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You stare down the barrel of your own gun. You draw your own in retaliation. A final dual. Seems fitting, does it not? Overcoming your own weakness, at a time like this. A puppet finally breaking away from its strings, just for it to realize its inability to ever perform again. What’s the saying again? “Your life flashes before your eyes just before death”?
Two gunshots sound, and you remember:
It’s June. You had just turned seven, and you were staring at a bag you recognized to be from that store you always passed by on the way home from school, but never had the heart to enter. You were absolutely ecstatic but in equal measure reluctant to open it. Dreams always ended right at the best part, right? Or if it had truly been reality, you could already feel the sinking feeling of guilt make itself known in your gut. You looked up at her, and she looked back at you nervously.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get anything on your birthday, I know the gift is too late, but- “
You felt your heart break, and the guilt root itself even deeper. She must have noticed your unease.
“No! That’s no problem!” You hurriedly try to remedy the situation.
“Really?”
“Really.”
You quickly took the present out the bag and gasped in surprise despite having a feeling you knew what it was. Definitely not a dream. Too real to be one. You thanked her a million times but you were still not sure it’s enough. Your very own “Proof of Justice” ray-gun… You had been obsessing over it for months now, and she must have caught wind of it, although you had never told her. You made a mental note to be less open with your reactions, because you had already known this toy was expensive, and she probably worked so hard to be able to afford it…
“Is everything alright, Goro?” She asked, obviously worried, “Do you not like the gift?”
“No, no! I love the gift, it’s just- “
You didn’t have to spend so much money, or any money at all, really. Is how you would’ve continued, had she not cut you off.
“If you’re worrying about the money, don’t,” she starts, “That’s not something you should worry about. Especially since it’s a gift for your birthday.”
You didn’t try to argue anymore, you realized it would only make you both feel worse.
You remember:
It’s April. Your third year of Elementary School had just begun. It had been Friday, so instead of heading straight home, you had gone to the bathhouse instead. You had always enjoyed the atmosphere there. It wasn’t anything special, it was actually what others would call shabby, but you prefer the term modest. It was small, especially clean and usually empty. But by far, the best part was its owner. A sweet elderly woman that never minded letting you stay, free of charge, in the changing room to do your homework. Her empathy was rare to come by in your situation, after all. Because of this stroke of luck, whenever you would get home, your homework would already be done, so you had a plethora of free time to do whatever you pleased. You placed your schoolbag down next to the sofa and started looking for the remote. Usually, she was passed out by now, but when you had looked up after finally finding the remote, you were shocked to see her standing in the doorway. She looked disheveled. Her hair was tied back messily, her lipstick was smudged, and so was her mascara. She was wearing a long-sleeved shirt that fitted her loosely. Had she always been this skinny?
“Did you have fun at school today?” she asked as she made her way to the sofa and sat down next to you.
You nodded and turned on the TV. You could not afford cable so your channels were limited, and Phoenix Ranger Featherman R, your favorite TV show typically airs only on Saturdays, so instead of watching those weird cartoons you did have access to, you opted for the evening news. You weren’t paying much attention to what they were saying but one thing did pique your interest.
“Now, Tokyo Metropolitan Assemblyman, Masayoshi Shido would like to share a few thoughts in regards to- “
“Turn it off.” she said.
You had opened your mouth to argue there was nothing else to watch but the words quickly died on your tongue as she spoke again.
“I said to turn it off!” the last part came out as more of a sob, and tears welled up in her eyes.
“I’m sorry!” you cried out on instinct, grabbing the remote and shutting the TV off. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m sorry!” you follow her as she gets up.
“If you were so sorry you would’ve turned off the TV as soon as I told you to!” she barks back. “You never think about how your actions might hurt other people… You really are your father’s son…”
As she finished her sentence with a scoff, you felt your legs weaken and your vision blur. As you tried to keep your tears from falling, she came over and swooped you up into her arms.
“Promise me something, Goro.” She starts.
You sniffled back in admission.
“Promise me you’ll grow up to be better than I am,” she stopped for a moment, lost in thought, “No, not just better than me. Better than everyone. The best. Live the life you were meant to have.”
You took those words to heart.
You remember:
It’s October. You were sitting on an uncomfortable chair at the police station, replaying the events of the day in your mind. Where had everything gone wrong? The day had started off normally. You woke up, got ready for school, made breakfast for you both, made sure one last time she hadn’t woken up because of the noise you had made while cooking. She needed the rest. Left for school. Paid attention during every class. You even aced that Math test. School had ended, and she didn’t come to pick you up. It was fine. She rarely did on most days, and it was a Saturday, so she was most likely working. As you were walking home, it had started to rain. Your sock had gotten wet because of a hole in your shoe. Was it because you were too ungrateful? Or maybe too much of a burden? You had gone to the bathhouse because she was working. Was it because of her clients? After bathing and doing your homework, you had returned home. The door had been locked. You had left your key at home. You had taken your backpack off and sat down by the door. Had you called for help, would the outcome have been different? Seconds, minutes, and then hours had passed by. You had fallen asleep, awoken by two police officers. You had been dazed from just waking up, but the implication was not lost on you that either something had happened, or had been about to. One of your neighbors must have called them. They had broken down the door and one of them entered, while the other kept you from seeing inside. You tried your best to escape his grasp, but, in the end, you had given up. You cannot remember the officer’s name, but his gray hair did stick out. It seemed natural, and not because of age. It had given you something to focus on while delaying thoughts of the inevitable. Was she fine? What had happened to mom?
You were called into the office and the situation was explained to you by that gray-haired officer, but it was not told clearly because, to be frank, telling a ten-year-old his mother had just killed herself was a bit grim, right? Despite this, you still understood, and you were left alone so they could fill out the legal forms for your mom’s death. You had thought about one question that would continue to haunt you: Could you have stopped this from happening?
And an even worse answer: You couldn’t.
You remember:
It’s early April. Your body moved almost mechanically, in tandem with your pounding heart and the dull throbbing that had come after the splitting headache you experienced before. You ducked into an ally to catch your breath and try and piece together what had happened. You dropped like a ragdoll against the cold walls and your phone slipped out of your trembling hand. In a better state, you would’ve hurried to catch it, but with the adrenaline slowly melting away, replaced by heaviness in your bones, you couldn’t care less if it ended up breaking. Even if you worked day and night to be able to afford it, it wasn’t even near being average, or useable beyond calls and messages. What a waste of money. More importantly, the damned device was probably the reason why you got into that mess to begin with.
Twisted vision. A red and black swirled sky. A person with an out-of-place outfit and deep, golden eyes. The threat of death. A piercing, sharp pain. As your vision blurred from the headache, a voice was the only thing that could be heard over the ringing in your ears:
“What’s the matter? Are you simply going to let yourself be overshadowed?”
“Death awaits you if you do.”
“Is that what you desire? Is that what she would’ve desired for you?”
“Your name has been disgraced from the start… Why not rise up and show them your true power?”
“You seek recognition, do you not? If so, let us form a pact…”
“I am thou, thou art I…”
“It is time for you to show them the true power you possess! Bask in your pride and take revenge on the one who has wronged you, trickster!”
You couldn’t remember anything else, nor did you have the energy to even try. As moonlight slowly crawled into the alley, you decided to push aside the nagging thoughts and head back to the orphanage. You’ve never really liked it there, but as you got older you realized that a bed to sleep in is always better than the cold concrete you’d be faced with after you turn 18. The orphanage brought you no comfort, but it at least brought some semblance of safety. You’ve never had a “good” option to choose from, it is, and always will be, the least bad option.
You remember.
It’s the 21st of August. You grabbed another piece of tissue paper. Your face was wet with tears, and your forehead sticky with sweat. You had a weird aftertaste in your mouth because of how much you vomited, and it wouldn’t go away no matter how many times you rinsed with water or mouthwash. You felt sick to your stomach. Not because of any expired food, or because of a stomach bug. You felt disgusted not only with your actions, but with yourself. Though it had been well over a week since you had… committed the act, around noon you had gotten a call from him. He wanted you to come see him urgently. You weren’t sure why, but he sounded quite happy over the phone, so you could only guess he was going to shower you with more praise in regards to last week, thought you’ve always known that what he considers praise is different from what others would define it as, or tell you something that would make you want to tear his eyeballs out in frustration that you can’t show.
The news of Wakaba Isshiki’s death shouldn’t have come as a big of a shock as it did. Perhaps you deluded yourself enough into thinking her and her Shadow are two different entities that when you pulled the trigger, the weight of your actions was completely disregarded. You’ve slaughtered plenty of shadows before, why would hers be any different? Now, staring down at your hands, you can only see the blood that covers them and understand a fundamental difference between the shadows and Wakaba Isshiki’s Shadow. Their desires didn’t stem from anything, they were nothing, while hers made her human… and alive.
Plenty of shadows have pleaded for their “lives”, making up false stories and impossible scenarios, but when the gun was pointed at Isshiki-san’s Shadow, she didn’t fight it. She spoke to you, in a sickeningly sweet tone that reminded you too much of the person you were fighting for, and begged not for her life to be spared, but for her daughter’s.
As you choke out another sob in between erratic breaths, you wonder if she would’ve done the same for you.
You remember:
It’s the 17th of November. Well, technically, it’s the very early hours of November 18th. You couldn’t sleep well that night. You kept telling yourself you were unsure why, but deep know you knew the feeling of uncertainty looming over you was the cause. There was also an underlying feeling of sadness, that you truly did not want to think about. You can’t remember a mission you’ve had doubts about. Maybe the first few, but even then, the doubts weren’t nearly as loud and obnoxious as the following guilt. Guilt that you’ve learnt to suppress through fake praise and reminders of your end goal. Why should this one be any different? The answer is incredibly obvious, even when you tried to shield your eyes away from it. Ignorance is bliss, but sometimes, however rare it is, the humanity in you won’t allow you to do so.
Perhaps it shouldn’t have taken you this long to understand that human bonds cannot be so easily thrown away, and maybe, just maybe, if you embraced them, you could’ve been more like him. Envy is an ugly thing, but you’re also a rotten human being, so perhaps it makes sense. You didn’t know what to think or say about him. When you first met, you were sure you had him all figured out, but slowly, you became fascinated with him. You despise him, the way he’s everything you could’ve been had you gone down a different path. You couldn’t call him your friend, that would be unfair to both of you. He’s your rival. You tried time and time again to prove to no one, really, that you, despite choosing the morally wrong path, would emerge victorious in your battle of wits. That, when the investigation would come to an end, on the 20th, you, the forgettable, undesirable, bastard child, would win against not only the Phantom Thieves, but later claim what’s rightfully yours and enact revenge.
You wish you had met two years prior. Unfortunately, you realized from a young age that wishing gets you nowhere. Your decisions have been made, and the stakes are too high for you to back out.
You did not sleep that night.
You clutch your chest with your right hand as you stumble backwards, holding onto the metal door with your left. The cognition has faded into nothingness, and you’re left alone, you can’t make out anything the Phantom Thieves are saying on the other side of the door. Your ears are ringing and you feel utterly drained.
You realize:
You are going to die here, and you’ll die as a horrible person. You’re going to die alone, the same way you lived. You’re going to die as a murderer, but…
You traded your life to save a few now, and while that isn’t much compared to the ones you’ve taken, you could still save the few that will save the world.
You’ll still die as a horrible person, but… maybe… just maybe… those few can remember you not as a tool, but as a human. As a human who was incredibly flawed, but at one point was a little boy who dreamt of becoming a hero and saving the world. It just so happens that he had to pass along his dream to others.
You take a deep breath in, and exhale shakily. Suddenly, the world goes dark.