42

And so my “story” began. My voice came out in a soft whisper to U as she lay on the couch half-asleep. It had been so high-pitched with nervousness moments prior, yet was miraculously neutral as I began speaking. That wasn’t even intentional. I think that happened because I wasn’t speaking my own words, but rather a “story”. I ceased to be an individual, instead becoming the storyteller.

But I didn’t tell a fairy tale where the righteous and strong of heart won the day, like Momotarou. It wasn’t about honesty rewarded, like Cinderella. And it wasn’t about finding someone who was pure of heart like Snow White.

My stories… my tales to U were about an uncommon person finding happiness, while remaining uncommon. About a person who was messed up in the head finding happiness, while remaining messed up in the head. About an abnormal person finding happiness, while remaining abnormal. Stories of people with no friends, who couldn’t voice their thoughts, who couldn’t fit in, who were cynical and contrarian, but who could be happy in who they were. Stories of disadvantaged individuals surviving despite their disadvantages.

Like a tale of a boy who does everything he can to stay alive, relying on his voice alone, and a brilliant blue-haired girl who controls the world. A tale of a brother with an unhealthy infatuation with his little sister and a high school girl who can’t stand ambiguity. A tale of an elementary schooler who tries to save the Earth through mere wits and bravery and a magical girl who dreams of growing and maturing. A tale of a murderer who prizes familial love and a knit cap that draws people to the allure of killing. A tale of a hypocrite who saves a dying monster and the vampire that comes to love him. A tale of a man who hates going to the movie theater and his 17th little sister. A tale of an emotionless giant raised on a remote island and a volatile little girl burned by the flames of hatred and anger. A tale of a martial artist who learns the meaning of defeat and a martial artist who ignores it. A tale of a popular author whose books sell despite his wishes and his niece who’s on the hunt for a job. A tale of a heavy reader with a strange bias and an oddball who lives in a bookstore. A tale of a contractor who constantly fails no matter what, and the detective who gladly puts himself at her mercy. A tale of a female ninja who exists as nothing more than a will and the leader whom she protects.

The tales were disorganized and had nothing in common with each other, except for a single underlying theme.

They were all about people who strayed from the common path, made mistakes, and dropped out of normal society. Despite that, they could live well, or at least well enough, and have a reasonably fun and interesting life.

All my tales were trying to send the same message.

I just wanted to tell U that, whether it was me or her, this girl or that guy, even if we couldn’t do anything else, we could at least survive.

Before I knew it, the sun had fallen and the night was up, but I didn’t let that distract me, and kept on telling U my “stories”. And she kept on listening.

“Stories” like the ones I was telling her didn’t exist. Not anywhere. All the normal “stories” of the world didn’t want to bother with people like us, instead demanding that we be righteous, strong, pure, normal… They wanted us to get along with everyone and be considerate, asking the impossible from people that could never deliver. I couldn’t expect U to listen to such moralistic, preachy nonsense.

So I made up my own tales. They were improvised and shoddily thrown together, but I packed them full of everything I wanted to say to U.

That she was going to be okay.

She could make countless mistakes, experience countless failures, come up against countless roadblocks, and irreparably damage countless things, and perhaps never even return to a normal life, but she would be okay. My tales told her over and over that she would be all right.

They weren’t tales of saviors or heroes, but rather of heretics, and I just kept on telling them.

I never questioned the purpose of it, or if it would all be meaningless. In fact, for the first time in six days, I was feeling positive, with a clear sense of purpose. It was like all of my imprisonment and refusal to escape… no, like the very reason I’d aspired to be an author for so long was all for that very moment.

And sure, it might’ve all been for nothing.

Regardless of what I thought about it, I could have just been doing something pointless.

U was so young, and she was sure to forget the tales I was telling her under those circumstances… I used lots of descriptors and turns of phrase that she probably didn’t understand at her age, and that aside, she’d never remember fairytale-style stories she heard rambling on and on when she was already half-asleep.

I didn’t know how much my unrealized tales could resonate with a heart like hers, so bound up in her parents’ long-standing manual… But I don’t care how childish and immature it makes me, I believe in the power of a tale. As skeptical and timid as I may be, that’s the one thing I can fully believe in… and I wanted to pass that on to U. And if you just want to tell me that it was meaningless, useless drivel, then I’ll just go and quietly commit seppuku in a corner.

Besides, there was that one rule in her parents’ manual, the “restrictive use” notebook.

[ Always listen carefully to what others say. ]

So, there.

Listen up, U.

I saw that part of you back then, what your parents call, “who you really are”. It’s true that you might have to hide that to live a normal life, but it’s not true that you have to be ashamed of it.

Your life has become an incomprehensible mess… But you can still be happy.