Make Meme Idols

The shocking novelization of a song no one has ever cared about.
The shocking perpetuation of a blog no one has ever cared about.
I sprinkle purifying salt into the cold northern wind,
and taste only my own saline tears.
Immured in the grave of scorned gods, memories of home turn putrid.

– ♥, Nabocchan

 "In this world no one cares about your convictions, so why keep tormenting yourself?"

And with that, I was rotten through and through. Always a worthless person, I had now become one without a single redeeming quality.

The TV was still going in the background. I could never appear a proper person because I would be embarrassed to say things so stupidly obvious with a smile on my face. I would be embarrassed to say anything with a smile, actually--there are few expressions more vulgar. That kind of self-assurance is worth less than an insect.

So why was I anymore able to excuse the smiling of that awful teal-haired girl?

In that moment, I truly understood the meaning of wishing for death. No, more than that, I wanted to be destroyed so completely that no one could remember me. My face, which could never produce such a smile, hung in my mind like a curse. Without noticing myself, I had grabbed a pair of scissors from my drawer. The cool metal against my cheek was strangely comforting.

From that night forward, I was unable to sleep without a steel blade against my chest. I would lie down like a corpse, hands folded over the weapon, and my dreams would be warmed by exquisite spurts of hot blood. Always my own, flowing boundless from that rotten core, releasing my decay spurt by spurt... A liberation from that unclean substance which denied me perfection.

No longer able to accept human existence, I suppose you could say I had glimpsed the inevitability of an early death.

Probably, it was precisely because she was inhuman that I was able to accept her happiness. Human emotion has always appeared to me a sort of willful effluvium threatening to contaminate my inner self. That sort of outpouring of blood is, after all, absolutely unsanitary. If I were able to stomach any life, it would be one far away from the infestation of human society. Perhaps out in the countryside, wind blowing back my hair as I carry a basket of freshly-picked...

And then my face returns to view, and it's ruined. Indelible proof of infection, of my participation as a vector of infection. Our bodies exist as collections of glyphs and sigils, recording our collective sins.

Having reached this understanding of humanity, I found myself unable to wash the astringent taste of superiority from my mouth. Contemptuous of those who could find any redeemable qualities in this repulsive world, my appetite for life waned further until I had become entirely paralyzed. Unable to move forward, I rapidly slid from atop a pile of young aspirants. When I found the strength to open my eyes, I was surrounded only by darkness. When I tried to open my mouth and cry out that viscous darkness rushed in to fill the massive hollowness within me, and I choked on my words.

Unable to see clearly, I was also unable to dream. Perhaps it was too difficult to discern the coming of night. I began to miss the rich scent of blood, the warmth of my own body. I was uncertain if my body possessed an infinite weight or none at all.

In that sense, what came next would be invaluable. A proof of the awful substantiality of my flesh, tested against one of the few things which afforded me any comfort: the cold steel of a blade. Logic is always cold and sharp, and always seems to wound me in such a manner. At last I too had become quite the sophist.

I collected all the necessary reagents in my apartment. Idol memorabilia strewn across the floor, pages ripped from borrowed anatomy textbooks hastily annotated and nailed to the wall, and everywhere the likeness of Hatsune Miku beaming down at me, parting the darkness if only in narrow spaces...

My altar had become immaculate.

Preparing the hair dye filled me with a sense of childish joy which had been absent for years. I was lighthearted--no, giddy--for the first time in memory. After all, this was ablution. Baptized by my own blood, I would finally confront and transcend my unclean existence. A plush Miku watched over the opening rites with an air of perfect repose. When all was ready I made a deep incision in my thigh, sprinkling the ground around her with my filthy essence in a sort of inverted aspergement. But I would never have sullied even the image of that perfect being--I only wanted her to have a last offering from my imperfect past, one which she could look back on with that magnanimous half-smile...

All things now ready, it was time. Lit by dwindling candles, Miku stood in a small circle of light against the darkness, radiating the scent of hot blood.