A Dead Princess, And The One She Left Behind

It has been two years since whatever happened, happened. People say time will make you grow numb to your pain, and it’ll just go away if you let it heal. I think what they’re saying has some sort of value and truth to it. After two years of therapy and swallowing pills, I have finally grown numb to my pain, just as they told me I would; but it’s not like I’ve forgotten about it, but more like I’m too tired to feel anything for anything.

For everything.

After we made our contract, Naomi paid all my debts that very week without telling me anything; and therefore, all the money I had earned with the illusion of paying my non-existent debt to the bank and the people we were legally indebted to, was left to my own personal use after her death. I used that money to rent a small place far away from hers, enter the same university she used to go to, and study literature; the same major she used to study, in order to figure something out about her.

Evidently, this girl had no friends, or anyone here who would give a crap about her or whether she was around or not. After asking around on my first day, I realized that nobody even knew about her. She was just the lone existence, that didn’t even exist. No; she existed, but just wasn’t there. She had no presence, despite being always present.

She was there, but she wasn’t; until she no longer was.

A girl named Naomi Mitaki, was an unknown creature; A myth.

An invisible ghost nobody knew about.

A s I push my memories back to the hole they crawled out of, I find the random place in the middle of the lecture room I chose at the beginning of the term, and sit down, keeping the longest distance possible from the crowd, since most of them were either front-row people, or the back-of-the-class type. I don’t really mix well with others, and I don’t really mind doing so. Our mindsets don’t really match, and those whose mindsets differ, end up…

“Good morning, sunshine.” The bothersome human bellows, as she sits down on the seat next to me on my left side. The one that has been pestering me since I first ended up here, and even years before that.

“How are you doing today?” She repeats for the fourth time in a row.

“Leave me alone, Sonny.” Sonny. Pronounced like Sunny, just as bright as she is; maybe even brighter.

She’s too bright to be real, and yet, too real to be fake… Or so she seems. But I already know how fake she is. As much as I hate to call her a nice girl, there’s literally nothing else I can call her. No label I can give her. No group I can lump her in with and no trope I can categorize her as. That's just all I can call her; but my categorization won't make her personality absolute.

“Leave me alone, you say; and yet, you never punch my presence away.”

“I can punch you if you really want to.”

“I didn’t mean it in a literal way; and would you really want to beat up a fragile lady?” The sad truth is, I’m actually thinking about it, and she’s anything but a fragile lady. If anything, she would probably win if we ever have a fight. “I wish you would turn into a bug so I can crush you with my shoe.” I try my hardest not to punch her human form and fantasize about stepping on her bug form several times. It satisfies me temporarily.

“Turn into a bug, huh? Was that a Metamorphosis reference? If it was, then it felt really forced. I expect more from you.” Metamorphosis; a short novel written by the European author Franz Kafka, in which a person gets turned into a bug for no specific reason.

He just does. He just is; and we get to see the world through the eyes of a roach throughout the entirety of the novel.

Even though she looks like she spends her nights at parties, Sonny is quite informative. She knows her stuff.

“Yes. It was a Metamorphosis reference. I’m quite surprised an idiot like you actually had an inkling of what Iwas referencing.”

“You really enjoy insulting me, don’t you?” Her eyes land on mine. I look away, as I always do. She follows my eyes, as she always does.

“Do you really wish for someone as dazzling as me to be turned into a hideous roach?”

“You already are a black, hideous roach.”

“That was racist.” Sonny isn’t even dark-skinned. She’s just a bit tanned; a curtsy of the solarium she frequents at times. But she still takes offense for some reason, which is why I keep stabbing her like this. I guess similar to two elementary school students, her annoyed reactions simply make me want to irritate her even more.

“It was meant to be. Insulting your entire existence is the only reason I have in my life.” My comeback was met with a disgusted, apathetic frown; one a princess would give to a mere peasant. That glare transforms into a quizzical gaze of intrigue, from which I hide away by crossing my legs and opening my bag, to distract myself with my belongings. I know that look; it’s the one she wears when she wants to ask something. I need to look like I’m busy before she starts telling tales once more.

My belongings. Books, pencils, pens, a laptop, a phone charger…

And a torn diary.

“Hey! why are you studying literature here?” It seems like my acting wasn’t convincing enough. Sonny avoids my insults, as she always does, and asks me odd questions, as she always does. I exasperate a sigh, as I always do. She flashes a world-beating grin, as she always does.

“I don’t know. It just happened one day.”

“Are you sure about that? There are plenty of people here who like what they study.” Her right leg hits my left leg, which is a quirk I’ve gotten quite used to. Sonny has been sitting next to me for years, and she swings her legs this way and that way like Newton’s cradle whenever she gets interested in something, or stressed out by something. And just like Newton’s cradle, it keeps on, going for a long time. She just can’t control it.

“Well, unlike many people, I didn’t come here to pursue my dreams.”

“You’re right. Judging by your attitude towards every particle of this place, I’d say you were here to pursue your nightmares.”

I don’t respond.

“I have a question.”

“You have been asking a lot today; you know you won’t die if you shut up, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t; sue me.” She giggles at her response.

I grunt yet again. She ignores my objections and asks her next question. “Do you think literature is a boy or a girl?”

“That’s the most idiotic question I’ve ever heard. It’s a record, even for you.”

“If it’s that stupid, then you needn’t any time for hesitation, and thus, you wouldn’t have been stalling by calling it stupid.”

Literature

Connection

Meaning

Beauty

Naomi

Sonny

Girl

“The morally and politically right answer would be that gender doesn’t matter and anyone and anything can be a boy or a girl.”

“True. But I personally think what we call literature is nothing as noble as we imagine, and it’s not something special. It’s just a tool to create ideas and communicate them in a way that makes them believable to people. I think literature is a way of lying. So, unlike others who respect it, I think literature is just a boy; a cunning, but shy, naked little boy who needs attention. He deceives you into thinking he’s wearing something heavy, while in reality, he’s pure; not a single thread on his body. Just as human as anyone else. He’s obviously not fooling anyone with his showmanship and his fake, deceiving faces and clothes.”

I know where this eccentric comparison is headed to.

“It looks a lot like you.”

Seconds pass.

Time passes.

No; it runs away, screaming in fear.

“Now I wanna see you strip.” I hate this girl so much.

“Shut up.”

“It’s just for research purposes, though. I swear.”

“Sure. I’ve used that excuse enough to know it’s nothing but an excuse.”

“But have you ever asked yourself what an excuse is? As a verb, it means apologizing. So, we use an excuse to excuse ourselves from a particular duty or a mistake. An excuse doesn’t necessarily need to be bad.”

“Either way, you’ll never see me naked.”

“I already have, though.” She shoots back at me, a devious grin covering her face. The thing that makes me even madder is that she actually has. I wish I never met her.

Classes begin. Sonny stares blankly at her front and occasionally jots things down. I either stare at people’s faces or sleep with my eyes wide open; something I've grown to master.

After the lectures, Sonny doesn’t shut up about the things brought up during the time I was completely out; Greek mythology, to be exact. A part of me believes that she deliberately reviews things with me for about the hour we hang out after our visit to the library, knowing that I never actually listen to anything unless she is the one saying it.

She’s too kind to be real, but too real to be fake.