Boogiepop Returns VS Imaginator Part 1 (16 page)

Since she met Taniguchi Masaki, she had begun to like looking up at the sky. When they were walking together, he would often say, “Gosh, the sky sure is beautiful.” And sure enough, she had begun to think it was.

“. . . . . . . . . . . .”

When she looked at the sky, she felt like her body was melting, like things would be easier.

She sometimes almost believed Masaki might forgive her. . .

“. . . . . . . . . . . .”

But that was impossible.

It was unforgivable.

When she thought of all the danger she had put him in, how she had deceived him, how she had kept him from the truth. . . she could hardly complain, even if he killed her.

Somewhere deep inside, Aya wanted Masaki to kill her.

She thought, 'If that happened, what a weight off my shoulders that would be.'

Before she knew it, she was gripping the railing around the roof tightly, shaking like a leaf.

“Uh. . . um,” a voice stuttered from behind her.

She turned around, and a girl from this high school, her
sempai
, was coming hesitantly towards her.

Aya remembered her face. She had seen her before. Not directly, but in a file. Her name was Suema Kazuko.

“Yes?” Aya asked.

“No, um. . . I know I might have read things wrong and this may just sound stupid, but. . .” Suema Kazuko ventured. “But, um, if you're thinking about jumping, then, uh, please don't. Someone already jumped from there. And. . . and that's not good. . .”

“. . . . . . . . .” Aya's eyes widened.

“I. . . I know there's no guarantee that things will get better if you live, so it's too simple to say so. But, I mean, if you die, then the things you hate, and all those things you can't tolerate. . . they won't go away. So, uh, my point is. . .”

While Suema was rambling, she closed the gap between them, and suddenly grabbed ahold of Aya's arm.

Aya looked at that powerful grip, and then at the other girl's face.

“Dying is useless. That's all I can say,” Suema said forcefully, staring directly into Aya's eyes. She showed no signs of letting go.

“. . . . . . . . . . . .” Aya had no idea of how to clear up the misunderstanding.

Was it really a misunderstanding?

Had she, deep down, really wanted to jump?

She wasn't sure.

But either way, Suema Kazuko probably wouldn't let go. She was sure of that.

“Useless. . . ?” Aya said, quietly.

“Yep. Perhaps you think your life doesn't have any meaning, but dying has even less.”

“. . . . . . . . . . . .”

Was that true? If she died here, then at least Masaki would be protected, indirectly.

Aya hung her head.

“I want to die,” she said, letting herself say it.

Suema frowned. “Really?”

Aya nodded weakly.

“I see. But you can't now. . . because I found you.”

Suema pulled on her arm, dragging Aya to the center of the roof. She forced her to sit down.

“I'm sorry, Suema-san,” Aya whispered.

Mm? Suema looked at her, startled. “You know me?”

'Oops,' Aya thought, but her conditioned reflexes took over, and she said smoothly, “Yes, I know someone who goes here. They told me about you. You are Suema Kazuko-sempai, right?”

“Who. . . ? What did you hear? Oh, nah, never mind. I can guess,” Kazuko said ruefully, a little exasperated.

“I'm sorry.”

In fact, her photograph had been in the follow-up subject data file. She had nearly lost her life in an incident six years before, but Suema herself had been unaware of that, so she was not even on the Towa Organization's checklist.

“No need to apologize,” Suema gave her a gentle smile.

Aya was silent for a moment, then asked, “Um, Suema-sempai, can I ask you something?”

“What's that?”

“What do you think about Boogiepop?”

“Er. . .” Suema looked confused. “What do I think? Don't take this the wrong way, but that kind of rumor's a little. . .”

“You don't believe it?”

“Mmm. . . yeah, basically. But more than that, I just don't know anything about it.”

“Really? But all of the girls. . .”

“Yep, all of them. Except me,” Suema sighed. “They all think I'm morbid. . . like I know everything there is to know about murder. So nobody ever thinks to tell me about stuff like 'Boogiepop'. . .”

“Oh. . .”

“But you know, like, that sort of killer, or
shinigami
or whatever. . . it's so
blah
. Typical adolescent imagery. Everyone's anxious about something, so part of them feels like it would be just great if everything around them were destroyed. Like they want to be killed.”

“--------” Aya stiffened.

“And grown-ups are all irresponsibly saying crap like, 'This period of anxiety is only a phase. Things will get better soon.' Ha! Like that helps. Things just aren't that easy, right?” Suema's shoulders slumped. “That's where he comes in.”

“Huh. . . ?”

“Boogiepop.
That’s why he exists.
To protect an unstable heart and. . . and keep it like that. That's all he is, I think. Course, you're probably happier believing in him,” Suema added with a shrug, as if joking.

This unexpected answer confused Aya. “Protect?”

“Even though he's a
shinigami
? But that kind of thing's the product of romanticism, bred without much knowledge of actual assassins. Anyone who's actually killed someone would never put on some goofy-ass costume. I mean, seriously!”

“. . . . . . . . . . . .” Aya lowered her gaze. Whatever Boogiepop was, he would not protect her, she thought. “Sempai, can I talk to you?” Her mouth moved before she thought. She had never before tried to talk to someone of her own accord like this.

“Sure,” Suema nodded.

So readily that Aya's little mouth opened, “A boy. . .  likes me. I think.”

“Mm.”

“But I. . .  I'm no good. I can't do something. . .  like that.”

“Mm.”

“I'm no good for him. . . but I don't know what to do.”

“Mm.”

“I'd do anything for him. . . but there's just nothing I can do. And instead, I'm just causing all sorts of problems for him. What can I do. . . ?” As she talked, she found herself shaking again. Her hands clutched her own shoulders, but that couldn't stop it.

“Mm,” Suema nodded.

“I can't be hated by anybody. That's the way I am, but if this goes on, he's going to hate me. . .”

“Mm.”

“But the only thing justifying my existence is that nobody hates me. But there's nothing I can do. . . nothing left for me to do. I'd be better off if I wasn't alive.. .”

“Impossible,” Suema spoke at last. “It's impossible to live without someone hating you,” she declared.

“Eh. . . ?” Aya looked up.

Suema stared at her, peering into her eyes. Not accusingly, though. No, it was like the gaze of a mother looking at a sleeping child. Yet Orihata Aya had never been looked at that way before, so she was quite flustered.

“Being alive means you have to come into contact with other people. No matter how hard you try, you will end up hurting some of those people. There's nothing we can do about it. That's just life,” Suema explained calmly. Her direct -- yet gentle and soft -- gaze made Aya feel like she was naked.

“B-but. . .”

“I'd bet good money on you already having made yourself several enemies. And not just any enemies. I'm talking people who hate you so much that they want to kill you,” Suema said, the softness of her tone contrasting with the harshness of her words.

“. . . . . . . . . . . .” Aya was floored. She could form no answer. Her mouth opened, but barely formed words. “Wh-what. . . do you. . . ?”

“That's the way things are,” Suema said, answering without really answering. Yet it sounded awfully convincing. She continued, “The very idea of living without being hated is detestable. You may not mean it that way, but trying to not be hated is like violating another's right to hate you. See what I mean?
You're
the one hurting
them
,” she said, heatedly.

“. . . . . . .” Aya simply stared back at her. Suema's gaze never wavered.

“Not to change the subject or anything, but have you ever heard of a writer named Kirima Seiichi?” Suema asked.

“Huh?” Aya snapped out of it.

Suema nodded, “Well, he's a novelist, though, uh, I still haven't gotten to actually reading any of his fiction stuff. Anyway, in one of his psychology books, he wrote: 'There certainly is
something
out there. Something that makes people believe that they have to know their place in life. This knowledge gets in between people, and rocks the very foundations of this world.”' Suema spouted this quote off smoothly from memory. She thought it was perfectly normal, but her ability to produce things like this at the drop of a hat was one reason other people were so creeped out by her. She remained pretty oblivious to that, though. “' . . . lf there is anything that gives value to human life, it is the struggle with that “something.” In the battle with the Imaginator that does your thinking for you --
VS Imaginator
is the starting line on which all humans must stand.' Which is pretty hard to grasp, I know, but the point is, humans are all bound by the chains of common sense far more than we realize, and this is what makes us suffer.”

“Chains. . . ?”

“Right. If we're bound by something, we've got to cut ourselves loose; that's what he's going on about.” Suema spoke of this writer like most people do when using a friend as an example.

“I'm sure you have something you have to do, something that you can't live without doing. I'm not gonna ask you what that is, but that boy who likes you. . . he doesn't want you to be tying yourself into knots like this. That much I'm sure of.”

“Yes,” Aya nodded, hooked on Suema's words.

Suema grinned. “This is gonna sound pretty pompous, but I really think you're missing the concept of that 'struggle.' And you really need to get that.”

“Yes. . .” she replied. But how could she get it?

Aya just gritted her teeth. She knew this girl was right.

“You can die after you fight. For now, let's get down from here. You're a new student, right?”

“Yes, I am. . .”

“Oh, no! The orientations have already started! We'd better hurry!”

I grabbed her hand and led her down from the roof.

When we reached the ground, she turned to me and bowed.

“Thank you. I don't know if I can do anything, but I'm going to try,” she said.

I was a little flustered. I'm not really the best person to be dispensing life counseling. I'm more of the type to receive it. Yet it seemed like something I said must've sunken in.

“Yeah. . . sorry for rambling on like that,” I said, honestly.

She shook her head. “No. . . um, sempai. . . ?”

“Yes?”

“If the one I have to fight is Boogiepop, then should I still fight?” she asked, deadly serious.

Naturally, I replied, “Absolutely.” I knew nothing about her, but I was making sweeping declarations.

“Thank you,” she said again, and turned and ran.

Suddenly I realized something, and called after her, “What's your name?”

“Orihata Aya,” she said, stopping, and bowing once more.

“Good luck, Orihata-san,” I waved.

And for some reason, I had the strangest feeling that I would meet her again. I don't know how I knew this, but the sharp pain in my chest said I would.

There's something called pop culture. It's made up of novels, and manga, and movies, and games, and music, and just about anything else, really. Art? Nah, that's a little, you know, too artsy. Frankly, pop culture is a bit better at rocking people emotionally than the better chunk of the so-called fine arts. The sole standard of judgment in pop culture is the ludicrously simple concept of “what sells wins,” which is nice and honest. Sells is sort of an “enh” term to me, so let's say that it finds an audience. It's a very pop culture thing to establish yourself by finding an audience. Which is true, and I tell people this, but I bet they'd say everything works that way, but in our world, there are things that are just so damn good no matter what other people say. And that sort of thing is not called pop culture. No, that's known as a lost masterpiece, or a legendary performance, or by all sorts of other names. It's not that these things aren't great -- they just aren't pop.

I'm saying this in full knowledge that it might be misunderstood, but most pop culture is kind of half-assed. “The real thing is stuff, so fake stuff is better.” Is that logical? People fully capable of making something real are deliberately pulling back and putting out something fake. What does this tell us? Thinking about that scares me, so I'm not going to, but this very half-assed approach is also sort of “blowing away the petrified past and opening a path to the future.” (Nobody's got any idea of what I'm talking about, right?) (Okay.)

The best thing about pop culture is how hard it is to achieve any kind of legitimacy. It's not that it never earns it, but it's pretty rare. Something that was king of the hill a moment before is cast onto the compost heap a second later, while something that was long ago pronounced dated is resurrected and declared, “Innovative!” “Why did those idiots forget about this?” That's what pop is. It's pretty crazy, but within that whirlpool you do get a sense of a certain kind of necessity. Something appears, becomes huge, and then explodes, and is gone completely. Like a bubble. . . with a pop. Hmm, a fitting name. There's no cheap trick to get something established. A novel might win some big award, but that doesn't have the least bit of effect on sales.

To be perfectly honest, my own tastes have always been a bit disconnected from my generation. I'm the least pop person ever. I'm running around listening to stuff from twenty years ago, thirty years ago, screaming, “Awesome!”, reading books from fifty years ago and shouting, “Coool!” Yes, that kind of guy. These things aren't connecting to the pop of today at all; the only one getting excited is me. I'm a little worried about that. As someone who's trying somehow to make a living as a novelist, naturally I'm worried, and I'm trying to make myself more pop, but it just isn't working. As I can imagine that you can tell from the general tone of this essay, I admire pop and I have a sort of complex about it, really. But since my personality's gone and twisted itself, with everything I make people say, “Well. . . it's unique,” or “Is this supposed to be funny?” And they usually follow it up with, “Well, we can't publish it. . .” They're still saying it, even now.