Chapter Text
There was a book that gained popularity both in the west and the east during the 70s and 80s.
The current, legal name of the author was unknown. The authorʼs whereabouts were unknown. The authorʼs age was unknown. Whether or not the author was alive... was also unknown.
The very first print of the book didnʼt sell much in the 60s, given that the contents were deemed unfitting for a moral society, so there was only a limited number of copies. The very few critics who were interested in the book published only a few sentences about it, calling the storytelling ‘unrealisticʼ and ‘absurd’, claiming that it was absolutely unacceptable for the author to claim that all the events were real, when in reality they obviously were not— could not be.
Sometime over the decade, the book was forgotten. It could only be found in the depths of a library or in a dusty corner of a second-hand bookshelf in a store.
Despite that, for whatever reasons unknown, there was a massive, sudden interest in the book a decade later, causing demand for more prints. The publishing house that published it originally was on the verge of closing—the publisher was only one of the many people that got their luck turned around because of this insane demand for it.
There were… many interesting things about the book. What touched the hearts of the most people, though, was the first page of it: blank, save for a few words that said:
To those who are lonely in their path, to those who lost their path, and to those who are unsatisfied with the path life gave them, and wish to create a new one.
The second page of the book was a bit more personal to the author, clearly. It said:
To my dear beloved life partner, to the family I’ve made in this short, unimportant, and low life of mine, to my father: may we walk into the afterlife together and meet again in our next life, and many lives after that. Thank you.
There is a man sitting in the small study room. His hair is gray but still dark; it can easily be said that this man was a handsome one in his youth. He’s got wrinkles on his face and he’s clean-shaved. He’s wearing an ironed suit. His messy, thick hair disrupts the put-together image.
The sun still hasn’t risen, but the gray sky is getting brighter each second. The windows are open, and the smell of the morning dew fills the room with the chill wind. Two chickens can be seen in the small garden in front of the house, wandering around the tomato field to find themselves breakfast.
The man has an old notebook open in front of him, as well as a typewriter at the ready with empty sheets. He turns another page in the journal, it’s handwritten; there are pictures glued inside of it, as well as little drawn images and sketches. The journal is something that can only be understood by its original owner; the handwriting in it and the notes are extremely messy.
The man reads through the journal until the sun rises. He hears a door opening and closing from the inside, and then another one. Before long, he hears the bathroom tap open and close, as the person inside washes their hands. There is only one or two minutes of peace after the door of the bathroom is opened again. He hears the footsteps approaching and rolls his eyes.
“Staying awake the entire night only works if you do actual work, you know.”
He spared his intruder no glance. “Shut up, I’ve been working.”
“There is not one page written, not even a sentence typed,” his annoying intruder sighs fondly, “You’ve gotten lost in the memories again, haven’t you?”
He thinks of denying it, but this annoying shit knows him better than anyone else. “I can’t help it. Those were good days.”
“Mhm,” he hums in agreement, “They were, weren’t they? Despite the terror and constant thrill—”
“Because of the terror and constant thrill—”
“Right, sorry, my bad,” he hears a chuckle and turns around to look at his annoying— darling intruder.
His eyes are curved upwards with joy, and the corner of his mouth reveals a dimple. He knows that there’s a beauty mark hidden by it in there—he knows because he kissed it every day for the past 40 years. He remembers the first moment he noticed that his smile would hide that little dark spot on his face.
Huh.
He has to start somewhere, hasn’t he?
He turns around to finally get his hands on the keys of the typewriter, and he starts moving his fingers with practiced ease. He feels the man behind him close the gap and start watching him.
Memoirs of Guren Ichinose.
A Tale Told by the Legend Himself.
“‘A tale’? ‘The legend’?” His beloved laughs, “Oh, I love how you made yourself the main character in this story.”
“It’s my memoirs, so, aren’t I the main character?”
“Hm. I suppose so. But it feels a bit unfair considering that I contributed as much as you did. Even more, if I do say so myself.”
“Don’t worry, you’re still as equally important as the love interest.”
“Oh? ‘Love’ interest? You finally admit you don’t hate me?”
“Quit acting like I never told you that I loved you in the past decades we spent together.”
“But you see, I am an old man now. My memory isn’t as good as it used to be, so perhaps you’re taking advantage of me and lying to me.”
“I’m older than you, so my memory must be worse. I can’t possibly be tricking you, dear.”
“Alright, but what about—”
“She will be my wife, of course. My widowed wife, who took her own life in a moment between insanity and grief.”
With a small chuckle and the respectful silence that comes after that from his dear, he continues typing.
Today, I will tell you a story.
A story of what happened to me in my youth and changed the course of my entire life, and perhaps an entire nation too, for a short while.
I am not sure how well-known our story is nowadays in the homeland, how it is being told, how much of it is erased, or how much it is cared for by people. But I still wish to tell everything from my perspective.
This is a story of how I found love through killing someone.
You would think that it is absurd for people to bond and fall in love with each other as they’re plotting a murder together, but it has happened to me. It must have happened to someone else too, or it might in the future. I wouldn't know. I would either never hear of it or die before such a thing happened.
“Such a depressing thing to say in the beginning.”
“Hush.”
You see, in stories like these, there is always a beginning. It is constructed by the author and it is built up with the events of the beginning as its basis. Something triggers the story to move forward in a different direction, and it goes that way until there is a conclusion.
When it happens to you, though, you cannot pinpoint the exact moment it started that easily. I've been in front of my typewriter for days and nights non-stop now, going through my old journals and photographs. Still, as I type these words, I am unsure if I have found the true beginning.
It all started when my father met my mother—
Kidding.
Of course not.
That would be a story for another time, except I cannot be the one telling it, as I have lost them a long, long time ago. I do not remember my mother’s face, although my father would always tell me that I had the sharpness of her features. That I was handsome, just like my mother.
Either way, I am Ichinose Guren. Of course, as you will understand soon enough when you read the contents of this book, this is not my legal, current name. I will publish the book under this name too, for me and everyone else that is involved in its sake— for our safety. This is the story of an assassination—but more importantly, it is a story about love and family. How you might find it at the moment you least expect it. How, sometimes, it is right in front of you, under your grasp.
This story may sound ridiculous to most, but to the remaining few, I sure hope that you can all find something that is a part of you in it.
Like all things in my life, it all started with Hiiragi Mahiru, my dear widowed, dead wife who returned from the grave as a ghost demon to haunt the world.