Nobody [ENG]

To be born, grow up, live, and die. That’s what they say is the natural cycle of a human being. They paint it like something harmonious, almost poetic. But for me, life never followed that script. In my case, it was more like being born, growing up, suffering… and just keep on suffering. Death, ironically, seems to be the only promise that’s in no hurry to come true.

As a child, I believed the world was perfect. I loved my parents with all my heart. They were my universe, my refuge, my everything. I remember every day felt painted in warm, sweet tones, like living inside a story made of pink light. No exaggeration. We had a cherry tree in the yard, and when spring came, that tree turned into a miracle. Its blossoms burst quietly, then the petals began to fall as if the sky itself was weeping beauty. I liked sitting under its shade, closing my eyes, feeling like nothing could shatter that peace.

We lived in a modest house. Small, yes, but with enough space to hug without bumping into each other. I never felt like I was missing anything. My birthdays were simple—few presents, small cakes—but hearing their voices, so joyful, singing:

—Happy birthday, Nozomi!

That moment alone was enough to make me feel loved. Seen. Important.

But all of that shattered one morning. I was eleven when my dad simply disappeared. No warning. No goodbye. He left like someone closing a door forever. And with him, much of the money my mother had been saving vanished too.

—Your father abandoned us —she told me that very day. No sugarcoating. Her voice cracked but stayed firm.

I couldn’t believe it. My mind couldn’t make sense of it. How could someone who, just the night before, had hugged me and said, “You’ll always be my treasure, Nozomi,” just leave? His smile still lingered in my memory—bright, contagious, almost eternal. But no. Nothing is eternal.

We lived in a remote town, surrounded by trees and hills. The adults thought it would be easy to find him. That he couldn’t have gone far. But time proved them wrong. Days, weeks, months. No one heard from him again. His absence left a hole no one dared to fill.

At first, it wasn’t so devastating. The neighbors helped us with what they could—rice, bread, used clothes. And my mom… she smiled every day. Like she could hold the world together just by pretending everything was fine.

—Mom’s going to fix all of this, don’t worry —she’d tell me as she stroked my hair, hiding her tears whenever she thought I wasn’t looking.

But one day… everything changed.

I remember coming home from school to find her slumped over the table, a bottle of wine clutched between her fingers, her eyes swollen from crying. The room smelled like despair. Like defeat. I stepped closer, scared, my heart pounding.

—Mom… —I whispered, wanting to reach out to her.

But she reacted like my presence was burning her. She shoved me violently, a furious slap that I hadn’t seen coming, and for the first time in my life, I heard her scream at me.

—If you hadn’t been born, he wouldn’t have left! —she spat through sobs—. It’s all your fault! We loved each other so much, we had a beautiful life… and then you came along. You ruined everything.

—Mom… what are you talking about? You’re scaring me…

She didn’t answer with gentle words. There was no comforting touch, no explanation. Just a torn roar and an explosion of rage.

—Shut up! —she yelled, throwing the wine bottle with such force it grazed my cheek. The glass smashed against the wall with a dull crash, leaving a crimson stain of alcohol and anger.

—This is all your fucking fault! —she spat, her voice broken, uncontrolled, soaked in hatred—. Without you, your father would still love me! He wouldn’t have left if you hadn’t been born!

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to breathe. All I could do was lower my head and clench my fists against my shirt, as if that could hold me together, as if it could stop the trembling in my fingers.

—I’m sorry… —I whispered, not even sure why I was saying it.

But those words didn’t calm anything. Quite the opposite.

—Don’t you dare say “sorry” to me! —she shouted as she stumbled to her feet. She took a shaky step toward me and suddenly she was on top of me, her eyes red-rimmed, hair a mess, fury burning on her face—. What are you gonna do about it, huh!? You gonna give him back to me!?

The smell of alcohol hit me hard. A sour mix of cheap wine, dried tears, and despair. Instinctively, I covered my nose. It was a reflex, not a judgment. —Do I disgust you or what?! —she shouted. And before I could answer, her hand slashed across my cheek with a slap so fierce it knocked me off balance. —I’m your mother! I gave you life! And this is how you repay me?!

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t cry. I felt my skin burning, shame stabbing beneath my flesh, fear freezing me in place. Then I ran. I ran without thinking. I stumbled up the stairs, tripping once, twice, three times, the steps growing taller, harder, crueler.

—I hate you! —I heard behind me—. You’re just like him! All you do is run away! —her words chased me like knives—. With that black hair just like his and those eyes! I wish you’d never been born!

I locked myself in my room and didn’t come out. I curled up on the bed, hugging my knees tight. That night, I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. I stayed there in the dark, eyes wide open, cheeks wet, and my heart shattered. I cried silently so she wouldn’t hear, though I knew she wouldn’t care.

That year went on like that. Every single day. Insults, hits, screams, empty bottles rolling across the floor. My mom was no longer my mom. She was a broken shadow, and I became her punching bag, her living reminder of what she’d lost. She blamed me for everything. And I... eventually believed her.

School was the only place I found a breath of relief. Among cold hallways, fogged-up windows, and scratched-up benches, I found a bit of calm. Nobody screamed at me there. Nobody touched me. Nobody looked at me like I was a mistake.

Not long after, I started middle school. That’s when I met my best friend. She was the closest thing I had to a refuge. She tended to my bruises with gentle hands, put band-aids on my arms and on my words. She stayed by my side, talked to me. She gave me everything I no longer knew how to receive.

But me... I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. It was like something inside me had broken and refused to put itself back together. No matter how much she tried to reach me, I kept pulling away.

Until one day, she faced me head-on, her eyes shining and her voice trembling with frustration. —Why won’t you let me help you?! I’m your best friend! Let me do something for you!

But I just stared at her. Silent. No words. No expression. I swallowed it all and turned away. It was easier to build a wall than risk someone seeing the mess I was inside.

From then on, we never spoke again. She started hanging out with others. Laughing with new people. Living. And me… I was left completely alone.

During recess, I’d sit in a corner, head down. My lunch tray stayed untouched when the bell rang. I didn’t talk to anyone. My grades started to fall just like my spirits. And at home… everything grew darker.

I began wearing looser clothes. Huge sweaters, baggy pants. Not for fashion. Out of shame. Shame that someone might notice the bruises on my arms, legs, back. Like hiding them could also hide how broken I was inside.

Midway through that year, our class got a new teacher. They never told us why. Just someone new arrived — Mr. Shinohara.

From day one, everyone seemed charmed by him. He was kind, patient, smiling even when no one else did. His lessons were calm, his voice soft. He had that energy that made you feel safe… if you still believed in that.

But I didn’t.

I trusted no one.

He noticed. Watched me carefully, as if he could see the cracks in me everyone else ignored. He tried to talk to me, make me laugh, make me feel like maybe I could be okay too. But he didn’t succeed. Still… he didn’t give up.

One day, during a class activity, he noticed my arms. I had them covered with long sleeves as always, but one sleeve slipped a little when I raised my hand. His eyes locked onto my skin. There were bruises—some old, some fresh. He said nothing then. Just looked at me with a mix of concern and restrained anger.

That very afternoon, he brought it up with the school administrators. He spoke up, insisted… but they did nothing. They shut their eyes. Pretended not to hear. It was easier to blame a teacher for overreacting than admit a girl might be getting hit at home.

Still, he didn’t stop.

That same day, he walked me home. He didn’t ask for permission. Didn’t ask if I wanted him to. He just walked beside me, in silence, all the way to my front door. And there, standing in front of the house that felt heavier with every step, he knocked—and faced my mother.

I remember staying a little behind, trembling.

She greeted him with that fake smile she wore when she wanted to manipulate someone. But her eyes were already bloodshot, and the smell of wine drifted out through the doorway like a bitter sigh. He spoke to her. Calmly, but firmly. Told her he was worried about me. That he had seen things he couldn’t ignore.

Of course, she laughed. Called him a meddler. Said I was just a troubled teenager and that everything was being blown out of proportion. He held onto his calm, frustrated but composed, and said goodbye.

Before he left, he stepped close to me and spoke in a gentle voice—like a father trying to patch together his shattered daughter:

—Don’t worry, Nozomi. I’ll fix this.

His words, his tone… they reminded me of my dad. Of that same promise he once made—and later broke.

—Mr. Shinohara… I’m scared —I whispered. It was the first time I ever spoke to him.

—Everything’s going to be alright. Don’t worry —he said. And then he left.

But things were far from alright.

That night, my mother beat me worse than ever. She was out of control. She screamed that I was causing problems at school now, that I was ungrateful trash. She threw me to the floor, kicked me in the stomach, yanked me by the hair until I couldn’t breathe. I could barely get any air. My ribs were tight, my chest crushed, my eyes blurred.

That night I didn’t sleep in my bed. I slept—if you could even call it sleep—on the floor, shaking.

I missed school the next two days.

Mr. Shinohara came looking for me. Twice. He stood at our doorstep and asked for me, but my mother never opened the door. She just shouted insults at him from inside. And each time he left, she hit me harder. Her words were like blades:

—Oh, so now even your teachers are on your side?! You manipulative little whore, just like your father!

I didn’t cry anymore. Not because it didn’t hurt— But because there were no tears left in me.

On the third day, I went back to school. I sat in my usual seat, silent, staring out the window. I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t lift my head. I was just there—breathing just enough not to vanish.

A few days later, a rumor started to spread. At first, it was just scattered whispers. But then came the murmurs, the stares, the nervous giggles. They said Mr. Shinohara… had abused some students. That he mistreated children. That he had a dark history.

And my mother… My mother used my body as proof.

She showed them my bruises—the same ones she’d given me—and claimed he was responsible. I couldn’t say anything. If I denied it, if I so much as opened my mouth, I knew something worse would be waiting for me at home. So I stayed silent.

He denied everything. I saw him. I saw him defend himself with a trembling voice, his eyes shattered from the weight of it all. But no one believed him. They fired him. They drove him out of town.

The only person who had ever cared about me was ripped from my life by a lie born from my own mother’s mouth.

The days that followed were chaos. They kept swapping in new teachers because no one wanted that cursed position. The administration couldn’t find replacements. Classes lost all structure. The students stopped listening. The teachers stopped teaching.

And the school— my last refuge— started to feel more like a prison.

A hollow place. An echo of what it used to be.

Then, on just another ordinary day—or at least that’s what I thought—Rika spoke to me again.

Rika, my best friend from childhood. Rika, the one I’d stopped talking to when we started middle school. Rika, who now walked the halls surrounded by a new group of girls. There were five of them. All smiling, their uniforms stylishly tailored, hair perfectly in place, and that air of superiority that made them float above everyone else.

—Hey, Kurozawa. How’ve you been? —Rika asked in a cheerful, almost sing-song voice. Like nothing had ever happened between us. Like the years of silence and abandonment had never existed.

I didn’t respond. Not because I didn’t hear her. I just… couldn’t. I didn’t know how to fit my voice into a world that no longer seemed to have a place for me.

—Rika’s talking to you, answer her! —shouted Sayaka, one of the new girls, slamming her hand down on the desk.

The sound jolted me. It was like a bottle shattering at home. Like the sharp snap of a slap. My body reacted before my mind, and I instinctively covered my head, curling up, trembling.

—What the hell was that? —Hinako laughed, like I was some kind of circus act.

—She’s so weird —added Miyu, with that special kind of cruelty only teenage girls seem to master so well.

—You know, Kurozawa… —Rika continued, leaning casually on my desk. She bent down just enough to meet me at eye level, even though my head was still lowered—. There’s this rumor going around about Mr. Shinohara. They say he was seduced by a twelve-year-old girl. That she manipulated him, destroyed him… and then reported him just to get him fired.

A knot tightened in my stomach. My hands clenched on top of my legs. I didn’t look up.

—And guess what —she added, her voice dripping with venom—, you’re twelve. And you spent a lot of time with him right before he got kicked out. Don’t you think that’s a pretty big coincidence?

Her words pierced through me. And before I could think, I spoke.

—I didn’t do anything with Mr. Shinohara —I said. My voice came out louder than I expected. Shaky, but clear.

Silence. Just for a second.

—Well, well! —mocked Sayaka, clapping sarcastically—. So you can talk. And here I thought you were just some broken little doll… one that didn’t even work well enough to answer back.

—You’re probably just a whore who used Mr. Shinohara the moment you had the chance —Rika hissed, yanking my face toward hers with one hand.

—Listen up, everyone! —Erika, the girl who hadn’t said a single word until now, suddenly shouted, her voice laced with triumph and cruelty—. Kurozawa Nozomi is the reason Mr. Shinohara got fired! She took advantage of him and then framed him!

The whispers exploded into a low, crashing roar—like a wave tearing through everything in its path. Everyone’s eyes turned on me, sharp with disgust and loathing. I felt like prey surrounded by a starving pack.

Then, something cold trickled down my head. Slowly, I lifted my gaze, heart pounding in my ears… and saw Miyu dumping a carton of milk over me. The liquid soaked through my uniform, slid down my face and neck, while laughter rang out all around me like invisible blades cutting deep.

The teacher in charge that period stood and watched it all in silence. She didn’t intervene. Didn’t ask what happened. She just gave a blank order:

—Take your seats and be quiet, please.

Like nothing had happened. Like humiliation wasn’t part of her job description.

From that day on, they started calling me “Parasite.” It hurt more than any slap or bruise, because it wasn’t just the word—it was the looks, the silence, the way they erased me like I didn’t matter.

That’s how I survived all of middle school and the first years of high school. Miserable. Invisible. Alone.

Sometimes, I tried to convince myself it wasn’t that bad. That maybe I was exaggerating. My mother always said the same thing to shut me up:

—There are people who have it worse than you. Stop crying and be grateful for what you’ve got.

And maybe she was right. Maybe there were people who had it worse. That’s why I stopped giving much weight to what was happening to me.

It hurts. It hurts so much. But I hold it in as much as I can.

I press down on the wounds and tell myself to endure it. That that’s all I have to do—just endure.

I recently turned sixteen. Sixteen years of repeating the same story, over and over, with no change. No hope. Not at school. Not at home. Nothing ever changes.

One day, on my way home, I hid—like always—from Rika and her friends behind a pile of abandoned construction materials near the park.

I felt just like that heap of wood, bricks, and cement: abandoned by everyone, useless, broken.

Among the trash, I heard a small sound. It startled me, but I cautiously moved closer. And there, nestled between some crates and boards, I found a little black kitten. Skinny, dirty, with a torn ear—but somehow, incredibly cute.

The cat came up to me, purring. That caught me off guard. I wasn’t used to anything—or anyone—approaching me with kindness.

I started to pet him gently, and he curled up in my lap, looking for rest, for company.

I remembered I had saved a milk carton from lunch. I’d kept it not because I was hungry, but to stop Rika and her friends from dumping it on me again. I pulled it out slowly and offered it to him.

The kitten drank eagerly, his orange eyes lighting up with joy—alive, vibrant.

And for the first time in a long time, I smiled. Not a fake smile. A real one, born deep in my chest from the simple beauty of that tiny creature.

I named him Kuro. It felt like the right name—for a cat that had become the most honest companionship I’d ever known.

For half a year, I took care of him every day after school. Kuro became my refuge, the place I could run to when I needed to escape my mom, or Rika and her group.

I believed—naively, tremblingly—that I might be able to be happy again.

I started working during school breaks. Part-time jobs, here and there, to buy better food and things for Kuro. So he wouldn’t suffer the way I did. I just wanted to make him happy… the way he made me happy.

—As long as he’s with me, everything will be okay —I’d repeat to myself, again and again. Like a mantra to keep going. That thought gave me strength to face each day, to carry the weight of everything.

It didn’t matter what happened to me. It didn’t matter if my mother beat me every night at home, her hands like stones, her voice full of hate. It didn’t matter if Rika and her friends bullied me at school—soaking my clothes, hiding my things, sometimes even hitting me when no one was looking.

None of it mattered.

The only thing that did… was having Kuro by my side. At least for a few more years.

With him, I could pretend I might escape that hell. That I could keep going.

—See you tomorrow, Kuro —I said one afternoon, gently stroking his head.

The cicadas sang in the background, their endless chorus wrapping the air like a song of summer and hope. But that day, walking home from school, I didn’t find Kuro in his usual spot.

It had been six months since I’d started taking care of him.

I got a little worried, but I told myself he’d probably gone off exploring, like he liked to do—off chasing some adventure or scavenging for food.

That’s what I kept telling myself the whole week. But he never showed up.

I wanted to hold on to hope. I wanted to believe he’d come back.

I didn’t want to go through the same thing again—someone disappearing without a goodbye.

Then one day, after school, Rika and her friends cornered me behind the building.

This time… they looked different.

They weren’t the usual cruel, aggressive girls I knew. No. There was something… off about them.

They were nice. Too nice.

I thought they were trying to set me up again—ready to hit me or humiliate me somehow. But that’s not what happened.

—Hey, Parasite —Miyu said with a sarcastic smile—, you’ve been pretty chipper lately, huh?

I didn’t answer. I’d learned that sometimes staying quiet is the only thing that makes things even slightly more bearable.

—Gross —muttered Sayaka, pulling something out of her bag—. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?

And then she threw it at me.

Kuro’s collar.

The one I bought with my own money, every coin saved through hours of work.

—How…? —I managed to whisper, my voice caught in disbelief.

—You wanna know how we got him? —Rika replied with a cruel smile—. At least you’re finally speaking.

—I hate your voice, you know that? —she said, and then kicked me hard, knocking me to the ground and pinning me down with her foot.

—You’re disgusting. You always will be, Parasite. But still… we brought you a little gift.

Hinako pulled a bag out of her backpack. Inside, something was wrapped in gift paper, though the paper was stained with dark, almost-dried blood. The shape was small—like a stuffed animal. Maybe a toy. Maybe something else.

They tossed it in front of me with a twisted mix of disdain and delight, and forced me to open it.

Shaking, I slid my fingers over the paper, tearing it from the center. At first, I thought it was just a plushie—a toy version of some black animal that had gotten messed up, which explained the bloodstained wrapping.

But as I unwrapped more and more of it, something cold began to crawl through my chest. Thick. Vile. Heavy. Like tar spreading through my ribs.

The “toy” wasn’t soft. It wasn’t plush. It was dry. Coarse. Stiff. Like someone had soaked it in glue or something to harden it.

With trembling hands, I peeled away the part that looked like the head.

And what I saw knocked the air right out of me.

It was Kuro.

That torn ear of his—still there. Clear as day. His black fur matted with dried blood and dirt. His paws twisted, some of them broken. Deep cuts and bruises all over his tiny body.

I pulled the rest of the wrapping away and stared at him, unable to find a single word to describe how grotesque, how brutal he looked.

—Guess cats don’t really have nine lives after all —Miyu sneered, her voice sharper than any blow.

The only thing I could hear in that moment… was the distant drone of cicadas.

That soft, unchanging hum— a cruel contrast to the icy void that had just opened inside me.

Rika’s group kept laughing, mocking me, but I couldn’t hear them anymore. I didn’t want to hear them.

All I felt was a blow knocking me to the ground. Then another. And another. One after the other. It hurt. It hurt more than ever before. But I didn’t do anything. I didn’t cover myself. I didn’t move a single muscle.

It was like my body had given up, and my mind had frozen in that dark abyss where nothing was left.

After a while, they got bored and left—leaving me lying next to Kuro’s broken body. The only light I ever had… was gone for good.

I don’t know how long it was before a classmate found me and called a teacher.

The teacher treated my wounds and let me go, but asked me to hand over Kuro’s body. I refused. I couldn’t bear to see their faces. All I could see were black silhouettes, with white eyes and mocking smiles that followed me everywhere.

I was the one who buried Kuro. In the same spot where I first found him.

Then I went home—beaten, broken, holding only Kuro’s collar in my hands. No backpack. Nothing else.

When I got there, the house was empty. My mom wasn’t home.

There was a note on the table. It said she’d found a new job and would be getting home later from now on.

That made me happy. Even if just a little.

I couldn’t sleep that night. Not at all.

The next morning, I didn’t leave the house. I didn’t feel like doing anything.

I just stayed there, hugging Kuro’s collar, pressing it against my chest like it was the last piece of light I had left.

After a while, I worked up a little courage and went out to visit Kuro’s grave.

It was around the time school usually let out, and the sky was starting to turn a sorrowful orange— as if the day itself were mourning, too.

At the site, I found a rope—long and rough. I picked it up without thinking and dragged it home.

In one hand, the rope. In the other, Kuro’s collar.

Inside the house, I tied the rope to a wooden beam, using an old ladder that had belonged to my father. I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

A lot of people suffer more than I do. I get that. But it still hurts. It hurts so much I can’t take it anymore.

I’m not strong. I’m weak. Just someone weak.

I climbed onto the chair, slipped the rope around my neck, and got ready to end it all. I couldn’t take another second. Not one more.

I kicked the chair away— and I was hanging.

But I didn’t feel anything. I just stayed there, suspended… like nothing had changed.

Then the rope came loose. I fell to the floor, crashing down again. But I didn’t care. I was ready to end all of it. All the pain. Once and for all.

But then… I noticed something strange.

There wasn’t a single sound around me. No people. No cars. No animals. Nothing.

Not a single sound.

It was like I was completely alone in the world.

I decided to go out and check.

I walked all through town— and I didn’t see a single person.

It was completely empty.

For years, I’d secretly wished that everyone would just disappear overnight. So I could be alone for a long, long time. So I could finally live in peace.

But now… What good is that dream, if I’ve already decided to give up on everything?

As I walked, I heard a meow.

I ran, instinctively, toward Kuro’s grave, my heart pounding in my chest.

Something inside me said there was something else waiting there. Something I needed to find.

There, sitting on top of a cardboard box, was a black cat with bright yellow eyes and a clipped ear.

He looked just like Kuro—except the torn ear was on the opposite side.

He stared straight at me.

When I got closer, I saw he had a collar with a strange button on it and a note that read: —Press it when you’re ready.

I tried to press the button, but the cat bolted away.

Every time I reached for it, he darted off—dodging me, weaving back and forth.

—You’re not gonna let me press the button, are you? —I asked, tired, my voice barely a whisper.

—Of course not —a voice answered.

I turned, looking around for whoever was speaking— but no one was there.

—Who are you looking for? I’m right in front of you —said the voice again.

I looked straight ahead. Still nothing.

Then I looked down.

There was the cat. Talking.

—Nice to meet you. I’m Kuro. But not your Kuro.

—Huh? —was all I managed to say, confused.