---

---

...A bento, huh.
If I'd been leisurely eating rice balls at the foot of the mountain back then, maybe I wouldn't have remembered my sister so much.
Well then, since the situation doesn't seem like it's going to change yet, let's continue... Uh, where were we?

"Oh, there you are."
Dragging the bat he'd dropped along the ground, a shovel slung over his shoulder, "the one chasing us" slowly appeared.
"The one chasing us" didn't seem to have re-tied the rabbit to his waist; his clothes were just dotted with reddish-black specks.
"Mmm, Hansel and Gretel. Tracking you by the trail of blood you left, how romantic," he said in an unpleasantly high-pitched voice, like his voice hadn't broken yet.
While still a good distance away from us, he spread his arms wide in a defenseless pose, expressing his mood. His sentences trailed off, lacking any real punch. It seemed we were more "prey" to him than the stray dog had been.

I dug my heels in, so I wouldn't instinctively back away when he closed the distance. I tucked the knife inside my long sleeve, hidden, waiting for its turn. If things went that well, that is.
"The one chasing us" approached, becoming "the one cornering us," moving at a speed just slower than a walk. He wasn't rushing, knowing that, regardless of the reason, we couldn't escape. He was cautious of his footing, perhaps because, like with the bat earlier, there was no telling what chance might produce.

"So, it was you guys, huh? Trespassing on private property, going around killing animals. I was guessing it was some self-absorbed middle schoolers, running wild in the hills at night, getting their kicks abusing small animals. Are you two siblings? Trespassing... what kind of upbringing did you have?"
As he spoke, he occasionally kicked lightly at the pebbles underfoot, closing the distance to what he deemed appropriate. I wonder if this is how a king in shogi feels when checkmated. At this range, if "the one cornering us" became "the one attacking us" and swung his bat or shovel, my ear or nose would probably be torn off. If I imagined it that way, I thought I could at least stay somewhat calm, even if it actually happened.
It's like how, once you start to figure out the timing of when a violent person (my father) will hit you, you can anticipate the pain a little and endure it.
However, dodging was not permitted.

"Listen up, this is my family's mountain. So, I'm the only one who gets to kill the animals living here. You two, who've been enjoying yourselves doing whatever you please, have to be punished."
So, he was the person living in that house at the foot of the mountain, just as I thought. Was it good luck that my sister hadn't run into him before? Or was it misfortune that we met him for the first time on a day when her leg was swollen?
"You're running because you can imagine what I'm going to do, right? Seemed like you saw everything I did to that mutt, too."
He readjusted the shovel on his shoulder, changing to a normal grip so he could swing it immediately. A scrap from the stray dog's mouth clung to the edge of the shovel, tinged a discolored yellow.

"The one cornering us" then changed the quality of his grin to a different kind of smile.
A refreshing smile, one that could fool an elementary school kid or two, one that could cancel out his messy hair.
My cheeks almost twitched.
It was the kind of smile people show off when something good has happened to them.
It only made me more wary.

"Well, don't worry. I won't do what I did to that dog earlier. This is Japan, a nation ruled by law; I wouldn't do *that*. But educational guidance should be permissible, right? Get yourselves educated on various things while you're still kids, and become fine cornerstones of society. First off, shall we go over the preciousness of your everyday limbs? Oh, wait, why's your hand already injured? Ah, this means I'll have to teach you even more about the value of being able to move your fingers."
First, he'll break our limbs, huh? Treating us just like dogs or rabbits.
And yet, the way he kept glancing over at my sister felt somehow incongruous.
...A creeping, unidentifiable emotion came over my back.
It was now clear that we had become the target of his "hunt."
Well then, I couldn't just let him quietly take us to the thunder-old-man's house in the vacant lot.

Looking up at him, unsure if my face showed the anxiety I felt, I started to speak, still feeling that uncertainty.
"Um, um, there's something I'd like to ask..."
"Hmm?" A casual response, born from his sense of superiority. Idiot.
"Actually, just now," I pressed my left hand to my wound, "over there," the blood that had pooled, "something terrible happened," I flung it right in his face. I'd been thinking in a corner of my mind that fighting had a better chance of success than running, so I was able to act.
Attacking while talking to catch someone off guard was a technique I learned from my father.
I wasn't expecting to blind him. But if something flies at a person's face, they'll flinch.
In the brief opening created by the spray of blood, there was one thing I could do.
To stop "the one chasing us," I stabbed him with all my might in the base of his right leg with the knife. I lunged, plunging it deep with the momentum, until it struck a bone with a sickening *crack*. Of course, a scream echoed through the mountains.

Unlike me, who had imagined and built up a tolerance for being on the receiving end, "the one chasing us"—or rather, "the pompous one"—who seemed to have only experienced attacking, forgot to counterattack in the face of this unfamiliar, intense pain. He tried to jerk his stabbed right leg up, but just before he could kick me off where I clung to him, I twisted the knife inside his flesh, stopping him.
This was the only way: create openings by surprise and keep aiming for the next target.
I tried to pull the knife out to stab him again—his other leg, an arm, his heart, anything—but it wouldn't come out. It was stuck fast, like a nail driven deep into the wall of a house. It wouldn't budge.
Damn it, come out! "Come out!"
Because I was messing with him so brutally, as if it were happening to someone else, "the pompous one" began to writhe in an increasingly animalistic way. For a moment, I found myself objectively observing our relationship, wondering if I was now doing to "the pompous one" what he had done to the stray dog.

I could tell this desperate struggle was nearing its limit. The focus in "the pompous one's" eyes was gradually settling on me at his feet. If this continued, he'd pick up the dropped bat or shovel, swing it once, and my consciousness or my life would be gone. If I was going to run again, it had to be now.
Giving up on the stuck knife, I twisted it in a spiral as a final act, buying time for my next move. It seemed to have some effect, as "the pompous one" let out a magnificent, inarticulate scream, "Aaargh!"
I kicked the bat and shovel that "the pompous one" had dropped down the slope, wishing them a firm "exit stage left."
Then I jumped back, hoisted my sister onto my back, and grabbed the bag. Nearing the slope, I put the bag under my butt and, like a sled, slid down the incline, just as the bat and knife had.
It went smoothly at first, but once I ended up facing backward, my sister's back was against the ground, and we slid and rolled sideways, tumbling down in a complete mess.

Pressing a hand to the spot where I'd hurt myself most, my sister and I stood up. She seemed a little more sullen than usual, grumbling as she held her back.
"What on earth... this is just ridiculous."
The first thing she got angry about after getting up was that. You'd think there'd be other things to worry about.
"Ah, what on earth indeed. Come on, we have to run!"
And yet, for a little while, it felt like I was just sledding normally with my sister, and it was fun.
Because that was the first time something like that had ever happened.
No, maybe it was the first time I'd ever played with anyone at all.
Looking back, perhaps this was where my use of emotions started to go askew.
After all, even though this was the first time I'd stabbed someone, I didn't feel anything about it.

"The pompous one" didn't seem like he'd be chasing us immediately, so even carrying my sister, I managed to escape from that spot. My wound pressed right against my sister's right thigh, making her hard to carry. Besides, she complained, "It's slimy and gross," so it was unpopular with her too.
The bleeding wouldn't stop, but the pain that had been flowing outside my consciousness seemed to be subsiding. The wound hurt terribly, and it itched. I wanted to scratch it raw. I wanted to dig four fingers in and gouge out the flesh, blood, and pain, and throw it all away. At that moment, even though I must have lost blood, I remember feeling strangely irritated, which was rare for me.
We should have been closer to the foot of the mountain after sliding down, but my sister lamented that now she had even less idea which way the bicycle was. So, we had to start walking aimlessly again. Next time, if we ran into "the pompous one" and he became "the one attacking us," we'd have no way to defend ourselves left.
Emergency evasions have a use limit, you know. I wonder if that's a lie. Right now, some mysterious radio wave...
As I staggered along like a moth with one injured wing, unable to figure out how to fly, I came across a small, soot-stained shack. My head was starting to ache, and my thoughts weren't turning over properly, so I decided to go inside. If I didn't stop the bleeding, my self-preservation would be in dangerous jeopardy.

"This shack... do you know it?" I asked, just in case, before going in.
My natural voice dropped to a low pitch, so tired it felt like I could taste sweat. When I licked the sweat that trickled into my mouth, the salty taste was faint.
"I don't know," she said, and the hair that swung with her head brushed my neck.
"I see. Excuse us, then." I twisted the rust-covered doorknob and opened the door.
Inside, it was your typical abandoned hut. There was only one window with clouded glass, so even though it was before noon, it was dim, and perhaps because of that, I couldn't particularly see the cobwebs that must have been strung up everywhere.
A lantern that might have been usable for light had rotted away, its corpse-like remains left on a desk. Not that I needed light right now. It wouldn't illuminate the darkness an inch ahead anyway. Oh, but fire could have been used as a weapon, maybe.

First, I put the bag and my sister down on the floor (if I said it out loud, she’d probably get mad and tell me not to treat her like luggage, worker ant) and then lined up a still-usable-looking cot and a desk vertically to block the entrance. I didn't even consider that we might have escaped, that "being chased" was over.
That pessimistic way of thinking—that bad things don't end so easily—was characteristic of me back then.
There, as if I'd used up all my borrowed strength, I collapsed from the knees down. I crawled, dragging myself, to the wall. Thrashing on the rotten floor, I somehow managed to pull myself up to a sitting position.
My jaw went slack, and I sucked in the musty air with ragged breaths, like a rabid dog. As I gasped and wheezed, my sister walked over and came to my side.

My sister had been carried on my back, so her breathing was already steady. However, dirt and leaves from rolling down the slope were still stuck to her face. I instinctively reached out to my sister and rubbed the mud on her cheek with my thumb. It wasn't coming off easily... in fact, it was getting blacker. Before I realized the cause,
"Blood. ...With that hand, you'll just make it dirtier."
My sister grabbed my wrist, gently stopping me. Her small fingers slid over my wound.
"Ah... sorry."
Ignoring my apology, my sister thrust out her other hand, palm up.

"My bat."
"The knife."
"Idiot."
"...I used it for soccer."
"It's still stuck in that weirdo... sorry."
My sister brought her face close to my right hand, which she still held. Then, she ran her tongue along the line of blood, licking it up.
"Uwah!" As if guided by goosebumps, my body jumped, except for one part.
Only my eyes remained fixed on my sister, unmoving.
My sister swallowed a gulp of bloody saliva, then explained with a nonchalant expression.
"Disinfecting. When I cut my finger or something, Mom used to do this."
"...Well, yeah." That woman is pretty indifferent to injuries and illnesses. Her thinking is that if you get hurt, saliva will do the trick, and if you get sick, you just need to be taken care of by your futon.
"So, I'm licking it." This time, my sister declared her intention before running her tongue over the blood and wound.

A sloppy, wet sound, like water dripping from the eaves of a roof, brought on a ringing in my ears. My sister's tongue was rough, and her back teeth were decayed (that's irrelevant), like a cat's tongue. She licked away more and more, gradually moving upward, toward the center of the wound. The lines of saliva drawn in place of the blood lines tightened around my temples.
The tip of her tongue prodded the wound. After doing this a few times, as if confirming something, she pressed her whole tongue down hard and licked the wound intensely.
A heat of pain so intense I instinctively braced myself. My sister reacted to my movement and stopped her tongue for a moment, but then immediately became engrossed in licking the blood again.
The cut was hot, and my sister's tongue was hot too. As if the wound was gaping, and something else was about to spill out from it.
Around this point, the fog in my head began to envelop me even more clearly.

"Doesn't taste good."
After swallowing the bloody saliva, my sister narrowed her eyes and offered her critique. But then,
"It's a waste."
She didn't just lick it; she started sucking blood from the cut, nibbling gently. My blood, not very thick, responded to her sucking and flowed out, gurgle, gurgle. The flow of life was heading towards my sister.
When this happens, I start to think that vampires might just be stories about ordinary humans.
My eyes felt gritty. It felt like all my hair fell out in a few seconds and grew back in one, my throat was unbearably dry, and my heart, too, lost its roundness, becoming nothing but straight-lined connections.

While wanting to smash something to pieces, at the same time, I wanted to hug my sister's shoulders.
My spare left hand started to reach out—for my sister's shoulder, her neck.
But I forced it down.
My role isn't to touch my sister; it's to prevent her from being touched.
When we're "attacked" by the "weirdo" who "chases" and "corners" us.
I have to protect my sister. And protecting her means ending it.
What my sister did to the bantam chicken in the coop the other day,
What the "weirdo" did to the stray dog,
This time, it means I will do it to a human.
...I was confident I could do it.
My blood, yes,
Because that father's blood flows gushingly through me.
Fear, kindness, hesitation, the flow of blood, suffocation,
Lock it all away.
Let's just make it easy.
Putting "resolve" aside for later, I "decide."
First... uh... I looked at my sister.

"Hey, don't you want to try tasting a human?"
"........................Huh?" My sister's reaction, unusually delayed by two beats.
A thread of red saliva and white blood stretched from my sister's withdrawn mouth to my wound.
Before that bridge could break and disappear,
"You can try it today."

"Water?"
"I'll drink."
Good for you. *Big smile.*
"Alright, first, let's eat rice balls!" I rattled on, not waiting for my sister's reaction.
I tried to hum a tune with my uneven breathing and ended up choking spectacularly. But my arms moved as if separate from my throat and mouth; even though my head was suffering, there was no hesitation in my movement to grab the bag.
My sister stared, dumbfounded, her mouth hanging open. What was it? Did she think it was still too early for lunch? It's fine, I prefer my internal clock anyway. Rustle, rustle.
"Oh dear." The rice ball was completely squashed from being sat on. About as flat as a prideful person's nose.
".........It's fine, I don't need food."
"Okay." I ate. Munch, crunch, grit, crunch, chomp, chomp, chomp. It tasted like sand.
I took the water bottle and gulped it down. She didn't leave any for me.

Oh well.
I swallowed a squashed tangerine, just like the rice ball, to wash down the gritty taste of sand in the back of my throat.
It's a lie, or rather, false bravado, but, pfft, hahaha.
I stand up. Stand up. I have no weapon. But that's fine; "the one attacking us" will bring it. If I'm to use the knife I stabbed him with as a weapon, then I'll let myself be thoroughly stabbed. That way, it will return to me. After that, I'll repeat it until it's over, with stubborn persistence.
If the one being stabbed isn't willing, the real-life Pop-up Pirate game will never end.
Come on, "the one attacking us." Come to be "attacked."
Come, come, come, come, here it comes, the presence is strong, I beseech you, yes, I beg you, come, it's coming soon, I know it, this pounding in my chest, close to being in love, acts as radar, telling me, come, what is it, hurry, what is it, it's nothing.
I'm begging you, so come.
If you don't come, won't I just look like a crazy kid?

"Hey, why do you look so happy?"
"Huhh?"
The bones of my heart creaked and groaned.
A blow so sharp, it wouldn't have been surprising if either my right ear or my sister's had flown off.
"Liar!" I probably screamed unconsciously.
Is this sister of mine like her father? A liar. My sister's mother doesn't tell lies like that!
You liar! You're the liar!
That's not it. Don't look down.
That's not it!
I don't want to kill anyone.
Even though I don't want anyone to die.
Mom, even.

"Mom?"
The floor met my knees and elbows, and then my forehead.
What was that?
No, Mom certainly died, but.
Mom died → I cried.
Nice pass!
Why does something so simple have to be used as a comparison for something this important?! Huh?
Huhh?
Are you asking if that's really correct?
No, it's not, obviously.
I'm a liar.
......Because that father's blood flows gushingly through me.

I removed all the obstacles I'd set up in front of the door.
Then I burst out of the shack as if fleeing.
"Ah, ugh..." I bent forward, trying to hold back the urge to vomit.
Being hurt by my sister was the trigger, and I hurt someone else, a person, for the first time.
And with that, it was already over.
Who, what was I superimposing onto my opponent, that I didn't end the fight?
"Uuuuuuuuugh, aaaaaaaah."
A flat, groaning sound dominated my mouth.

I won't worry about anything anymore, and
There's no way I could be having fun or anything.
My sister followed me and was by my side. For some reason, that made me happy.
"Uwaaaaaaaaaaah! Auuuuuuuuuuugh!"
It doesn't matter.
Any of it is fine.
Anyway, I'll never see that "weirdo" again.
From his perspective, that's no different from him having died.
Conversely, even with someone who has died,
Just by telling yourself you'll never see them again, you can come to terms with it.

"Hey, idiot."
On the way back, which we somehow managed to find. Around the time we'd put enough distance behind us that the mountain looked a little hazy.
My sister, stuffed butt-first into the bicycle basket and unable to move, called out to me like that.
She wore a perpetually sullen expression, only her uninjured left leg bobbing energetically from the knee down. The bare leg peeking out from her skirt... caked in mud, far from alluring. Outside, it was still the peak of morning, before the afternoon asserted itself.
"What is this, this way of carrying me?"
"I'll walk myself."
"Leave me."

"I hurt my leg too, so I can't pedal the bike. That's why I had no choice but to have you become luggage."
"That's impossible. If you can walk on that leg, you can pedal the bike. We should just switch places."
My sister's lips pouted, and perhaps because the opening for air narrowed, her cheeks puffed out. But since her words stopped in order to maintain that expression, I decided to face forward and walk again.
At that moment, the sound of the muscles in my twisted neck moving almost reached my ears.
Everything around us was quiet, as if the air wasn't flowing, and not three-dimensional.
A house with a broken fence, a red steel tower, a factory making industrial products.
Somehow, everything felt flimsy.
Only we were moving.
Only the clattering sound of the bicycle "walking," as if it were leisurely sunbathing alone, perfectly prepared to greet a carefree afternoon, could be heard. Entrusting my ears to that sound, I felt like some thought was about to surface again.

But my sister forced me to act rather than think.
"Then, carry me on your back. Worker ant... Worker ant!"
For some reason, she said it twice. And she looked a little embarrassed. About what, I wonder?
"Impossible. I'd have to leave the bicycle behind."
"If it's just that, I'd leave the whole gang behind. That's a lie, though. Probably, no matter what reason I gave."
But if I left the bicycle, I'd definitely get yelled at. By my older brother, because it would slow down how fast I could go buy books. By my sister's mother, because it would make it harder to go shopping at the supermarket. By the father-figure, who'd hit me, saying something like, "This is for the bicycle!" As long as he could find fault, anything was fine for that man.

Because there were many pauses in my following words, my sister frowned suspiciously, about twice as much as usual. I ignored her and looked over her body. Other than the leg wound I'd given her myself, she didn't seem to have any injuries. Which means, she could have returned home unscathed, couldn't she?
"...What?"
"Nothing. Just wondering what I should do when we get back."
That's how I pretended nothing had happened, locking away all the rampaging things in my heart. I'd learned a little about that method, and how it often managed to get me through things.
My sister's leg went limp, and instead, her lips parted as if in displeasure.

"Hmm?"
"Um, well..." She averted her eyes.
"What is it?" I stared at her.
"Onii... ah, ah, ah,"
"...Devil."
"What's that?" Did I get a promotion from worker ant? I pondered it a little.
"O-ah... Anii-chan, ant, ant, this ant!" She blushed even more, turning bright red.
"...Who's that?" I pretended not to understand.
My cheek twitched, just a little.
It really didn't matter who.
Because I understood what she meant.
The worker ant's big brother, huh.

"Welcome home," said my sister's mother, who greeted us, even muddier than we were.
My sister's breathing was steady as she slept, so I asked on her behalf, "What happened?"
"I tried to jump over a mud puddle near the river, failed, and fell."
My sister's mother said it with a perfectly calm expression. Then, impassively raising both hands, she conveyed how she fell with "Aaaah-whoops~" in body language.
"...Haaah." Go get changed.
"I went crayfish fishing, though."
"Um... why?" Given her lineage as my sister's mother, was it for food?
"Because I wanted to try catching something."
She looked straight down at me as if to say, "Is there any other reason?"
"Fish seem difficult, you know, and I don't have the gear," she added.
My sister's mother took the bicycle handlebars from me and put it away at the back of the garage.

"It must be tough getting muddy every holiday," my sister's mother said to me, brushing off her hands.
"No..." You're one to talk.
"Is there a reason you put up with her every single time?"
A detached question from my sister's mother, one that conveyed no sense of judgment whatsoever.
I had always imagined someone asking me that, so,
".........Because she's my sister." It's been a rule like that since I was born.
I had an excuse properly prepared.
"Hmmm... Mmm, I see. A forcibly good reason."

It seemed my excuse was unexpectedly well-received by my sister's mother. She narrowed her eyes, looking pleased.
"Alright, alright, I'll carry her. You owe me one."
The sight of a mother choosing her daughter's left leg, lifting it, and watching her dangle in mid-air for a few seconds felt like I was seeing something quite unusual. Ah, but not lifting the right leg, was that out of consideration, I wonder.
Perhaps sensing something in my gaze, my sister's mother made a duck face and, for just a brief moment, formed what looked like a smile.
"Being able to accept things is a good thing. Yes, admirable."
Leaving those words behind, my sister's mother carried her daughter princess-style and went into the entryway.
She didn't pay any attention to my right hand at all. That's a good thing.

I also entered the house, and as I was about to take off my shoes in the entryway, my gaze shifted up and down.
"...Hello."
I greeted the new residents on top of the shoe rack all at once.
The fish tank where tropical fish once lived had been thoroughly cleaned and was now the site of a newly founded crayfish kingdom. The crayfish, equal in number to my family members, wriggled on the gravel spread across the bottom of the tank.