Itsuki
I was six the first time I held a knife.
Not to cut food.Not for fun.They handed it to me with a serious look,like it was normal.Like it was a toy I'd eventually outgrow.It was cold.Heavier than I expected.I remember that clearly.
The man in front of me was shaking.He was tied to a chair,head down,like he'd already given up.
I didn't ask who he was.I didn't even ask why I had to do it.
I just looked at my father.
"You're a Kurozawa,"he said."Don't make me disappointed."
I didn't cry.I didn't scream.I didn't feel anything, not even afterward.I just did it.Because that's what they taught me
don't think, don't feel, don't hesitate.
They praised me.Said I did well.I got a new coat and a plate of my favorite food that night.
Like it was some kind of reward.
But I didn't sleep.
I just kept staring at my hands. Wondering if they'd always feel this dirty.
I'm older now. A little taller.A little colder.
I don't talk much.I don't trust people.
I left home last year without saying goodbye.
Not because I was scared.
But because I finally understood what it meant to be alive—and I realized I never really was.