Do you ever wonder what it took to end up where you are today?

Every event, every decision, every fleeting moment – all leading you here.

I’ve spent what feels like an eternity asking myself that very question. I can’t help but wonder what choices exactly led me to this point, what paths I took without realizing they would lead to my untimely demise . . . or maybe I was always doomed from the start.

Now, I’ve nowhere left to go. My body, my mind, my being has been lost to the tide, engulfed in a cold darkness that stretches on forever.

There’s nowhere left to hide. No one left by my side.

So I close my eyes and watch as my life passes me by.

[sequence start.]

1.

I suppose I should start from the beginning – one of the many times I was presented with a path that would change my life, regardless of whether or not I cared to know.

And it was paved by a man named Mitsuhiro.

There’s an old saying – if everyone you run into is an asshole, then it was probably you all along.

Mitsuhiro is the exception. He’s always the asshole, in whatever setting he’s in.

Though I suppose by most people’s standards, he would be considered a 'decent guy', as if he doesn’t skim those requirements by the skin of his perfect teeth. On the surface, there’s nothing technically wrong with him. He’s got a smart head on his shoulders, and it’s adorned by luscious black hair that I’ve heard he washes with oxen blood of all things. It’s probably just a rumour, but whatever he’s doing, it’s enough to draw attention from every girl in the realm, and then some.

If we’re speaking purely objectively, based on everyone else's opinion excluding my own, he's perfect in every way.

It's disgusting.

I intercepted Yashiro's gaze with the face that I had drawn into my sketchbook, forcing her to meet its sickly expression – a demeaning doodle of Mitsuhiro, with bulging eyes and a beaky nose.

She shoved it aside.

"Wow,” she said in a single, slightly-concerned breath. “Y'know, you're not convincing me that you don't give a shit about this guy.”

“How is this not convincing?!” If anything, I was fully willing to show how much I loved to hate this man – by spending precious minutes of my free time drawing his stupid face. “He reeks of bullshit and it pisses me off that no one else seems to notice or care-!” I pressed the stick of graphite in my hand back to the paper. 'The pen is mightier than the sword', a saying I practically lived by.

"C'mon, Uzuki, you're no fun when you get like this," Yashiro sighed with a disapproving glare.

"I'm allowed to hate who I want to hate, thank you.”

Yashiro only shrugged. "Yeah, but with good reason. Most people at least have a decent excuse."

I had my reasons. I just wasn't eager to share them with someone who couldn't possibly relate or understand.

I held up the sketchbook again, revealing my masterpiece – Mitsuhiro, with insults of every color surrounding his poorly-drawn face.

"Accurate?" I giggled.

Yashiro rolled her eyes at me. "Sure, if you're trying to prove how much you need personal help.”

Looking back, I know I was being dumb. I know you're expecting some tragic tale, in which I'm the victim of some devious plot created by Mitsuhiro himself, but I meant what I said – I'm allowed to hate who I want to hate. Call me an asshole all you like, but compassion has called me the fool one too many times.

But that was then. 'Then' getting in the way of 'now' is the whole reason I'm writing this; and capturing everything in detail as I've set out to do means facing the person I once was, no matter how uncomfortable it may become.

Now, where was I?

Mitsuhiro Minamimoto.

As quoted by myself ‘back then', fuck that guy.

'Then', I was Uzuki Kasahara. 'Then', an average student, an average friend, and overall, an average teenager. Even now, I can't say there's anything overly extraordinary about me. I'm an art kid. I have a few friends that help me get through the day. According to the imaginary hierarchy here at Adythiel Academy, I'm closer to the bottom of the food chain.

I have a scar on my right cheek.

I'm not too arrogant to admit that I do have a bit of a temper problem, but I'm a good person.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I swear.

Yashiro and I split off to our own individual lockers. The usual rhythm of my morning routine consisted of grabbing my things and then meeting up with my regular group of friends – including Yashiro – in the cafeteria.

I must stress the word 'usual' in that statement.

It seemed that on this particular day, the aforementioned thorn in my side had made it his goal to change the definition of 'usual' – there stood Mitsuhiro, leaning against a locker near mine, almost as if he were laying in waiting.

I immediately started looking for escape routes.

Just pass by him, get your shit, and leave.

Five steps forward. Head down.

Just several feet away from my locker. Almost there.

Just then, as if timed perfectly, I happened to look up, and we exchanged glances. Eye contact.

Fuck.

I walked straight by him, my irritation simmering under the surface now. He was two lockers away from mine – just a few feet. Not good.

And yet, as I opened my locker, trying my damn hardest to ignore him, he stood in silence, not even a greeting escaping his lips. With only the briefest of glances his way when I could sneak them, I reached up to the top shelf to grab my books, hoping the entire time that he would stay quiet, just until I could leave. Just a few more seconds . . . I would even skip putting my books into my bag if that was what it took to get out of there in time.

But then, within the first second of entering his orbit, I saw it – the shift and flicker of his soul.

I have a scar on my right cheek-

Twitching and changing to a red-pink hue from its usual blue.

-and eyes that can see the true colors of one's soul.

And then, in that last second, he took the path I was on into his own hands.

“Your name's Uzuki, right?”

And he began with a stupid as shit question.

I didn't owe him any sort of conversation. Just a quick answer, whatever would shut him up faster. Ten words or less, that should do it.

Of course, that should have been what I did, but the part of my brain that hated Mitsuhiro more – the same part that was willing to start a fight in the school hallway – took over.

"Why the hell are you asking my name?" I asked, almost a little too harsh. I could feel my jaw tensing. I wasn’t new here, neither was he. There was no way he didn’t know my name. This was a small building, the Academy maybe only had four hundred students tops, everyone knew everyone. I didn't care if he knew I didn't like him. I wanted him to know. Maybe it would force him to leave me alone to my routine.

Speaking of which, as if he could read my mind-

“Ah, I'm sorry," Mitsuhiro quickly apologized. “I just wanted to be sure. Though . . . I suppose that was a silly question.” Sweet Unifreya, it was like he was getting paid to annoy me. I had to do something quick to get it across to him that I wasn't interested.

I gently closed my locker, and turned to him. I offered him my hand to shake.

“Yeah, it's Uzuki. Sorry, you just caught me on a bad day.”

He looked at my hand for a brief second, before taking it into his - he was gonna regret that.

I squeezed it tight-

-and slammed him into my locker.

I suppose anyone reading this may not understand – especially after the things I've come to learn about the world outside my home – but we don't exactly solve our problems diplomatically where I'm from. Even children are put through training regimes, to learn how to defend themselves, from the moment they're able to walk. I was no different.

Except for, well . . . the knives I liked to carry around.

Had to send him a message.

“So you decided you wanna die today, huh?”

Knife to his throat.

“Wanted to go out with a little art show?”

In the moment, I saw red. At the time, I wanted to see more of it, for real – I wanted to see Mitsuhiro's blood on my hands.

That was then.

Thank the gods for my mother.

“Put him down, Uzuki.”

I can't imagine what she must have been thinking at the time, finding her daughter in the halls, pinning a man nearly twice her size with a knife to his throat. “Just another Tuesday,” perhaps. I’m sure I’ve taken years off her life.

I stepped away.

“Hand it over.”

I put aside my anger in that moment. I didn't care what Mitsuhiro thought of me; but this was my mother and that just wasn’t a fight I was going to win.

“Uzuki, I just gave you back your knife privileges,” she snapped as I handed her the knife.

“Like I need your permission,” I scoffed under my breath. I did. Besides her role as my mother, she was also an administrator here at the Academy. She could literally ground me and give me detention, which was exactly the kind of power I didn't want to test. “Besides, it was self-defense.”

“Mmhm, I'm sure it was,” mother snipped, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “Get to class. And leave Mitsuhiro alone.”

My fun was over, though it was likely for the better. This was my senior year; I didn't want to go out behind bars for murder.

I started to step away with my mother leading the charge, but felt the twitch of my soul tugging at me, like a child begging to return to the playground.

Not good enough.

I turned back to Mitsuhiro.

“If I see you by my locker again-”

“-you'll wish you didn't know my name, Mitsuhiro Minamimoto.”

I felt his eyes on me as I walked away. I didn't dare look back. I needed space to breathe, to collect myself. I couldn't let him see me shaking just as he was.

Go fuck yourself, Mitsuhiro.

[SIDENOTE]

That first conversation between Uzuki and Mitsuhiro is always fun to watch. It seems to go differently every time, but still ends in the same outcome, for the most part.

After Uzuki had left Mitsuhiro behind in the hallway, Mitsuhiro let out a sigh, pushing aside Uzuki's harsh and juvenile attitude for the time being. Had she been anyone else, he wouldn't have bothered her. Had she been anyone else, he wouldn't be trying.

But the mark on his hand stopped him. He looked down at his palm, ticking numbers engraved into his skin, so fresh and new that blood was still trickling from them. The numbers ticked away, one by one, counting down every last second. The months, the days, the hours, and the minutes, all moving at the same rhythmic pace of time itself.

With a frown, he clenched his hand into a tight fist, and let the blood drip down his wrist.

[SIDENOTE END]