บท 57: Moving Forward
The television, flickering with a soft, eerie glow, began to broadcast a series of audio recordings. Each voice emanated from the small speaker, weaving a tapestry of perspectives about Mizahara's life and the quiet, yet turbulent town she called home. It was as if the very soul of the town was speaking, pouring out memories and judgments, each tinged with personal truth and bias.
"She was a troubled child," an elderly woman's voice crackled through the static, carrying the weight of years gone by. "I wanted to help her, truly I did. But the stigma that clung to her, like a shadow that never fades, held me back. The fear of that invisible mark upon her life kept me at bay. If only she had found just one genuine friend, someone to pull her from that path she stumbled upon. It is a regret that will haunt me for the rest of my days."
Another voice, this time a grizzled, bitter man, broke through, harsh and unforgiving. "That girl was the devil incarnate, I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on her. It was only a matter of time before she snapped and turned on us all. That family is a curse upon this town, a dark cloud that brings nothing but misfortune. They need to leave, to be gone from our lives. We should burn down that cursed house they lived in, cleanse this place of their presence. Only then can we hope to be free from the shadow they cast."
"Mizahara? That weirdo from two houses down? Yeah, they left, and yeah I was from that school. She nearly killed people that day, and I hear that person who bullied her is now mostly disabled. I don't know if I should say she deserved it or not but, she and her group of bullies stopped tormenting people…no, most bullies stopped, knowing something like that might happen again," said a young man's voice.
The murmurs of disdain for Mizahara grew louder, spreading like a dark fog through the town that had never truly accepted her. Every new voice added to the collective condemnation, deepening the sense of alienation and rejection she had felt all her life.
For a full thirty minutes, the recording played on, an endless litany of criticism and harsh judgments, until finally, it came to an end. Silence hung in the air for a moment before the screen shifted, and two video files began to play in succession.
The first video was from that fateful day, captured on a student's phone, a shaky testament to the cruelty that had unfolded. The scene came into focus, showing the classroom bathed in the harsh fluorescent light. Mizahara sat quietly at her desk, lost in her own thoughts, oblivious to the malice brewing around her. She was an island of tranquility in a sea of unrest.
Then, without warning, a student approached, carrying a bucket filled with a vile concoction. The bully, eyes glinting with malevolent glee, lifted the bucket and, with a swift, heartless motion, dumped its contents over Mizahara. The liquid cascaded over her, drenching her completely.
For a moment, the room was suspended in stunned silence. The cruel act hung in the air like a bitter fog, choking the breath from those who witnessed it. A few students began to laugh, their cruel giggles echoing like shards of broken glass, while most looked on with a mix of pity and helplessness, their eyes betraying their silent complicity.
Then, in an unexpected turn, Mizahara rose from her seat. She stood up slowly, her movements deliberate and calm, as if she were performing a sacred ritual. She did not utter a single word. Her silence was profound, a deep well of emotion that words could never capture. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something, anything, to break the tension.
In a voice dripping with contempt, the bully sneered, "What's wrong? Are you going to do something?" With a sharp, derisive push, she shoved Mizahara. What happened next was almost beyond comprehension. In a sudden, fluid motion, Mizahara seized her chair and swung it with all her might. The impact was brutal, sending the bully crashing to the ground.
But Mizahara's actions did not end there. The scene that unfolded was exactly what Yasushi, Jingliu, and Xinyi had read about, yet witnessing it brought a new, visceral horror. The sounds accompanying the violence were sickening — the dull thud of the chair, the desperate screams of the bully pleading for mercy. Mizahara, however, seemed beyond hearing, beyond any reach of compassion or reason. She continued her assault relentlessly, each swing of the chair punctuated by the bully's cries, which eventually faded into a chilling silence as she lay motionless.
The video did not end with this gruesome act. Instead, it captured Mizahara turning her fury onto those around her, her face a mask of unrelenting rage. When the screen finally went black, there was a collective sigh of relief, only to be replaced by a new video. This one featured Mizahara's uncle, Reiji, a man with a stern, inscrutable expression.
"Is this...?" Yasushi began, his voice trailing off as he turned to Yinhaie, the question hanging in the air, laden with unspoken dread.
"We tracked him down in another country. He was hiding away in Germany, of all places," Yinhaie confessed, her voice carrying a strange mix of satisfaction and unease. "We... essentially kidnapped him and forced him to confess. We had to employ some rather... persuasive threats." A peculiar smile danced on her lips as she spoke.
Yasushi, absorbing this unsettling revelation, nodded slowly and turned his attention back to the TV screen. The image of Mizahara's uncle, Reiji, filled the screen. His face was a mask of despair, his hands clutching his head as he began to sob uncontrollably.
"Yes! Yes! God damn it! I did all of it!" Reiji screamed, his voice cracking with a mixture of anguish and madness. "I started the rumors that spread like wildfire about her. I fed all those lies to everyone in that cursed town. I even groomed Mizahara to be my perfect little wife!" His confession descended into maniacal laughter, a sound so hollow and chilling it seemed to echo through the room.
He looked up at the camera, his eyes wild, tears streaming down his face, his expression twisted with a crazed fervor. "I was given this body, this life, and yet I was shunned because I was a little... unique! If I couldn't get a wife the normal way, then I would do it my way! I only came to this country to earn money and then we would have our happily-ever-after when I went back. But now... now that dream is shattered! God damn it! Give back my perfect life that I was working towards!!" His voice grew more hysterical with each word, each syllable dripping with desperation.
With a sudden, violent movement, Reiji got up and lunged at the people around him. The recording cut off abruptly, leaving the room in a heavy, oppressive silence.
"We don't know if any of this will make a difference, but we've done all we can," Yinhaie explained, her voice tinged with a resignation that seemed to echo through the room. She glanced around at the group, their silence heavy and oppressive. "We've sent this to the authorities, to Mizahara's parents, and to other relatives. Now we wait to see if they have a case. That's all we can do."
The room remained hushed, the gravity of the situation sinking into everyone present. Yasushi broke the silence with a question that seemed to cut through the air like a knife. "Who's to blame? Mizahara? Her parents? Reiji? The town? The police? The bullies? Or do we lay the blame at everyone's feet for this colossal tragedy?" His words hung in the air, drawing the gaze of everyone in the room toward him.
Jingliu, her expression marked by a deep, sorrowful frown, spoke up after a moment's contemplation. "If we examine the situation logically, then it becomes clear that everyone had a role to play in this tragedy, everyone except Mizahara — at least until she snapped. Even then, in my opinion, she wasn't entirely at fault until the point she began committing those murders," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Her parents failed her. They failed to protect her from her uncle, from the relentless bullying. They failed to spend the time with her that she so desperately needed."
Jingliu paused, the sadness in her eyes deepening. "Her uncle, Reiji, manipulated and tormented her, planting seeds of pain and confusion. The town, with its cruel whispers and baseless rumors, isolated her further. The police, who should have intervened, did nothing. And the bullies, they pushed her to the edge with their relentless cruelty. In the end, it was a confluence of failures, each one contributing to the final, horrific outcome. Mizahara's actions were the tragic response of a broken soul, driven to the brink by a world that offered no refuge."
As her words settled over the room, the weight of collective guilt and responsibility became almost tangible. It was a sobering realization that the tragedy could have been averted at so many points, had anyone chosen to act differently. The group sat in somber silence, each person lost in their own thoughts, reflecting on the roles they played in the unfolding of such a heartbreaking story.
Yasushi turned his gaze to Yinhaie, his expression a mix of concern and anticipation. "What will happen to her now?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"A trial will take place," Yinhaie responded, her tone measured and thoughtful. "We've submitted everything we uncovered, all the evidence and testimony. Hopefully, this will help in mitigating her sentence, given that there were numerous points where intervention could have prevented this tragedy. There is a possibility that you and your group may be called upon to participate in the proceedings, but at this moment, I cannot say for certain."
The gravity of her words sank in, and the group collectively nodded, each person processing the weight of the situation. The room remained silent, the air thick with unspoken thoughts and emotions. The meeting drew to a close, but the atmosphere was heavy with contemplation and sorrow.
+-+
Hours had slipped by unnoticed, and Yasushi found himself lying on his bed, his body relaxed but his mind restless. His fingers danced absentmindedly over the screen of his phone, the glowing device providing a semblance of distraction. Yet, his thoughts remained tethered to the recent events that had shaken his world. Every so often, his gaze would drift to his injured hand, the bandaged reminder of the turmoil that had unfolded.
The quiet creak of the door broke the silence of his room. Jingliu entered, carrying her pillow, and softly closed the door behind her. Without a word, she crawled onto the bed and nestled close to Yasushi, resting her head gently on his chest. Her fingers began to trace delicate patterns over his injured hand, a silent gesture of comfort and connection.
After a prolonged silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic sound of their breathing, Jingliu spoke. "We'll be moving tomorrow, you remember that, right?" Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if she were intruding on his thoughts.
Yasushi set his phone aside and turned his attention to her. "Oh…right, the new house," he said, his tone revealing a trace of forgetfulness. "I kind of forgot about that. I don't know how much help I'll be, though," he added, glancing down at his injured hand with a mix of frustration and resignation.
"It's fine," Jingliu reassured him, her voice soothing. "Yinhaie and everyone else will handle the heavy lifting. She mentioned that we should go there early to inspect the house as thoroughly as we can. Everything is already furnished, and we're the last ones to move in, except for our personal belongings," she explained, her fingers continuing their gentle, comforting movements over his hand.
"I see," Yasushi murmured, drawing himself closer to Jingliu, seeking solace in their shared warmth. The room fell into another round of silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts, the weight of the day's revelations pressing heavily upon them.
Jingliu broke the silence, her voice tentative yet probing, "How do you feel about what happened with Mizahara?"
Yasushi took a moment before responding, his thoughts carefully forming into words. "It was unfair. Her life was a series of misfortunes and cruelties, and in the end, she resorted to those killings, thinking she could change the world somehow. She desperately needs professional help because the things she endured have shattered her mind. I don't know if she'll ever truly recover, so..." His voice trailed off, leaving the unspoken thoughts hanging in the air.
Jingliu nodded thoughtfully, her eyes reflecting a mixture of empathy and exhaustion. She looked up at him, her expression silently pleading for the day's end, for the embrace of sleep to take them away from the harsh reality for a few hours.
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Haruki_Murakami
Haruki_Murakami "Berra ma tkulshi, wa hakkem 3lik berra." -Moroccan proverb in Arabic
"Stay in your place, and let it rule over you."
Meaning: This proverb advises against overstepping boundaries or interfering in matters beyond one's control, advocating for humility and acceptance of one's circumstances.
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