Happy Life
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Futaba sat at a table in room 402, arranging all her weapons in a row in front of her, checking and caring for each one in turn. A cigarette forgotten in the corner of her mouth gradually turned to ash, which she sometimes flicked into an empty tin can, and sometimes forgot, and the flakes fell directly onto the table. Although there were no specific rules about smoking in the school, it probably wasn't a good idea to do it right in the room, but at that point, she didn't care anymore. She was alone in the room, and anyone who wanted to could go to Aoki and complain to the principal.
The weapons didn't actually require any maintenance. They were rarely used, and this ritual had been happening often lately – simply to have something meditative to occupy her hands and mind. Now, even the battered, half-rusted club looked like a work of art that could be displayed in Ira's arsenal at a price above average.
The importance of the ritual lay in self-reflection, in the abyss into which Futaba had been forcibly thrown by life's circumstances. As she revealed more and more episodes of otherworldly horrors in her mind, she was beginning to have difficulty determining what of her given life experiences was actually real, and what was a sick fantasy of her captors. She didn't trust anything she could see in her dreams, first because of the surreal nature of what was happening, and second, because of the feeling of disorientation in time and space. When did all these events happen? Where? In chronological order? Last week, the week before, or maybe today? Whoever they were, the freaks were enjoying their impunity, obviously trying to drive the hostage into a state of helplessness and despair. The last vision, with her supposed schoolmates, of whom she could only vaguely remember Bella, was supposed to have a strong effect, but it only raised more questions. Of course, despite all her acquired asociality and hostility towards the world, the vision caused discomfort and cold rage in Futaba. Who did these bastards think they were, that they could chain someone who had nothing to do with all this? Why do it, and why show it? Obviously, to sow emotions of horror, guilt, and despair. But the situation looked too strange and had no direct explanation, so it was just as easy to dismiss it – who knows what is real and what is fabricated by the enemies? Magic, dreams, curses, and other nonsense are not something to believe in unconditionally, with your mouth open, if you have at least a couple of brain cells. Perhaps it was all just a strange interpretation of a dream by her consciousness. Even the disappearance of the class teacher and the principal – which seemed to be direct confirmation of what she had heard – could very well be just the phenomenon that her brain added to the events of the nightmare. Not that she seriously believed that, closing her eyes to what was happening and seeking solace in self-deception, but these possibilities existed, and such rationalization allowed her to stay grounded for the time being.
What was definitely real was the existence and involvement of Mudilushka, who was the anchor of common sense in the unstable reality of the curse. No matter how many layers of deception there were in this pile of manure, there was a stone at its bottom that the shovel would hit sooner or later – you just need to determine from which side to start digging. To some extent, this role of his even slightly raised him on the scale of affection to the level of a bedbug, compared to his previous record lows.
Nevertheless, what to do in all of this remained unclear. Continue to endure torture, without being able to leave this limbo and gradually going insane, in the hope that it will end someday? Or stir up public panic, which she was warned against, but which they continue to provoke? Or perhaps take more radical measures? The question remained open.
One day, she turns to Barbarian:
- My biorhythms have shifted a bit. It's normal in the summer. I'll go to bed earlier and get up earlier. Just around the time you usually go to bed. But you won't bother me; you can do your homework, or read, or whatever you usually do in the evenings.
The weapons didn't actually require any maintenance. They were rarely used, and this ritual had been happening often lately – simply to have something meditative to occupy her hands and mind. Now, even the battered, half-rusted club looked like a work of art that could be displayed in Ira's arsenal at a price above average.
The importance of the ritual lay in self-reflection, in the abyss into which Futaba had been forcibly thrown by life's circumstances. As she revealed more and more episodes of otherworldly horrors in her mind, she was beginning to have difficulty determining what of her given life experiences was actually real, and what was a sick fantasy of her captors. She didn't trust anything she could see in her dreams, first because of the surreal nature of what was happening, and second, because of the feeling of disorientation in time and space. When did all these events happen? Where? In chronological order? Last week, the week before, or maybe today? Whoever they were, the freaks were enjoying their impunity, obviously trying to drive the hostage into a state of helplessness and despair. The last vision, with her supposed schoolmates, of whom she could only vaguely remember Bella, was supposed to have a strong effect, but it only raised more questions. Of course, despite all her acquired asociality and hostility towards the world, the vision caused discomfort and cold rage in Futaba. Who did these bastards think they were, that they could chain someone who had nothing to do with all this? Why do it, and why show it? Obviously, to sow emotions of horror, guilt, and despair. But the situation looked too strange and had no direct explanation, so it was just as easy to dismiss it – who knows what is real and what is fabricated by the enemies? Magic, dreams, curses, and other nonsense are not something to believe in unconditionally, with your mouth open, if you have at least a couple of brain cells. Perhaps it was all just a strange interpretation of a dream by her consciousness. Even the disappearance of the class teacher and the principal – which seemed to be direct confirmation of what she had heard – could very well be just the phenomenon that her brain added to the events of the nightmare. Not that she seriously believed that, closing her eyes to what was happening and seeking solace in self-deception, but these possibilities existed, and such rationalization allowed her to stay grounded for the time being.
What was definitely real was the existence and involvement of Mudilushka, who was the anchor of common sense in the unstable reality of the curse. No matter how many layers of deception there were in this pile of manure, there was a stone at its bottom that the shovel would hit sooner or later – you just need to determine from which side to start digging. To some extent, this role of his even slightly raised him on the scale of affection to the level of a bedbug, compared to his previous record lows.
Nevertheless, what to do in all of this remained unclear. Continue to endure torture, without being able to leave this limbo and gradually going insane, in the hope that it will end someday? Or stir up public panic, which she was warned against, but which they continue to provoke? Or perhaps take more radical measures? The question remained open.
One day, she turns to Barbarian:
- My biorhythms have shifted a bit. It's normal in the summer. I'll go to bed earlier and get up earlier. Just around the time you usually go to bed. But you won't bother me; you can do your homework, or read, or whatever you usually do in the evenings.
My sword, my trusted ally, unphased by my aspect.
