Chapter 12 – Mental Domain

◇《POV: Chiena》

When did Father start acting strange, I wonder?

Was it the day Mother suddenly disappeared, and only the servants started taking care of me?

Or was it the day Grandfather died, and Father became the fourth-generation president of Minegi Workshop, Ltd.?

Or maybe when Father got dead drunk, saw hallucinations of Mother, and kept going at the wall… no, none of those are it.

—Light.

That day, when that black light covered the sky, my father changed completely.

One day, Father suddenly forced his way into my bedroom and attacked me in my sleep.

“Hate me, Chena. You’re my toy.”

“Forgive me, Chiena. I need you.”

The father who only kept muttering that had none of his former dignity left.

Pinned down by sheer pressure, bound hand and foot, I was made to endure humiliation.

When I tried to raise my voice, my mouth was covered.

When I tried to resist and twist away, it meant nothing—pressed into the bed by his weight, I couldn’t do anything.

Silenced by the overwhelming gap in body and status, I decided to crush my feelings day after day and live as an object.

I am Father’s property.

I am Father’s toy.

I am Father’s…

By saying it over and over, I drilled it into myself.

Maybe kotodama really does exist.

Each time I said something I didn’t mean, it felt like something was draining out of me.

Like I was paying a price for a wish.

Offering up my own heart to fulfill someone else’s wish.

How absurd.

But it was the only way I could survive.

—In front of me are three young men and women.

They’re probably fighting by their own will, for their own wishes, with their own bodies.

People who don’t have what I have, and have what I don’t.

Hateful. Enviable.

Those negative feelings swirl and swell.

Why am I not on that side?

If I’d been born as the child of a normal person… could I have lived happily as an ordinary human?

The people standing in my way now are trying to deny my life, right here, right now.

—Is something like this really allowed?

They don’t know the humiliation I suffered.

They don’t know the heart of someone who has no choice but to depend on others for her value—and because of that, must throw everything away and offer up body and soul.

“Normal people” are always like that.

They grow up comfortably blessed, with relationships where a small mistake can be laughed off.

They never realize what real failure is, and they take some petty slip-up right in front of them, slap the grand name “setback” on it, and play at being a poor, pitiful victim.

They tag their daily lives with words like “hell,” “the worst,” “despair,” “I’m dead,” “it’s over”—using them as tools for overreaction—pathetic, human-shaped nobodies.

Something is taking over my mind.

That torrent of feelings—so close to rage—feels like it could swallow me the second I let my guard down.

I remember the seed of the cursed tool embedded in my body.

For someone like me, who kept living as a seedbed for Father’s goal, its sprouting is a long-held wish—and the end of my suffering.

Letting myself sink into this flow, offering up everything that is “me,” is the final duty forced upon me.

In that moment, my mind will be completely destroyed, and I’ll become a ruined husk that never wakes again.

Yes—then I’ll never have to go back to that suffocating life again.

I did it.

Born human, I gave up on living as a human, and chose to exist as a tool.

So my ego should vanish at any moment, and I should transform into the existence they wanted.

And yet, why…?

Why can’t I throw hope away?

I prayed for it again and again.

I’d steeled myself so many times, for so long, just to be freed from this pain.

And yet this hell shows no sign of ending.

Was there a flaw in Father’s plan?

Did I not have the right kind of aptitude for the cursed tool?

No. That can’t be it.

I’m sure I’m standing on the boundary.

Caught between human and cursed tool, still wanting to remain human.

I don’t know why.

I just can’t take the last step.

“Help me.”

I feel like those words slipped out.

They didn’t have any specific meaning.

But the way they came out so naturally—like they were my true feelings—made my skin crawl.

Even now, after all this, I still have the room to say something that sweet.

Even I feel pathetic.

“Save me.”

What right do I have to say that, after deciding to throw everything away?

This makes me look like a fool who hesitates right before suicide.

“Give up.”

“Let go of everything.”

“Don’t think.”

I can hear whispers like that.

The cursed energy around me trembles, like it’s playing a discordant note.

Everyone is testing my resolve.

All I have to do is give up.

That alone would let me prove my value to the world.

I could convince myself that this garbage life had meaning.

“No… I don’t want to die.”

Lies spill out of my mouth.

Tears run from my eyes, flooding my vision.

These are tears of joy.

They have to be.

I’m being saved, in the truest sense.

I don’t need to hesitate anymore.

Now—now…

“…What do you want me to do?”

“…Help me.”

The haze covering my vision clears.

Then soft cloth covers my face, wiping away my tears.

“Ah—sorry if you were wearing makeup. I’m the type who can’t stand seeing a beautiful face soaked in tears.”

Standing in front of me is the young man who should have been my enemy just moments ago.

And yet my hatred toward him vanishes in an instant, replaced by a warmth that wraps around me like safety.

“Nice to properly meet you. Hi—I’m the kind of Y○uTuber who wants to save troubled girls. I came to help you get your true feelings out… is that about right?”