Faded

17. Bunraku | 文楽

Izumi:

I enjoyed falling asleep to the tinkling of the crystal wind chimes hanging at the entrance of the house. At night, the wind gently played with them, creating a quiet melody resembling a whisper. Even now, I remember when in the middle of the night, you would serenade those magical sounds on your flute, and I felt a sense of tranquility. The music you created brought harmony back to me.

Every morning, you would leave a new paper crane by my bedside. I counted the days spent with you in the forest using them. If I set aside the fact that you were holding me hostage, it was quite endearing.

Gradually, I was reborn. I don't know what exactly influenced me - the paper cranes or the realization that there was still hope - but soon I stopped refusing food, and then I started talking to you. It was a wise move to try to regain your trust. I asked you to teach me how to make those little paper cranes because I had never been interested in origami before meeting you.

It felt as if my brain had switched to survival mode, and I started behaving as if I had always lived with you in the midst of this dark forest. As if there were no other life.

As if it were just the two of us in this world.

We started taking walks together around the house, climbing trees. You even made a swing for me on a branch. But not for a moment did the thought leave me that soon I would gain your utmost trust and make you release me.

I remember that evening when you showed me another one of your hobbies - kamishibai. It was a small theater where you used my paintings and illustrations as scenery, and instead of actors, there were paper dolls.

The music from the wind-up music box played, and the wooden doors of the little theater swung open.

"This is the story of a person who was very lonely. He lost everything in his life, including himself," your velvety voice calmly narrated the tale of someone I knew. "He wandered the world in search of something that would make him happy, and soon the Universe became favorable to him." Two paper figures appeared against the backdrop of Tokyo made of dolls. I recognized you and myself. The background changed, and before me appeared not the rainy night Tokyo, but a gloomy forest with hanging bodies on the tree branches. The doll representing me had no eyes.

"Stop," I pleaded.

"Why?" you asked.

"I don't want to know what happens next."

It was a sudden wave of fear.

You looked at me, puzzled.

"I didn't expect it to be so unpleasant," I replied. It was hard for me to find the right words to describe my feelings.

"They are just toys. It's nothing serious," you tried to persuade me again.

But I remained silent. It seemed like the silence lasted an eternity.

"You don't even give me a chance. Just like this whole life," you softly whispered, looking somewhere into emptiness.

"I just don't understand you. I don't understand what drives you, what your actions mean. I don't even understand what you want from me! Why are we here?" I burst out, struggling to control this flood of emotions.

It's impossible to behave perfectly all the time. The system malfunctions.

Hideo:

Again, you scream until your voice goes hoarse, and then you cry softly. I want to embrace you, but I can't. I know you will push me away. And if I were to tell you the real reason we are here, would it make things easier for you? If I told you that I don't have any allergies but a congenital illness that will soon take my life, would you genuinely love me? Would you stay by my side not out of pity but out of love? For the feeling you experienced towards me back then, on the bridge at sunset? I don't know. That's why I remain silent. I'm most afraid of pity, although I have to admit that I pity myself every day. Pitiful creature.

I wanted to spend my remaining days in sincere love, happiness, in the normalcy of a healthy person. But I don't know how to do that. I'm afraid to tell you the truth. And I can't let you go. You will return to the city and go to the police. We'll be separated. You will probably be happy, but imagining what I will go through is terrifying.

Yes, I admit once again that I'm selfish. But living without you is far more terrifying than death itself.