She thumped her pencil on her notebook in a rhythm that was both irritating and soothing.

The clock struck noon, and the birds that were perched on the windowsill fled with a few flaps of their wings.

“Beautiful hotel room”

The pencil froze.

I swallowed a block of spit and braced myself to hear her grumble.

“When I asked you if you wanted to waste both of our time, you said no. You said you'd try harder”

Not exactly what I said.

“It's the third session and you haven't said a word since our brief introduction on the plane”

I knew she was waiting for me to speak, for me to say something. I even knew she would have preferred me to scream, to throw a tantrum, to act like any child with too much emotions.

But I said nothing, and she went to get a glass of water.

She took a big gulp - I could hear her swallow-then three smaller ones. She put the glass in the sink and didn't go near the kitchen knives on the counter.

When she sat back down on the sofa, facing mine, my eyes still hadn't left the yellow stain on the ceiling.

It was a tiny speck, an infinitesimally small yellow dot that had landed there by some fluke of life, but would remain there until the hotel was demolished and a more modern one built in the next 15 to 20 years.

“You lost your temper when we talked about your mask the other day. Did I say something that offended you?”

I'd gotten used to breathing through it. The air was still a little tepid, but now the mask had become a second skin that I didn't want to take off.

“No”

“Then why don't you want to talk to me ?”

It was easy for her.

All she had to do was sit there, notebook in one hand, pencil in the other, and listen to me pour out everything I was between lunch and dinner.

“I don't want to talk to anyone”

“Not even your father ?”

I licked my lips and took my time to answer. The yellow dot had grown.

“No”

“So why are we here ?”

I thought of my father, whom I hadn't seen in a week.

I thought about his promise not to send me abroad alone, about the fact that it had been six days since he was supposed to join me.

I thought about this sudden 'affair' , that he thought I'd bought his bullshit about, and that worried me.

“He wants me to talk to you. My father, I mean. He says it might help”

I didn't need any help. Not from her, not from anyone.

“Would you like to talk?”

I opened my mouth. She cut me off.

“Will you talk ?”

I had promised my father that I would try. But he'd promised to come soon, and here I was in a weird country with a weird woman who wanted to slit my belly open and pin it to the table to read me like an open book.

Apparently, we were both liars.

The psychiatrist sighed.

“Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to ask you a question. You're going to answer me - and you're going to tell me only the truth - but you don't have to tell me everything. If you don't answer, I'll take my things and leave”

It was everything I've ever wanted from her.

“Are you glad that Touya is dead ?”

“Yes”

I heard her rise to her feet and then sit down again in surprise. She put the lead of her pencil on her small piece of paper.

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“Why ?”

I shrugged.

“He tried to kill me. Twice. If someone tried to kill you, you'd be glad he's dead”

There was no judgment in her voice as she asked me her next question.

“What was it like living in the same house with him after he tried to drown you ?”

I hesitated, finally deciding to keep things simple.

“Hard”

“But what else?”

My thoughts returned to this distant period I hadn't thought about in years.

I saw myself stealing the sofa cushions late at night and using them to stuff my duvet. I remembered the grayish mop I'd stolen, one of those with thick, pendulous threads I'd painted half of it red with a tube of paint that Fuyumi used in her drawing class.

I shrugged.

“Were you afraid he would come at night? While you were sleeping?”

“Yes”

“Where did you sleep?”

At first, in the closet.

“Under my bed. That way I didn't have any trouble defending myself the night he came”

“And when he came the second time, the night of the fire. How did that make you feel?”

I didn't have to think about it.

“Relieved”

Her pencil froze above her notebook.

“Why ?”

“Because I was prepared”

It took me a long, long time and more near-death experiences to realize it.

Being prepared for situations like his attempted murder is a blessing.

In real life, you're sitting in your car on a Thursday morning and a missile is fired at you and you wonder how you could have seen it coming.

“Did you know he would come back?”

“Yes”

She took a few seconds to carefully write everything down.

“Is there anything you'd like to tell me about him ? Anything you regret ?”

I'm just sorry I didn't break his ankles when I had the chance.

I shrugged.

“What was it like?”

I opened my mouth and closed it.

“I... you mean when? Before? During? After?”

“You tell me. What state of mind was the most noteworthy for you ?”

The yellow dot was now the size of a bumper sticker.I thought back to my sleeping problems before the fire. Then my thoughts drifted to the clones I'd kept on guard for months, telling myself he'd be back to finish the job.

But it was during that I remember the most.

“Killing is easy”

I knew I'd catch her attention when she stopped writing.

“I think a lot of people would be surprised at how easy it is to take a life”

The yellow dot grew into a marble.

“The first time I thought about killing someone, I must have been about four and a half years old”

Four years, two hundred and twenty days and twenty-three hours.

“I didn't realize much at the time. I was just there, hiding under my bed, convinced that he was going to kill me if I didn't do something to defend myself”

I talked to the Dot because the Dot had no opinion. The Dot didn't talk, it listened.

The Dot didn't judge, it just forgot.

“It took me a while to understand. To realize”

“What did you realize?

I frowned, forcing myself to imagine that the voice was coming from that tiny dot of forgotten yellow paint.

“That I was afraid of myself.I was paranoid because I was so close-”

I put my thumb on my forefinger to show it to the Dot.

“-to committing murder without stopping for a second to think about it. I think that's the worst experience you can have. To realize that you have so little control over your body and your mind”

There was the sound of a pencil scratching on paper. Silence.

And then,

“The shed. Tell me about the shed. What did it feel like ?”

I moved on the couch. It was comfortable. Soft.

Enough to make you forget where you were and make you spill all your secrets.

“Angry. But the kind of anger that makes you calm.Decisive. Like I've reached a point of no return, no matter what.That certainty doesn't change. It never does.I didn't cry. I wasn't hysterical.I thought people were supposed to be like that every time. I didn't curl up in a ball in the corner. I wasn't crying. I wasn't shaking”

I saw myself in third person, standing over Kenzei's body, my face covered in blood, and this guy yelling at me to get down on the ground.

“I was more awake than I'd ever been in my entire life”

I also felt lucky. Because I hadn't been caught short.

Because all my life I'd been preparing for the possibility of being killed.

“What do you feel when you kill ?”

The phrasing was ambiguous. As if she was implying that I was a murderer.

She stammered, trying to correct herself.

I'd smile, but she'd think I was crazy.

“I don't kill for pleasure”

There's nothing pleasant about it.Being covered in other people's blood or seeing their guts spread out in front of me didn't amuse me in the least.

“I killed because I had no other choice. Because my life was no longer in my hands. It's impossible to describe the feeling you get when you feel your life is in the hands of someone who has absolutely no problem with the idea of killing you”

The first time, I was scared.

Now only the idea of someone having that kind of power over me drove me crazy.

“Do you regret it?”

“No”

Because I'm alive.

It took her several long minutes to finish writing in her notebook. She turned three pages, sharpened her pencil, and wrote a few more lines.

“Do you feel different from the Shoto you used to be ?”

“Arent’ you different than the teenager you used to be ?”

“I'm talking about who you were five years ago, not forty”

“Of course I've changed. Everyone changes”

“How would you describe the person you used to be?”

“... naive”

Stupid. Weak.

“And how would you describe yourself now?

“Better”

“What else?”

I watched the ceiling in silence.

“Why naive?”

“All children are naive”

“Aren't you a child?”

“I am not”

Not since a long time ago.

“Tell me about your family. About your relationship with each of them”

“My only family is my father”

And apparently the old cowhide whom acts as his mother.

“I want to talk about your mother. Your brother and your sister. Don't you miss them?”

“No”

“Do you hate them?”

“No”

“You are close to your father, right?”

I didn't answer.

“Did you have trouble separating from your mother?”

I frowned.

“What do you mean by that ?”

“I'm talking about the arrangement your parents made”

I was confused, but I forced myself not to show it.

“My father mentioned it once. What's it about ?”

She hesitated for a second.

“It's an agreement your parents made a few years ago. Your father was behind it, as I understand it. But it was your mother who only wanted to keep your brother and sister”

I blinked. Slowly.

And then I sat up, putting my feet flat on the floor.

“I'm tired”

The psychiatrist looked at the clock as I stood up.

“There's still-”

I slammed the door behind me.