(Version date: June 17th, 08)Despair in 12 Acts:Narratives for the SZS girls.Preface: I started this way back in December, trying to write a small piece forKiri with the same general frame of mind that she herself is in: one of few words, but every word evocative. Once that was done, I thought it would be fun to try to expand this to every character. I got lazy and stopped sometime in January,but recently picked the pieces up and tried to continue the project.While all in the first person, I've tried to shift each personality to better compliment whoever the subject of the piece is. It would make sense for Matoi's narrator to wind up being a passionate romantic, and for Meru's to be a contemplative bombastic misanthrope. I'll leave it up to the reader to decide if the narration works in tandem with the story. I'm afraid most of the narrators have a slightly bitter edge to them no matter how I try, I can't really get rid of it. Itdoes reflect the fairly cynical SZS world though, so I'm not too bothered by it,and I know Anon being the cynical bastard that he is can probably better identify with the narrators if they're at least somewhat annoyed by their fellow man.Anyhow, I hope you enjoy these little narratives, and my apologies if they don'tlive up to your standards. If nothing else, it should provide something for Anon to read until Season Three comes out. Knock on wood.-Platonic

(Komori Kiri)All that we see or seem / Is but a dream within a dream. E.A. Poe.The first thing I noticed, as anyone would, was her eyes. Eyes that told me of ascarred innocence; eyes that searched to recover what is lost upon biting intothat bitter apple of knowledge; eyes that asked me, softly: Can you make me forget? Can you take me back to before I was tormented with what my mind holds against me? Can you explain to me, slowly, how I can never again deal with the realityaround me? Can you make it all go awayagain?Of course, I couldnt. Thats not the way my reality works. But those same eyes thatdemanded, quietly, patiently, for help, disallowed me from denying her the impossible. Rationality took a back seat as soon as I crossed the threshold from theOutside into her bubble. This is her world; I am but a guest, a spectator. I was lucky enough to stumble into this pocket life centered around the Porcelain girl with the soul-bearing eyes, and privileged enough to be allowed to stay, if only for now. Who am I to tell her what can and cannot be done in her world?I began reasoning, then, that her actuality is no less real than the one I stepped off of. Cogito ergo sum, but it shouldnt matter if the way I cogito removes mefrom everyone elses sum. She exists, still, for herself, even if no one else bot

hers with her existence. So long as I am in her bubble, I, too, exist, if only for myself, neither caring nor being cared for by the harshness of the Outside.I looked back at her; to her eyes again. Well, not entirely for myself. Not entirely for herself. We can open up, if at least only to each other.I motioned to a spare blanket, a skin she shed not long ago left forgotten on the floor.May I? I inquired.She nodded.I sat next to her and wrapped the blanket around me. As my mind wandered and I slowly drifted off to sleep, I felt a light tug on my cover, followed by the comfortable warmth of another body. My senses relayed one final missive to me before my mind began producing its own illusions -- the faint shimmer of a voice, barely a whisper:Sweet dreams.

(Tsunetsuki Matoi)

The art of love is largely the art of persistence. Albert EllisTrue love is akin to the old rickety house on the corner that all the kids assume to be haunted. Even though they themselves have never been in, they have heard stories of the perils others have faced, of a friends cousin who entered and has never been heard of again. And yet, even though it has never been proven to them, they will believe with undeniable perseverance that that house is in fact cursed, mostly because the alternative is simply much too boring to even consider.What fun would the neighborhood be if there was no old house for which one candare ones friends to commit heroic acts of bravery by running by, or knocking on, or, God help us, spend the night in? What fun would there be in life if what we see was what we got?True love is an irrational presumption made by the collective delusion of mankind, concocted by us not out of reason and logic but out of hope that we, too, maysome day fall smitten to its spell. Even though we hear on an almost daily basis of all the wonders and joys of falling in Love, real Love, not just some idiotic hormonal urge to procreate, I have not personally ever dealt with this emotion first hand, nor, quite frankly, do I know of anyone who has ever grappled withthis concept either. Oh, sure, we all know people who seem to fall head-over-heels one day; but they fall merely for the idea of a character, and quickly fallright back out when they realize that their target is not nearly the Adonis or Aphrodite they imagined. Never have I met someone willing to submit themselves fully to the undeniable passions that we all assume to be commonplace when Cupid finds his mark.Well, I didnt. Not until I met her.

Here was a girl who was willing to sacrifice everything and anything for the sake of another moment with her beloved. She was willing to overcome any trial if only for the sake of hearing his breath. She has made herself a living sacrificeupon the altar of her emotions, and it mattered not to her whether the ritual resulted in her death. Those idiotic, clichd words we hear every day in those moronic love songs have never rang so true: He was her everything.And that bastard didnt even realize it! So entrenched was he in his life of boring normality that he did not even take into account this miracle that is her devotion to him. Worse, he spurned it! He was willing to refuse her advances, to forego the love we only consider to be myth, simply because it did not conform to his ideas of what love should be! What gall! How dare this man, not relish, not cherish this emotion of hers that many other men would die for only a glimpse of!Well, this shall not stand. I will not allow it. This buffoon is not worthy of even a wisp of her hair. She must be made to understand that this gift she bestows upon him would be much better spent on another.Me, for instance.I found her outside a nearby Lawsons, her camera in hand waiting patiently for the ingrate to complete his purchases, staring intently at his wretched back through the windows of the store.I understand, I said.She glanced at me, briefly, before training her eyes back to the glass. Undaunted, I continued.I understand you, my dear. I understand your pain, the pain of a pining so deep and unrelenting that you seek any method, however outlandish, to dull this horrible feeling, if only for a moment. I understand that you are willing to become apariah, to be rejected by the world, in order for even the slightest chance of his acceptance.Another glance, this one slightly longer.But you will not gain his favor, as little as that should be worth. You will notgain it because he cannot even begin to comprehend the pain you suffer on a daily basis simply due to his existence. He will never accept you, not through any fault of your own, but because of his own ignorance and stupidity. This love of yours would be worth so much more if it could be siphoned into someone who does understand you, who not only respects but admires your tenacity and determination. Someone who can reflect your sincere and unending love, so that you yourself might be able to experience the joy of unconditional acceptance rather than the sorrow of unrequited love you must now suffer through.There was a pause, a desperate, unyielding pause that felt like an eternity.She turned again.And where can I find someone like that? She asked, her voice on the cusp of breaking.You already have.T was a stupid, idiotic line I would never have considered even thinking of wereI in a rational state of mind. But I wasn t. I was desperate. I wanted her to understand that there are better things out there, that amoung the fools who ignore their dreams there are those who seek theirs out. There are others like her.

There are those like me.The end, well, I ll leave that up for you, dear reader, to decide. There are twogreat tragedies in life: one is to realize that you will never attain your dream, the other to find your dream and realize it s nothing like what you ve dreamtof. And yet... and yet, I have managed to find something that many spend theirevery waking breath hoping for: a partner with whom I need not compromise. And that, my friends, is a joy the description of which my poor language cannot evenbegin to put to words.

(Mitama Mayo)

Nothing is easier than to denounce the evildoer; nothing is more difficult than to understand him. - Fyodor DostoevskyMost people would have noticed the inferno first. Indeed, the fiery pillar of destruction engulfing the remainder of what used to be a house was truly a sight to behold. Some people would have rushed to assist the firemen futilely trying tohold back the raging monster while reinforcements rushed in from neighboring villages. Those who did not posses the self-confidence to assist would pray to whatever their Deity was for protection, safety, all the usual stuff. The rest would just stare, mouths agape, their minds blank as their subconscious worshiped the awe-inspiring wrath of Mother Nature unleashed.But not I. For me, the fire seemed nothing more than an errant whisper comparedto the roar of the girl in front of me. The girl who stood there, calmly, her back to the fire, an empty gasoline canister in her hand and a devious little smile on her face. The girl whose every aspect seemed to scream malevolence. The girl who looked straight at me with an expression that plainly claimed I did it. Me.This, all this, was just me.I looked around. Surely, surely someone must have noticed this demonic girl. Someone must have recognized her for what she was. How am I the only one who can see this culprit right in front of me? Why have the police not come and taken heraway? Not knowing what else to do, I approached her.You did this, didn t you? I asked.Her eyes widened slightly. Surprise? Impossible. I couldn t have been the firstperson to suspect her of wrong-doing.She nodded.Why has no one noticed? Why are you still here?She shrugged.I grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the crowd. Regardless of her currentluck, someone is bound eventually to look her way. Eventually. Right?We cleared a block or two and I dragged her behind one of the omnipresent conven

ience stores. Panting, I let go of her hand and tried to catch my breath. I tried to look her into the eyes try to guess at an emotion; however, those cold, pitch-black pools of malice were more then I could bare. I resigned myself to focusing my gaze intently on the sign just left of her ear.Well? I askedWell what?I was taken slightly aback. I realized that those were the first words I actually heard her utter. Even in the calm monotone, her voice carried with it a hint of antipathy. It then struck me that I had absolutely no idea why I carried thisgirl out, or why I didn t just ignore her. Or why, for that matter, I didn t hand her promptly over to the authorities.Well, I responded, Why did you do it? Why did you burn down that house? And why aren t I taking you to the police?She shrugged, again. I was actually slightly relieved that she didn t answer directly; I didn t think I could handle a full on conversation with that voice. Hereyes never left me though. I was beginning to wonder if she ever blinked.She slowly reached out to me.Wait, what are you ow!I rubbed the shoulder she pinched.Why did you do that?She shrugged, again. I have a feeling that s going to be my usual answer.You want a drink? I asked, motioning to the nearby vending machine.She didn t respond.Well, I ll just go ahead and grab one--She tugged on my jacket as I moved away.Yes?Why aren t you angry?What?You know I m not a good person. I burnt down a house. I like doing bad things. Ipinched you, just to annoy you. Aren t you angry? Or afraid? At least some kindof negative emotion would be nice.Well, the pinch mildly annoyed me, if that helps. To answer your question though,I m interested. You re different from, well, I waved in the general direction ofthe fire, those people. You piqued my curiosity, and I m not exactly sure how myself. But I d like to find out. I looked at her hand, still intently clasping mysleeve. Do you mind?She let go, contenting herself with her usual piercing gaze.I smiled and made my way to the drink machine. The night sky was still stained an orange glow, an indicator that the battle with Nature was still ongoing. I sho

ok my head and wondered to myself, not for the first time, what the hell I was doing.The price we pay for originality, I muttered.The whir and clunk of the machine spat out two nondescript drinks. I walked backto her, icy containers in hand, and tossed one her way. She pulled on the metallic chit to open her fizzy drink, as I did mine. I tapped the tip of her can with the bottom of mine.Cheers.

(Otonashi Meru)Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could sayhow much. -William Shakespeare, As You Like ItThe bitter cold drove the normal customers inside the cafe. Most of those sharing the outside winter air with me were smokers, their nicotine addiction taking precedence over their disagreement with the weather. I myself was content with mycoat and my hot coffee for warmth. Besides, if I moved inside I would have to deal with the cacophony of all those people crammed together shouting their idiotic lives at each other. I would much rather deal with the bite of winter wind than the bark of my fellow man.And so I sat, sipping on my quickly cooling coffee, staring blankly at the sky,enjoying the relative quiet of an empty terrace looking out on an empty street and puzzling about the little things in life, when a small girl ran across my vision. It was clear she was in a hurry. Looking at my watch, I figured she was probably late for her morning classes. As she dashed by, the clatter of plastic oncement brought my attention down by my feet. There laid a small, red cell phone,its various lights plaintively whirring and buzzing at its harsh treatment. Thegirl must have dropped it in her rush to get to class. By the time I picked itup, she was well out of sight so much for handing it back to her. I pocketed thephone and sighed, deciding that I ll figure out what to do later. Continuing tonurse my now-cold coffee, I sat and stared at the grey overcast.An hour or so trickled by before an odd commotion startled me out of my reverie.My jacket pocket, in an act of defiance, began buzzing and shouting and made all in all very unpleasant noises which I assumed to be electronic attacks on my good name. Annoyed at this disruption, I rifled through my pockets until I foundthe trouble-maker: the cell phone I picked up earlier was shooting irritated vibrations at me, informing me that I had a text message. I flipped the phone open.[Is someone there?]I couldn t help but contemplate this question for a bit. The phone had not onlybecome self-aware but was now demanding to know about its surroundings. Man, technology these days. I slowly typed in my response.[I don t know. Is someone there?]

Before I could close the phone, I got an answer.[Don t play games with me asshole. Do you have my phone?]Ah, so the phone wasn t trying to communicate. Pity. This must be the bereft damsel from earlier, hoping to retrieve her little device. I chuckled at her roughdemeanor. Kids using bad words to sound more mature. Cute.[It s unbecoming of a lady to use such language. Yes, I have your phone. You dropped it by the Starbucks on your way to school. Both it and I are still here, ifyou d like it returned.]Once again, an almost instantaneous answer. The girl was quick with her fingers.[I ll say what I want. Don t move, I ll come pick it up.]I went in to refresh my Grande Italian Bold Bean Blend (really, why can t they just call it Black coffee. Stepping in, my ears were immediately assaulted by theassembled weaponry of a hundred variations of the banal. I quickly paid my rentand escaped before my head split from the chaotic clamor. I made my way back tomy usual perch only to find a meek sparrow fidgeting around the remnants of myprevious caffeine vessel.Hello my dear, I assume you re here for your little device.She looked up at me, but instead of opening her mouth whipped out another phoneand began furiously pushing buttons. My jacket pocket started complaining again.I took out her phone.[I m not your dear, pervert. Give me my phone back.]I smiled. So she doesn t talk. Wonderful.Of course. I m actually quite glad you don t speak. It s a refreshing change fromthe daily idiocies that people babble about on a daily basis.[Look who s talking. My phone.]I handed the girl s device back to its owner.Well, best of luck to you then. Glad I could be of service. A word of advice, ifI may: don t lose that attitude of yours. There are too many pretty polite princesses who are nothing more than phonies. A girl with character like yourself isa fresh breeze in this rotting town.She looked at me for a bit, then reached in her pocket and pulled out a scrap ofpaper with an e-mail address.I m afraid I don t have a phone myself. No point, when you don t like talking.She fidgeted for a little, apparently indecisive about something. Reaching a conclusion, she resolutely took out that same red phone and forcefully shoved it atme. Surprised, I accepted the gift. She looked at me again, made a small bow, and hurried off. Once out of sight, the sullen buzzing of the phone reminded me that the meeting wasn t quite over yet.[Thanks. You still talk too much.]Indeed I did. It s hard to sound simple when you can t even think in monosyllabi

c words. Ah well, no one s perfect. I resumed sipping my coffee and staring at the ashen sky.

(Hitou Nami)The only normal people are the ones you don t know very well. - Joe AncisAfter dealing with people as I ve had, I ve made the general conclusion that there are two main groups of folk in the world: Abnormal people who try their hardest to be normal, and normal people who try their hardest to be abnormal. Unfortunately, both of these categories generally fall into the same pit of being themselves normal. Regardless of how unique any individual might be, when shoved in aroom with others any form of individuality is quickly chipped at, sanded over,and polished out until this once-unique creature neatly fits into the hole designated by the greater consciousness. Ironically, it is usually the most average folk that aspire to fit into the rebellious hole, going to great lengths to mask their uninteresting selves behind a facade of a sub-culture. Visit any slightly non-mainstream group, any Anarchist band, and hard core image board, and the majorityof its populace will most likely actually be filled by folks who know little about the subject at hand beyond that it fits into their idea of off the beaten path.As I said, these normal people will go through hell and back to rid themselvesof this curse that is run of the mill. More importantly, they are willing to spendgood money to distance themselves from that label.That s where I come in. I m an Image Therapist. I take these people and, for a small fee, help them convince the world (and themselves) that they are not as normal as they seem to be. Of course, nothing I can do can actually make them abnormal, but denial is quite a strong emotion. And strong emotions yield strong profits. Shrinks have called me nothing more than a scam artist -- well, by some definitions, they d be right. I certainly don t have a psych degree; hell, I droppedout of college two months in. But these people leave my office happier than theyarrived, convinced that they are not nearly as boringly average as they actually are. That s what they pay for. I m pretty sure therapists do the same thing, and charge considerably more than I. You don t need to spend years in med schoolto convince people who want to be convinced. Honestly, I think they re just pissed that I m taking their customers from them.So, now that you know my background, you can understand why it is that there s agirl in my office on the verge of tears, demanding to be made less normal.I ve tried so hard to be different. It s not my fault I was born this way. Everyone in my class has something unique about them. Something fresh. But me, me, I m...Her sentence dissolved into fragmented sniffles hidden behind a sleeve. The story ain t new. The girl, however, is.You see, most of the kids that come in here have some tiny grain of a culture inthem: an odd ring, a talisman, a shirt with a band, something that might be considered abnormal. You pick that up, then run with it: play up that normal abnormality until it becomes central to the client s facade, and they join a group that

s thought of a suitably abnormal without having to actually sacrificing their normalcy.But this girl was something different; something new. There was not one distinguishing characteristic about her. Everything from her style to her bearing to heraccent screamed average. A quick look through the preliminary questionnaire didnt help: For Christmas, I want some new clothes and an iPod. Tomorrow I m going togo shopping with friends. Yesterday I stayed up late doing homework. When I graduate, I want work somewhere that can help the world. Christ. This was going to be a hard case.Well, might as well start with the basics and go from there.Ms. Hitou, why dont you want to be normal?

Because normal never is normal. Its bad. When you say hes just an Average Joe, isnt tat an insult? When you hear that someone has a normal girlfriend, isnt that a badthing? We live in a world in which there is supposed to be no normal, that every child must be an individual and must excel in some area or another. The most unique people are always put on a pedestal as something to aspire to. Everyone embraces Diversity, and normal people have no place to go anymore.Clever girl. She managed to, in a couple sentences, pin down exactly why it is that I have a job. Sometime in the recent past, people decided that there shouldbe no average, that there is no normal. A problem, because this is impossible the very definition of average. 68% of us have to fall within one standard deviation of the mean. Thats just the way it works. If we all were abnormal, that would simply shift the new abnormal to normal. Unfortunately, modern society has dictated that those 68% of us that are within the middle of the curb should make active efforts to not be. Diversity has become the new ideal, and the more the better:a Wiccan girl from Uganda with a half-Japanese half-Peruvian mother and a B- average would beat out the straight-A 1600 WASP in any college admissions process.Applicant A would get the job in accounting over Applicant B because he can speak Swahili. It has been pounded into our subconscious that normal equates to bad,which explains why people are willing to shell out the dough they do just to betold that they are different.So you want to be different because others tell you normal is bad?But isnt it?Listen to yourself. You want to change who you are because of social pressures. For one, thats just stupid. You are who you are, and nothing can change that. Thisis a perfect example. What is the cliche problem that all high school kids go through? They want to fit in. Hell, those idiotic kids shows always have one episode like this. Your urge to disassociate yourself with normal is, it in of itself, normal. By not wanting to be normal, you are, in effect, confirming your ownnormalcy.She thought this over a bit, trying to figure out the implications. Her face went through several emotions before settling on building itself up to despair.So not wanting to be normal is normal?PreciselyShe looked on the brink of a break-down.Then what do I do? If Im normal, Im normal, and if I dont want to be normal, Im stillnormal! Its like some kind of sick joke!

Calm down. Youre fine.No Im not! I m trapped! Im normal, and theres nothing I can do about it!So what?What? What do you mean, so what? Everyone is just going to call me normal for the rest of my life, thats what!Fuck em.She froze. Guess she didnt think shed hear something like that from a professionalWhat?Listen, kid. People are idiots. I make a living convincing normal people theyre not normal. I put on a tweed jacket and a rumpled tie and I tell people what theywant to hear and they pay me for it. Do you really want to live your life by what those kinds of people tell you? So youre normal. Youre really normal. Hell, yourethe most normal person I think Ive ever had the pleasure of meeting. But that doesnt make you any less of a person. The most important thing in your life is yourown happiness, regardless of what that entails. If its something normal, who cares? It would still make you happy. And if youre still bent on being abnormal, think of it this way: Acceptance would be the ultimate act of rebellion. By embracing your own normalcy, you will be far less normal than all of those retards outthere who spend their life in denial of their own innocuity. You would outshinethe poseurs, the fakers, the casuals that encompass 99% of every different group.They may not know it, but that wont make it any less real. So be normal. Take pride in your normalcy. You will be far more unique than anyone else, I guarantee it.We sat in silence for a bit, broken by the occasional sniffles as her tantrum subsided. This was not a normal session for me.But then how would I be happy? She asked, tentatively.Excuse me?You said that the most important thing is my own happiness. But I dont know what that is. Ive spent my whole life trying not to be normal. I thought that that would make me happy. Thats what weve been told, right? That happiness is unique. But what am I supposed to do if Im not unique? How could I be happy?Christ, I dont know.Again, not the answer she expected. But this conversation went so far beyond what I normally deal with that I couldnt possibly keep up my usual professional veneer. I suppose that this is where all those years a psych degree entails is supposed to kick in.No one knows what makes them happy. You cant plan something like that out. It justhappens. Or doesnt. Luck of the draw, I guess. Sure, there are things that can make your life easier, but they dont guarantee anything. There are tribes in Africa that are poor as hell by our standards, and Im sure some of em have to be happy. Likewise, I can guarantee you there are plenty of rich folks out there who aremiserable. Jesus, now youre making me sound cliche. Look, you cant set happinessas a goal. Its just an added bonus that you might get somewhere along the line towherever youre going. Dont worry about being happy, and let it come and go as itpleases.

The little speaker on my desk crackled to life.Mr. Smith, your 4:00 is here.I started and checked my watch. 3:59. Shit.Right. Im afraid we ran a bit over the clock. Ive got to go back to pretending likeI know what Im talking about again. Set up another time with my secretary on your way out and we can continue this conversation.She hesitated.But, I cant affordI waved it off. Dont worry about it. I charge for work. This isnt work for me anymore, and Id like to know how you turn out. Just come by when Im free and we can pick off where we left off. Please, though, dont go about telling my clients what Ithink of them. Its bad for businessShe smiled gratefully and got up. A quick bow, a Thank you, Mr. Smith, and off shewent.Well that was a nice break. If she doesnt relapse, she could be my first genuinecure. I went the conversation in my head again as a new kid came in and sat down.Ah, Zach, great to see you again. Hows that attack on Scientology going?