Chapter Text
Prologue
Tick, tock, tick, tock…
The clock’s pendulum beats back and forth. I tilt my head in tune with the rhythm – left, right, left, right. A bit of stress washes away. Maybe I’m calm enough to take a look around. The bookshelf is neatly arranged, rays of sunlight peak through the blinds, a likely artificial potted plant sits in the corner, there’s no chair behind the desk across from me, and a pink-and-white, plush rabbit leans against the desk’s letter tray. All of it has been fine-tuned to comfort the patients spending their time here. That’s hardly a clever deduction, knowing this is a social worker’s office. I check the time. It’s 10:37 am. She’s late. I sink into the couch cushion beneath me.
Groan, my headache still hasn’t gone away. I reach into my satchel to grab some painkillers and a bottle of water. I wash another pill down. I set the bottle on the table between me and the desk, next to a bowl of prepackaged snack foods. With nothing else to keep my mind occupied, my attention drifts to my gloved hands. Grandpa bought me these peccary leather gloves, custom-made to fit perfectly around my wrists. He spared no expense for his “little detective’s” favourite birthday gift.
A faint smell of dried blood lingers on them. I stare at my right hand. I undo the clasp and wince as I delicately slide the glove off. The bandages only helped so much; making a fist still takes some effort. My hand looks like I jammed it in a food processor. The physical scars will heal, but in my head, I can still hear crying and shouting. I glimpse the faces of people I called “friends” on the back of my eyelids. Will I ever stop thinking about them? Will I ever stop wondering how much their families will miss them? Will I ever stop mourning their unrealized hopes and dreams?
Hope… That word makes me feel sick now. Eugh, I never want to hear anything about “hope” or “despair” again. I know I should feel sad or angry right now, but my chest just feels hollow. A certain voice intrudes on my thoughts…
“…If fate had never plunged you into despair, would you have found the hope you desperately needed?”
A sudden noise pulls me away from my racing thoughts. The small motor above the door whirrs as it opens. I hastily put my glove back on, the lining rubbing against the scabs. I gasp in pain and bite my lip. A woman with a blanket covering her legs rolls in. She leaves her scarf and coat on the hanger by the doorway. She sits at her desk, then reaches behind her wheelchair and retrieves her laptop. After taking a moment to organize her screen, she moves it aside and looks over at me. “My sincere apologies for my late arrival. My name is Doctor Gekkogahara Miaya. I will be counselling you starting today. Do you have questions before we begin, Kirigiri-san?”
“Are you seeing the other survivors too?”
“Indeed, though you’re the first I’m meeting with. I figured your memory might be the least confused, trusting Chief Sakakura’s assurances. I must say, your reputation certainly precedes you among the city’s law enforcement.”
“They think quite highly of me, don’t they? Too highly, perhaps. I’m just… a high school student.”
“Your modesty is admirable, Kirigiri-san. The thought of a young girl witnessing such brutality gives me chills. The police sent me some pictures from their investigation and,” she clicks her mouse a few times, then suddenly averts her eyes, “they’re difficult to stomach. The media hasn’t been told much yet, since there’s hardly anything to tell them. For an outsider, everything about this incident is just… incomprehensible. So, that’s why you’re here.”
“To interrogate me?”
“Interrogate is a… strong word. ‘Questioning,’ done with a therapist’s gentle touch, might be more appropriate. But before I can help you recover, I need to know what you’re recovering from. Are you ready to begin?” She waits for a response. The thought of saying something, anything, crosses my mind, but I can’t bring myself to speak. I lean forward and stare off into empty space.
“That’s okay, Kirigiri-san, take all the time you need. I’m glad to see you’ve had some of the snacks I left out.” She picks the plush rabbit up and holds it out. “You can have this too, if a comfort object would help keep you calm.” I tilt my head up slightly, enough to make eye contact. “I’ll only be making a record of your words. No need to worry about anyone finding out.” Swallowing my pride, I held the childish-looking toy in my lap. I imagine it would feel soft, if my fingers still had healthy nerve endings. I rub its fur against my cheek instead.
“Could you try recounting the events of those two weeks? What was the Tragedy of Hope’s Peak Academy?”
“Is that what they’re calling it?”
“Yes; ‘tragedy’ seems fitting enough, for lack of a better name. How would you describe it?”
“We were… We were forced to kill each other… He called it a game.”
“Come again…?” She lifted her hands from the keyboard, her eyes widening.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head and gently squeeze the toy. “It’s a long story. I should start at the very beginning…”