“You liar!” She accused, “You aren’t her, you’re not her! Why? Where is she? I don’t know you anymore!” She continued, her tone self-mutilating and pained.

Her voice was venom, yet those fangs seemed to poison herself more than me. Pierced into her lips, an accidental bite of her cheek, or slash of her tongue. She was beating herself up over this, this girl I do not know but also understand completely.

The girl who is my sister and now my unrequited enemy.

She was a pretty girl with neat black hair tied up into a low ponytail. Her stature was smaller than mine, but she carried a presence that battled against me regardless of everything else. And her face- I know it to be youthful and composed- was brought together by a pair of black-framed glasses that were absent that day.

“I don’t understand. You should be dead? Why- how can you stand in front of me like this? You can’t be real, a poorly throughout joke, a trick of a liar. I hate you. Why do you exist? Why couldn’t he let you die?”

The more words she spoke, the more her confusion grew. Her movement was erratic, though she did not pace to show it. Her arms were thrown out to the side as a clear indication of her disjointed state, wildly gesturing as she spat out an increasingly cluttered series of sentences.

Her name was Yuki, just as mine was Eighty-Three.

And she has long known the answers to her questions, she only wishes that it weren’t true. That those rumours that were spread around remained just that, but Jinko’s father could never leave well enough alone. He had no choice but to bring back the only spark that was left in his life, and now Yuki stands face-to-face with it; her mind begging that the thing before her is nothing more than an illusion or vast falsehood of a mirage.

But it isn’t.

The best friend of Jinko, the girl who struggled to comprehend her closest friend's death. Who lashed out at her loss, refused to let it lie and asked why she had to be the one left behind. Then, with nothing else to do, she fell into questions, a series of what ifs and if onlys that continued on mixed in with unearned responsibility and guilt, that consuming thought that she had any control over the outcome. After all that, reality knocked on the door with a steady rhythm, and grief welcomed itself as a numbing fog that blanketed her wit. Soon she learnt to accept her passing, the mournful weeks having lasted for more than enough time for that deathly still night where they discovered her body to have slipped from the front of her mind, and she was finally able to look back on Jinko for who she was; the best friend that helped shape who she is today.

And with one glance, it was all washed away. Every stage of grief suddenly brought back; a collapsing tower above that buried her within this waring state of combatant emotions.

“I’m sorry, it’s never your fault.” Yuki's eyes gave way to invisible tears, streaming down as she hopelessly wiped away at them in an attempt to stem the vacant tide, “But I wish you were dead.”

The streetlight above flickered, it was midday but a recent rumbling of the Earth’s crust thanks to a massive underground drill had knocked it into working. Its white light needlessly illuminating the pavement below it, the overworked bulb over three decades old still carrying on despite its rotting forum.

A concussive boom tried to sound out, a failed reverberation that barely shook the leaves off the dying trees. Nevertheless, a smokestack of the silver waste gases of TI-pO explosive powder still rose up and into the atmosphere, those glittering metal shards smaller than a speck of dirt appearing like sparkles in the outer city night sky.

This illusion was all me, this scene painted with the same grace of an artist who had abandoned the paintbrush and instead chosen the paint pot, their hand twisted without form and dumping the entire pot onto the canvas carelessly.

The same scene repeated. Used for now and for the opening of Act 2, where Eighty-Three met Jinko for the first time. It’s a strange recycling of backgrounds; I wonder if it hints at anything or if it's just another cost-saving process. Whatever the answer, it won’t be as interesting as the method, but it makes the creation of this scene easier and allows me to showcase the first level of this acting world to this truant audience.

It might be amateurish compared to the goddesslike creation that Kaede Esumi displays, but it eclipsed Emiko’s abilities.

Yes, for all her talent at teaching, for all her knowledge of the arts of plays and movies, for all her aptitude for literature, and script writing, and scene planning, and behind-the-scenes management.

She is pitifully average at acting.

“I’m sorry,” I replied, Eighty-Three’s voice meek and confused. She doesn’t understand who Yuki is. This is their first meeting. All the knowledge of Jinko’s life has been closed off to her since her creation, so she has no idea that this girl before her was once the best friend of her passed-away twin sister.

Still, she is remorseful. Her heart breaking from a guilt that isn’t her fault, it's an easy emotion for me to welcome into myself. Underserved sin, that which was passed over at birth, expectations that never should have been leveraged over a child, and yet they were.

Eighty-Three is not to blame for her father’s actions, for his unasked creation of her body. Stealing inspiration from his own daughter, he must have known that this would happen, that Eighty-Three would forever be viewed through a camera lens tinted with the dead.

That she would never escape who she is perceived as, that long-lost twin sister that fills her heart oh so fully yet leaves it empty all the same. Let them eat cake, this love exclaims, and just as there is no cake, there is no bread, for this love is detached and whimsical, baked without flour as it is no love at all, but she holds on to its idea all the same.

She is loved the same as a corpse, never more nor never less. What a cruel state of affairs, is it any different to being unloved?

No, and so what an unfair world this is, and has always been.

Emiko spoke next, but it wasn’t supposed to be as Emiko, but as Yuki. A stumble right out of the gates, to be herself over an actress.

“Jinko, my best friend… you’re not her, are you?” Yuki spoke, her words obviously designed by a writer rather than the natural tone of a person’s lips. It's for the audience’s benefit to get across that this Yuki girl was the best friend of Jinko and easily explains the current scene.

However, what is for the audience’s benefit is often to the character’s detriment. Perhaps this line can be overlooked, but Emiko’s acting cannot. Dull and awkward, the sentence is spoken not as if a person is asking confirmation from a spectre of their best friend, but closer to how someone has an overly loud conversation to unsubtly inform a person next to them of their daily happenings.

I almost wish we had no scenes together. Then, I wouldn’t have realised the limits of my sister’s acting abilities. I could have sprinted onwards unworriedly, chasing after the actress I strive to be without the fear that if I were to look back, Emiko would not be there.

But that is not the case. I am forced to come to terms with the reality that the sister I perceive her to be, the girl who is also my teacher, guide, friend, and mentor, will soon discover that this stage she desires has no room for her.

What an unfair world this is, and has always been.

“Jinko?” Eighty-Three perked up at the name, though the shame remained laden over her head, “She’s my sister.”

Such simple words, their meaning requiring no description for love has always been innate to humanity. Or at least it should be, and for those of us that it is not, we can learn it regardless.

Just as I have.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

This precious little language of ours.

“I miss you.” Yuki choked out in between the sniffles and hitches of her throat as she cried, but the tears were overdone, burnt to a crisp like loveless bread left in an oven. These were words remembered and repeated, not said, “Why couldn’t she stay with me? Why did he think you could be replaced?”

The script was not cruel. Yuki’s words did not come from a place of anger, or hatred, they came from love. From losing the person she valued most in this world, and Eighty-Three recognised that and thus responded in kind.

Both of them sharing a familial love for a girl they perceived as family.

“I miss her too.” Eighty-Three offered, the tone longing for the sister she has never met, but the love is there absent of fear, for they both believe Jinko is dead, and the dead only exist for the living’s comfort.

“She was so kind and loving. Her smile was additive; the whole room filled with it. I want her back, that grin of hers, that overflowing confidence, how her jokes could dash the gloom away and set light to misery. She was mine. She was mine with all the trouble we got into and with all the joy we shared. I wish you were her. I wish Jinko was here.”

We never meet the Jinko Yuki describes. It's impossible to say what Jinko was like before she went missing or before her corpse was found rotten and dead, I’m sure the Director has the answer. However, perhaps he never bothered writing the answer, as we were never meant to ask the question?

The Jinko we meet is different from this one, not in any strange or unexplained way. It's still the same Jinko, but her emotions have changed, fear overpowers this upbeat and excited version of her that Yuki reminisces on.

It sets up the audience's expectations. Jinko becomes this larger-than-life character that haunts the plot with her passing, and then suddenly, she is back. This shell of a character whose appearance, smile, laugh, joy, and love are wildly different from the picture of her that was built up on the pages of the mind. It all leads to one question: What happened?

It's the climax of the play, the answer to the Jinko mystery.

I don’t think it's a very good answer, but it's definitely one. Maybe the audience won’t share my opinion. Perhaps they’ll love it, take some grand and inspired message home from the hall, speak about it in endless debate, wondering the very questions of life and living and how that all connects us to whatever other message they’re able to rip from these pages.

Everyone will have their own meanings, the subjectiveness of media guarantees that. Even if it is a sidestep of the question of purpose; it's easy to pander to everyone if you’re vague enough about everything. Almost as easy as it is to forget it all once the last scene ends.

To me, it's never been about the plot or overarching story. The characters are what create this world of acting, brick by brick they construct the universe that resides solely on this stage.

Dr. Akamine who sets in motion the whole play. How well can he be explained to the audience, not in needless exposition, but via the expressions and words of the actor? Will Kenji be able to convey the loss that Jinko’s father feels? Of how he has abandoned any and all care that others have for him, that the death of his daughter was the breaking point, and he did what he knew was wrong and created Eighty-Three. He is selfishly loving, and can the audience learn that from seeing how he treats Eighty-Three no different to his daughter? Or will they realise that Dr. Akamine will only love Eighty-Three for what she represents and never for who she is? And that even that has a limit.

Then what about Jinko? No, Kaede will demonstrate her character as if a single second of her on stage is equivalent to a ten-hour deep-dive presentation on all aspects of Jinko’s life. There can be no questioning of her abilities; the audience will comprehend in an instant.

And Eighty-Three? Can I carry across her love and fear all mixed into one as they both drift out of balance as the play moves on? Will the audience understand that Eighty-Three is boundless love in Act 1 and that her small fear is of ignorance, both of herself and who she is, and of what others see her as? Then Act 2 tilts the script, and Eighty-Three grows more fearful of herself, but never enough to overpower the love she feels for Jinko.

Finally, what of Yuki? The best friend of Jinko, can Emiko exhibit her loss and desires to the audience? Teach them of Jinko, set her up so that she appears no less than an angel in their minds, yet also highlight just how painful Eighty-Three’s existence is, while also never placing blame on her.

I… do not think so.

As she is, Emiko will trip and fall on that stage, and I will not be able to catch her.

So instead, I must prevent her fall.

But… how?

“Let’s leave it here,” Yuki- No, Emiko suddenly spoke, cutting the scene, dashing the background, and returning reality to this worn outside room away from the stage. “Thanks for the help, Seina, but I think you should be practising your other scenes. This one isn’t a concern for you, ok?”

Her words were a little unsure, as if she was trying her hardest to hide the fact that her acting was well below standards, that if she redirected my attention towards myself I’d overlook it as if it never happened.

It wasn’t out of malice, I’m certain. It’s because she views me as the linchpin of the play, if I fail the whole thing fails, so the focus is on me and any time spent on her is time wasted.

That mindset, that she can abandon her own acting in favour of my own.

It's Sacrificial.

Or perhaps it's fear. Running away from the acknowledgement of her abilities, if she only ignores it a little longer, surely it’ll all vanish and resolve itself without any issue. She’ll escape from her past as a washed-up child actor, it’ll cease to haunt her, and then she will be set free from the curse of never being good enough to achieve her dreams.

If only.

It won’t, but it’d be nice if it did.

“What do you recommend? Dr. Akamine or Jinko’s scenes?” I asked, granting my teacher her silent request; to overlook her shortcomings. At least for now, up until I chart the course that lets her patch them up.

I won’t leave her behind.

She contemplated my question with a seriousness better suited to a middle-aged woman who treats her job with an importance usually only given to world leaders. Her step took her across the wooden floor of this stand-in stage of a side room buried deep in Hanako Hall’s bowels, stopping as she reached her destination of a grey-white shoulder bag resting on the bench below.

Her hand dug as if it were a shovel, and the plastic water bottle she brought to her lips, the hidden treasure, finally rediscovered. Soon emptied, she discarded the bottle back into the bag it came from and then took out and popped open a small velvet black case. Those thick black-framed glasses of hers lay within, and they were quickly returned to their spot on the bridge of her nose, erasing the last traces of Yuki from her appearance.

“I’m not sure?” She relayed as she turned around to face me, her green eyes jumping across the floor as she thought, “Oh, I don’t think Kenji is here today. It’ll have to be Kaede. She’s in room A3 on the first floor doing a solo rehearsal.”

“A solo rehearsal?” I quired, wondering why she wasn’t practising with anyone else.

“Yes,” Emiko nodded as if it were the most natural answer in the world, “It’s Kaede, she’s different from the rest of us. I’m not sure if she could give a bad performance even if she tried.”

And was that a shock? A goddess has no need for others as she remakes the entire scene in its absolute. Built from the ground up, a park or forest planted, maybe a looming tower or unending tunnel constructed. The characters realised, the background created, and her words replaced with Jinko’s.

Her everything replaced with Jinko.

“Oh, and all her important scenes are with you anyways.” She added while gathering up her few scattered things into her bag and throwing it over her shoulder, “Without you, there isn’t much point in rehearsing with others, and considering your recent scenes with her… Well, I don’t think they were very helpful for her, but that’s all in the past. You’re much better now, and she could definitely help bring together Eighty-Three’s character for you.”

Creation in isolation. And what day is it? We’ve already long left the second day and are now entering the fifth; yet does she need wings to fly the sky or gills to dive the ocean? No, not when she holds creation in her palms, and thus shapes them into picture from her will alone.

A black hole once went up against a goddess, and she lost before it even began.

“Hmm, I’ll rehearse with Kaede, then.” I replied with a smile, one made for her, the precious sister I perceive her to be.

She returned one equally as bright, a wave upon a beach washing away the trash that was her frightful emotions. “Hmm,” she hummed back. “I’m going to look over the script a few more times, maybe check how the others are doing, and see where I can help out.”

“Have fun.” I waved as she left the room, both of us still with a matching smile that only sisters can show each other, this beauty-filled language of familial love she empowered me to learn.

And learn I have.

For I am not a black hole, nor am I the river; vast, unending, and uncontrollable.

I am both, just as I am me.

The door is light at my touch, easily parted as I step out into the overly red hall of Hanako Hall. My path leads me towards the domain of a goddess, but I have not come here to challenge.

No, I am here to parlay.

It's what a sister would do, all to prevent the youngest from falling.

To petition a goddess; to bargain for a dream.