I Risked My Life To Save The Cheeky Girl, And As A Result, I Lost My Right Arm. - Chapter 11.2: The Third is an Artist (Part 2)

The Third is an Artist (Part 2)

“Ah, pardon my delay in introducing myself. My name is Makihira Ringo. I’m the president of the art club.”

“The… president of the art club?”

“Just a little while ago, I went to the art room for club activities, and there it was—your drawing displayed on the board. The moment I saw it, it struck me like a lightning bolt. I asked the teacher about you and searched high and low to find you.”

“You… saw my drawing? But, it’s nothing special—”

“Haha! ‘Nothing special,’ you say? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“………………”

“Your drawing, Nakamura-kun, has a sharp, stinging bitterness… a raw hatred that cuts through the air. It unapologetically depicts a shadowy negativity in its purest form.”

“……!”

“It feels as though the bubbling, seething emotions hidden deep in your gut are spilling out, almost tangible. This is the kind of art I’ve been yearning to see. Genuine, unpretentious expression captured on a canvas.”

“Genuine expression…?”

“I’ve grown utterly sick of it, you know. Those flimsy, hollow imitations passed off as art. Pretty women, handsome men, neatly polished landscapes… There’s no soul in any of that. Such works are nothing more than junk food, designed to cater to the masses.”

“J-Junk food…?”

“True art, Nakamura-kun, needs to sting. Pain is what gives art its meaning—it’s the wellspring of creation. Don’t you agree?”

“I… I don’t know. I’m not well-versed in art…”

“Then tell me. What were you feeling when you made this drawing? What thoughts drove you to create this piece?”

“…What thoughts, huh.”

I clenched my left hand around the empty sleeve hanging on my right side.

Then, in a strained voice, I murmured:

“…Someone like me, who’s lost their dominant arm, can’t create beautiful art.”

“………………”

“So, I thought, if I can’t make it beautiful, I’ll make it as ugly as possible. That’s all.”

“………………”

Upon hearing my words, Hasegawa quietly averted her gaze, her expression pained.

Kurasaki-san, on the other hand, softly murmured my name, “Nakamura-kun…”

“…I see. So, being one-armed is the source of your art,” Makihira-san remarked.

Yet, unlike the others, this girl named Makihira didn’t seem somber. Instead, she looked at me with an almost childlike excitement, her gaze resembling that of a boy admiring his favorite soccer player—a sense of pure awe and enthusiasm.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you lost your arm in an accident, didn’t you?”

“Huh? H-how do you know that?”

“I’ve heard about your situation—only bits and pieces, though.”

“………………”

“How did you feel when you lost your arm? What was the first thing that came to mind? What happened afterward?”

“Well… that’s…”

“What did your parents say? What about your friends? Oh, and isn’t it true that losing a limb can lead to phantom limb pain? What does that feel like? Does it really feel as though the arm is still there?”

Bombarded by her relentless questions, I instinctively took a step back.

“Please stop,” Hasegawa interjected, stepping in front of me to shield me from Makihira-san.

“Don’t make him relive painful memories,” she said firmly.

Hearing Hasegawa’s words, Makihira-san gave a sheepish smile. “Ah, you’re right. My apologies.”

She scratched the back of her head, laughing awkwardly. “I do have a bad habit of blurting out whatever comes to mind.”

“………………”

“Anyway, I’ve gotten a bit sidetracked. Let’s get to the main point.”

“Main point?”

“Yes, Nakamura-kun. I want you to join the art club.”

“Wha…?”

“The sorrow you bear as someone with one arm—only you can express that. I can’t let someone capable of creating such incredible work slip through my fingers.”

“………………”

“With your talent, you could become a once-in-a-lifetime artist. Someone who can flip the bird at a world full of lies and deceit. I believe in that potential.”

“B-but the second year is almost over. Even if I join now, I’ll just end up quitting as soon as I hit my third year. Wouldn’t that make it kind of pointless…?”

“Age doesn’t matter when it comes to art. Even Katsushika Hokusai painted his Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji in his seventies.”

Makihira-san fixed her gaze on my face, her eyes gleaming with an almost dazzling intensity. Then, in a clear and resolute voice, she declared:

“You must express your distorted life exactly as it is. That is the true meaning of living.”

“………………”

‘If your life becomes distorted, then I’ll let mine bend to match it.’
‘Even if your life gets twisted, I’ll be by your side to help fix it.’
‘You must express your distorted life exactly as it is. That is the true meaning of living.’

(A distorted life… huh.)

What will happen to my life from here on out? What kind of path will I end up walking?

I still don’t know the answers to any of it.

This was an event that occurred just a few days before the end of my second year in high school.