Painting was a life destined for him, a life that was set for him before he could even remember. He existed only to paint. And now, no longer able to express himself through painting, he attempted to reject his own existence.
He was now nothing more than a portion of what Ikuma Ichiyo was worth. He could not communicate, nor was he allowed to defy.
In grade school, after school was out in the afternoon, while his classmates would go out to play, Daiki would head straight home. That was because Ichiyo forbade him to play with his friends. Ichiyo reasoned that consorting with his peers would result in the loss of his artistic sensitivity. Or he could even get hurt. So Daiki was forbidden from participating in the normal activities children around him got to enjoy.
At first, drawing was a purely enjoyable pastime. But it gradually became painful for Daiki.
He pretended to look down on his classmates, but, in truth, he envied them for being able to go to cram school and do other extracurricular studies. Those otherwise ordinary activities were enviable to him, even if the others complained that they were such a bore.
The strain of coercion, the difficulties—he tried to forget those by drawing.
There was also the presence of Ichiyo. Whether it was trying to live up to his father’s expectations or trying to win his praise, those things began to loom above Daiki—too large, too heavy—and began to tear at his heart.
When he drew to his heart’s content, he was rejected and told it would never be accepted. When he was certain he could satisfy Ichiyo and joyfully showed off his work, he was told harshly it was a “useless” drawing. He was taught to suppress his visions, thoughts and feelings, and was required to produce universally acclaimed paintings that were guaranteed to win awards.
In order to escape from the pain, he suppressed his emotions, performed automatically—like a machine—held no interest in anybody, and simply waited for time to pass by. He sacrificed the things he wanted most. In so doing, he acquired superb painting skills.
After winning several awards, he was granted the opportunity to hold his first exhibition, one that was to be sponsored by a major publishing company. Still, it wasn’t something he found fulfillment in. He was unable to smile from the bottom of his heart.
This is a crappy life. A worthless world. This is my reality. And this is the only reality I have. This must be… some kind of karmic revenge, Daiki reasoned. I should never have been born. This must be revenge.
✦ ✦ ✦
“—Ikuma.”
It was break period. Daiki stood up to go to science class, when someone tapped him on the back. Turning back, he saw two of his male classmates looking at him with smirks on their faces. Behind them were several other boys and girls, all looking towards Daiki. Perhaps they wanted to talk to him and these two were their representatives.
The one who had tapped Daiki spoke up.
“Hey you, you’re going to do some kind of art exhibition soon, right? I heard you got interviewed on TV or something. Is that for real?”
“Well, yeah…” Daiki replied.
“You were always good at art. Come to think of it, that’s your painting hanging on the wall of the principal’s office, isn’t it?”
“…Yeah…” Daiki nodded vaguely.
The boy talking wasn’t exactly a complete stranger. But on the other hand, the boy had never approached him in such a friendly manner before. In any case, Daiki decided the best thing to do would be to give a short answer which would probably be enough to satisfy them.
“Of course,” the boy continued, “your dad is pretty famous, isn’t he? So, with you being his son and all…”
Daiki shot him a severe look. Although the boy was the same age as Daiki, he wilted under that powerful glare. Daiki, on the other hand, had lost patience with the conversation. He turned his back and left the classroom.
—Slam!
The abrupt sound of the door slamming shut echoed throughout the room.
You’re all full of crap, he thought angrily. So what if my father is famous? Is an apology all I’m good for?
His furious steps mirrored the thoughts whirling violently through his mind. He already knew he would never be better than his father. Yet, nobody understood him. There was no one who understood his worth.
Well, that figures, he told himself. I have no worth anyway.
He again questioned his existence and what he was doing.
Living in this worthless world, am I, too, worthless? No, that can’t be. There must be a way out.
He knew if there was one thing in the world that could save him, it was that place.
After Daiki stormed out of the classroom, the group that had been watching joined the two who had approached him. They all wore the same kind of irritated expressions on their faces.
“What the hell’s with that guy?” one of them asked.
“He always did get on my nerves.”
“That’s just plain rude,” another stated. “What’s up with him?”
“All we wanted was to ask about his art.”
“Whatever, he can just roll over and die,” declared another.
“Come to think of it,” a girl said, suddenly remembering something, “I heard this from someone who went to grade school with him. You know that building where that junior high kid jumped? He said he’s seen Ikuma go into that building a few times.”
“For real?”
“What’s up with that?”
“Dumbass. Maybe he’s a freak who’s into that sort of thing, or…”
“Or?”
“Maybe he wants to kill himself?”
“Whoa, could be. He sure is gloomy and depressing enough.”
“Well, if he would just hurry up and die, then he wouldn’t be such a pain in the ass anymore.”
“Got that right.”
At this, they all laughed loudly, with mouths wide open and hands clapping. Here was an environment where people laughed about another person’s death.
✦ ✦ ✦
On that day, what did the boy feel?
What was he thinking?
How did he make himself jump?
Daiki was again climbing to the top of the building. The ninth floor had not changed since he had visited a few days ago. He had been a bit hesitant to come back, ever since that day. He had tried to forget the “dream” because it was too fantastic, and if he didn’t, it might just become real.
This place still gave him comfort. It was a bittersweet, melancholy feeling, as if he had returned to the place that had given birth to him. When he was here, he felt as if he could understand what the boy had thought and seen. He felt as if he could fuse and be one with the boy.
Usually, it was that way. But today was different.
He couldn’t empathize with the boy. He couldn’t feel anything. The poems the boy had left behind ceased to tell him things. It was because of that “dream.” Because it had stirred up his reality.
He stared intently, in an attempt to summon forth the words from the ash-colored walls. He mumbled the words that used to appear before his eyes as if they were a song.
“Crap. Crap. Crap…”
The landscape at dusk. The black sketches. The color of blood on his dirty hands. Black lines. The torn drawing. The word “crap.”
It was a drawing of a worthless world. Of course it was worth crap.
If you can’t understand that, Daiki told himself, you’re full of even more crap.
“Crap. Crap. Crap…”
The words were like an ink brush that drew an enormous picture in Daiki’s mind. And finally, the fusion began anew. An irrepressible surge ran throughout his body.
Yes. This is my revenge.
He sought vengeance against the meaning of his birth. Vengeance against himself.
To say it was about expressing himself, to express his feelings, was all just an excuse.
If you’re going to call it art, then I will throw it away. I will erase everything. And this drawing… me, myself. I will be the art.
Just as the boy had become “poetry,” in the same manner, Daiki himself would become a “picture.” That would be his supreme, most magnificent, final work of art.
Daiki opened the window and climbed onto the windowsill. Leaning half of his body outside, he stood up. In his heart, just as an orchestra conductor waves his baton, he brandished his brush.
He began to sketch the black drawing his father had told him never to draw again. In the drawing was a tall, tall tower that reached up to the heavens. A tower that pierced the sky.
If I have no wings, then I’ll just climb up instead.
He would become the boy on that fateful day, and he would feel as the boy had once felt, standing here one year ago. He had only been alive for 14 years, yet he had seen the end of the world.
Life is crap. He spat on all landscapes. Who would try to stop the boy’s flight now?
“And now,” Daiki said, “I, too, will fly.”
Go to the extreme, to the highest height. Nobody can stop him now. Not even the harbinger of death, that shinigami.
Shinigami? He stopped, sweat pouring from everywhere on his body.
“…No… It was only a dream…”
He didn’t even have to turn around to know.
—Ring.
“The death you yearn for… will not come like that. Didn’t I tell you?”
The little girl stood there.