Mei Hasegawa, a six-year-old Japanese girl, stood at the side of the road, thumbs hooked under the straps of her bulky backpack. She wore a pink t-shirt, denim shortalls, sneakers, and a bright yellow hat, locks of short black hair sticking out from underneath it. In Japan, first-grade elementary school students wore the yellow hats to warn motorists of their presence.
Mei tilted her head to the side and squinted at the woman across the street—a little less than four meters away. And Miki stared back at her from the other side of the road, face covered in a black cloth mask. Her forehead was beaded with sweat, body smothered by a heavy trench coat. Mei wasn’t scared of her, though. She figured Miki was wearing the mask because of allergies. She saw dozens of people wearing masks every day. She was curious about her coat, though.
As Miki took a step forward, Mei raised her hand—palm out, fingers up—and shouted, “Matte!” ‘Matte’ translated to ‘wait.’ Miki did as she was told. Like the girl, she cocked her head to the side in confusion. Mei said, “Kichinto mawariwo minaito. Kiwotsukete.”
‘You have to look both ways before you cross. Please be careful.’
The corners of Miki’s eyes wrinkled as she smiled behind her mask. She was amused by the child. She looked to her left, then to her right. The road was empty. She strode across the street.
“Konbanwa,” she said as she stopped in front of the girl.
‘Good evening.’
Mei responded, “Konbanwa.”
Miki asked, “Kokode nanishiteruno?”
‘What are you doing here?’
Mei said, “Mama wo matteruno.”
‘Waiting for my mom.’
Due to its status as one of the safest countries in the world, it wasn’t uncommon to see children waiting by themselves after school in Japan. Statistics often lulled people into a false sense of security.
Miki asked, “Gakkowa doudatta?”
‘How was school?’
Mei shrugged, as if to say: Whatever. Miki snickered. She didn’t enjoy school when she was a child, either. She felt comfortable around the girl, too. A long time had passed since her last pleasant conversation with another person.
Miki asked, “Hitoride daijōbu? Mama itsu kuruno?”
‘Are you okay here by yourself? When is your mom coming to pick you up?’
“Daijōbu,” Mei answered. “Itsumo osoikara.”
‘I’m okay. My mom is always a little late.’
The girl began to ramble about rocks and insects. She enjoyed watching insects skitter about on the dirt and trees, and she liked examining and collecting rocks. She didn’t mind waiting in the area. Nature gave her plenty of things to do. Miki stopped paying attention to her words. She stared down at Mei, a devilish glint in her eyes. Yet, she continued to smile tenderly behind her mask. She knew what she was doing—what she was going to do.
Miki crouched in front of her to match her at eye level. The girl stopped talking, eyes pure like a puppy’s.
“Watashi kirei?” Miki asked.
‘Am I beautiful?’
The little girl gazed into her eyes, then she looked her up and down. She preferred colorful clothing—pinks and yellows—but she didn’t notice anything unattractive about Miki’s outfit. She liked Miki’s eyes, too. They reminded her of her mother’s, dark but shiny.
She nodded and said, “Un.”
It was a casual way of saying ‘sure’ in Japanese.
Blushing, Miki giggled and cocked her head from one side to the other. Her laughter grew louder and louder, echoing through the empty field behind the girl. Mei stepped back. She looked at the ground as the dirt crunched under her shoe. Filled with muddy water, there was a ditch between the road and the field. She looked back at Miki as the laugher came to an abrupt stop.
Miki removed her mask, revealing her scarred face and grim, unsmiling expression. Mei pulled her head back an inch and puckered her lips. She was startled, but she wasn’t terrified.
Miki asked, “Kore demo kirei?”
‘How about now?’
Mei didn’t know how to respond. She was taught to respect her elders. At a certain age, children learned to lie to protect themselves. But until then, they were known for being brutally honest.
Mei shrugged at her and, with doubt in her voice, she responded, “Un?”
‘Sure?’
Miki’s upper lip curled, revealing her pearly white teeth. Then she smiled and huffed.
Mei asked, “Daijōbu?”
‘Are you okay?’
“Daijōbuyo,” Miki said.
It translated to: ‘I’m okay.’
She reached into her coat’s inner pocket and pulled out a pair of dressmaker’s shears—the same shears Adam had used to mutilate her face. Mei glanced at the large scissors. As they opened up, she looked into Miki’s eyes again. Just as Mei was about to ask about the shears, Miki thrust them at the girl’s narrow neck and squeezed the handles.
The sharp blades cut her throat open from ear to ear with a single snip. Mei saw the bloody shears moving away from her before the pain even registered. It felt like a pinch at first, then it stung. The wound got hotter and hotter—and hotter. Splashes of blood jetted from her severed jugulars, barely missing Miki’s coat. More blood cascaded from the center of the wound, sliding down to her pink shirt.
Along with her eyes, Mei’s head rolled back. She had to fight with her own body to push her head forward again. But it kept tilting back, causing the wound to widen while sending her staggering towards the field. Her trachea was split in two and her esophagus was pierced. The tubes, visible in the grisly wound, were lined with pink tissue and dark blood.
Miki stood straight. She pulled a black handkerchief out of her pocket and cleaned her shears while watching Mei suffer.
Mei looked like she was hiccupping, head barely attached to her neck. She tried to reach for her throat, but her fingers were trapped under her backpack’s straps. And her backpack was heavy, pulling her away from the road.
“Ma… ma… ma…” she croaked out.
She was trying to say ‘mama.’
Mei lost her balance and fell into the ditch. The water splashed, landing on Miki’s boots and the neighboring crops. It kept rippling and sloshing as Mei squirmed like a turtle on its back. She couldn’t get up. She slipped a hand out from under one of her backpack’s straps. She gripped her neck and kept croaking. She felt the hot blood on her palm.
The burning pain from the cut subsided, overpowered by the agony of suffocation as blood flooded her lungs. Gurgling sounds came out of her gaping mouth. She started scratching her neck, as if she could breathe if she only made another incision. Her fingertips slid into the wound, reigniting the pain. She hadn’t realized that her throat was slit open and even if she did, she wouldn’t have known what to do.
She was a six-year-old girl. She had seen people punch each other in her favorite anime shows, but cartoon violence couldn’t prepare her for reality.
Her vision blurred because of her tears and her traumatic loss of blood, the clouds in the sky like blotches of white ink on dark blue paper. She stopped squirming after four minutes. Her fingertips stayed inside her throat. She passed away with her eyes half-lidded. Her blood blended with the muddy water around her, turning it crimson.