path. The seventh woman, the one who had delivered the urgent message, had already vanished, perhaps to prepare the next stage of this elaborate charade.
We walked in silence, the procession winding through unfamiliar gardens and shadowed groves. My head remained bowed, my gaze fixed on the intricate embroidery of my kimono, the world reduced to a blur of color and sound. My thoughts churned, dark and relentless. I was exhausted-exhausted from pretending that any of this was normal, from clinging to the delusion that things might one day be different. I was tired of breathing poisoned air, of convincing myself that hope was enough, that love would find me, that I could ever be more than a pawn in someone else's game.
Why am I still playing along? What am I gaining by enduring this endless parade of indignities? If nothing ever changes, if love and respect are forever out of reach, then what binds me to this fate?
I felt something shift inside me-a cold, resolute clarity. If my life was to be nothing but a series of betrayals and abuses, then I would no longer pretend. I would not be the angelic child I once dreamed of becoming. If all that remained was to embrace the role of villain, then so be it. I would wear that mask. I would wield my pain as a weapon and mete out humility to those who deserved it. From this moment on, I would not bow to fate's cruel whims. If suicide was my last hope, then it would be my choice, not theirs. But first, I would show them the force they had created.
Lost in these thoughts, I barely noticed the passage of time or the distance we traveled. The world narrowed to the sound of my own heartbeat, the whisper of silk, the steady rhythm of footsteps. At last, the procession came to a halt. I lifted my gaze for the first time and saw that we stood at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a vast assembly of people gathered below. The women released my hands, their formation dissolving as they peeled away, each moving to join the others at the cliff's edge.
I stood alone, the wind tugging at my sleeves.
Before me, a colossal torii gate loomed, its scarlet pillars rising from the earth like the bones of some ancient, slumbering beast. The gate's regal presence cast a long, solemn shadow over the parched ground, its lacquered surface shimmering beneath the merciless glare of the midday sun. The heat was oppressive, suffocating; sweat pooled at the nape of my neck and trickled down my spine, soaking the fine silk of my kimono. The air itself seemed to waver, heavy with the scent of incense and anticipation.
Suddenly, from behind, a gnarled hand seized my wrist. I turned, startled, to find a diminutive old man, his back bent with age, clutching a weathered staff. His grip was deceptively strong, his eyes sharp and unyielding beneath bushy white brows. Without a word, he began to lead me forward, his staff tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against the stones. Each step brought us closer to the edge of the cliff, where the world seemed to drop away into a yawning abyss.
At the precipice, he halted. The wind whipped at my hair, tugging it loose from its careful arrangement. The old man turned to face me, his expression inscrutable, and with a silent, commanding gesture, he pointed his staff toward the very edge-as if to say, Go. This is your fate.
A hush fell over the gathered crowd, and then, like the first stirrings of a storm, whispers began to ripple through the assembly.
"Kanojo wa dō shita no?" whispers began.
(Translation: What's wrong with her?)
"Kanojo wa naze mada tobiorinai nodesu ka?"
(Translation: Why hasn't she jumped off yet?)
"Ara mā. Kanojo wa kamigami o okora seru tsumorina no kashira?"
(Translation: Oh my. Is she planning to displease the Gods?)
The murmurs grew louder, sharper, until they coalesced into a cacophony of accusation. The crowd surged forward, their faces twisted with expectation and impatience. Their voices rose in a fevered chant:
"Mō tobioriro yo!"
(Translation: JUMP OFF, ALREADY!)
They pressed in on me, hands grabbing, shoving, clawing at my arms and shoulders. The world became a blur of grotesque masks-leering, snarling, monstrous visages painted in garish colors. The masks seemed to sneer and mock, their hollow eyes boring into me with unspoken menace. I was tossed from one set of hands to another, my feet barely touching the ground, my heart pounding in my chest like a trapped bird.
And then, as if the heavens themselves could no longer bear the spectacle, a jagged bolt of lightning tore through the sky. It struck just beyond the torii gate, splitting the air with a deafening crack. In an instant, the world changed. Daylight vanished, swallowed by an unnatural darkness, and night descended as swiftly as a falling blade.
To be Continued...