Crossover Fan Fiction ❯ Dark Sarcasm ❯ Dark Sarcasm, In An Essay ( Chapter 1 )

ONE

“Youth is said to be a time of joy and sweetness which will never again be experienced, so it must be cherished even as it withers and dies. High school is meant to be the culmination of compulsory public education, where young people make friends that last until graduation and probably never spoken to again. High school students spend their youths on petty entertainments, math they don’t need for their future careers, friends who will eventually betray them, and love that’s immediately forgotten once they learn their partner is a selfish narcissist. Oh, of only we could all look back on our joyful High School years with the lens of clarity rather than the common tragic filter of wasted youth, wasted potential and most importantly wasted time. If only we’d gone to technical schools instead,” Hiratsuka sensei read out loud. She looked increasingly angry with every word.

“What is this garbage, Hikigaya?” demanded Hiratsuka-sensei. She was angry, furious even. I maintained my expression, enjoying how the play of emotions on her face emphasized her beauty as a maturing woman. In a few short years she would start to fade, and she’d wasted her twenties on education, partying her youth away and teaching instead of finding a man and getting married and starting a family, which she routinely complained about. Really, that was what she objected to most about my essay. The on-the-nose accuracy implied through sarcasm, but nobody wants to hear direct truth anymore. I smiled my preferred evil smile. This just made her angrier. Again, emphasizing how emotion brought out the best in her. I began to understand just why men made her angry, and why she was alone.

“I so appreciate your passion for your subject, Sensei,” I finally answered. “Words are fascinating means to evoke emotion, to state some things and imply others. To lead the reader to draw certain conclusions. I’ve taken inspiration from your teaching this subject. Why this essay might give one reader a certain impression of simple facts or mere opinions they may agree or disagree with, while another reader may find a subtler message within, don’t you think?” I teased. History and literature are full of examples of the power of sarcasm, and those who wield it well are famed villains of their stories. After all, your heroes are forthright, but villains mock, and villains have the best and most memorable lines.

“I asked you to write an essay looking back on your high school memories,” she reminded, shaking my essay in front of me in her clenched fist.

“What memories would those be, sensei?” I reminded her.

“Friendships and positive experiences and embracing the joy of youth, of course!” she insisted.

“And how would I have any of those? I broke my leg on the first day, missed three weeks of classes in the hospital, and by the time I showed up nobody wanted to make friends. Soubu emphasized its socialization, and all the opportunities that new students gain by learning in the company of the children of Japan’s leaders of industry here in Chiba City. I can only imagine how direct evidence contrary to the claims would be received. Then again, this is Japan where the nail that sticks up gets hammered back down, so it’s probably always been like this and nobody cares, am I right?” I smiled again, this time more sarcastically wide, showing my teeth. Sensei leaned back at this true accusation and lit another cigarette, inhaling slowly while she gave me the side eye. She sat, and then I saw her get an idea, a flinch of her muscles and she smiled just as evilly as I had been. I should know. I practiced in the mirror to make sure it looked exactly right.

“Come with me,” she insisted, stubbing out her half-finished cigarette and dragging me through several hallways and up a staircase to the unused building that housed several of the school clubs. The light music club at the end of the hall was drinking tea, apparently. Instead we turned to a closed doorway and sensei knocked twice, then slammed open the door.

“I asked you to knock before entering,” said a small, quiet, disapproving girl’s voice with a degree of coldness that was rare in our school. I was dragged into the room and found the source, hair caught in a breeze and lightly fluttering with sakura petals. Oh come on! Cliché!

“I did knock,” complained sensei. She thrust me forward. “I found you a club member.”

I blinked at the pretty porcelain doll looking girl and then turned to sensei.

“You have to be kidding,” I refused. She eyed me and her expression soured.

“I fear for my chastity,” whined the girl, physically recoiling, arm defending a modest chest that had yet to develop any curves. This is just sad.

“Oh, this Hikigaya has far too refined a sense of self-preservation to do anything untoward. His attitude, however, needs correction. I task you with fixing him,” insisted Sensei. I glared at her.

“Fix me? Pot-kettle!” I responded. “Why should I put up with this harassment?”

“Ah, I see. He is rather foul. Not only in appearance, but yes… his attitude. A worthy challenge, though I can only start the process. It is up to the student to take the next steps.” She closed her book of historical poetry and took me in fully, with a look of deep contempt. I think I shall have to up my game.

“You’ll do it because your essay gave offense,” Hiratsuka insisted at me. “Mocking the school and the student body are grounds for more serious action. You owe them all an apology, so you’ll attend this club until I give you permission otherwise,” she insisted.

I see. She’s threatening to get me expelled. I raised an eyebrow. She glared back, daring me to object. I’d gone to some trouble to get into this school. It was only a modest bicycle ride from home, and that time and effort saved would be lost supporting some club with only two members, including me.

“So what does this club do?” I asked the girl, finally addressing her directly. Her superior smirk gestured to the room of stacked chairs and smiled, waiting.

“No bookcases. So not the literature club. No supplies, so not crafts. No special equipment either. I have no idea. You offer no explanation and my question remains valid. So once again, what does this club do?” I ground out. She frowned.

“I’ll just leave you two to figure things out,” said Sensei and retreated from the room, closing the door.

“This is the Service Club. We take requests and assist students with personal problems they cannot manage on their own. We teach them how to solve them. Give a man a fish, he eats for a day, but teach a man to fish,” she quoted. I hate that quote.

“Give a man a fire, he’s warm for a night, but set a man on fire and he’s warm for the rest of his life,” I counter-quoted Pratchett back at her. She made a face. I am well read. And I can read English. I wrote that on the board, in English, to mock this prissy princess and her privileged principles.

“What did you say your name was?” she asked. “I am Yukinoshita Yukino, from the international studies class.”

“Hikigaya Hachiman, class 1F. Ordinary studies.” Take that, princess.

“I’ve never heard of you,” she decided to pre-empt what I was thinking.

“Likewise,” I answered. “So how many people have you helped so far?” I asked her. She considered, obviously looking for a way to lie or conceal the truth behind a distraction.

“The number is not important so much as the mission,” she finally decided. So very small, very few, and not very effective.

“I see. Well, won’t this be fun. I think I’ll do some homework,” I announced cheerfully. “Maybe write more essays on the futility of social constructs.” I heard sensei cough outside the door over that. I grinned again. Smiling is most fun when other people don’t want you to.

I extracted my modern Japanese notebook and began an essay for maximum sarcasm. The title is “Futility of Codependence in Normative Social Structures”. Sensei knocked once and burst in.

“I asked you to knock,” Yukinoshita complained.

“I did knock,” Sensei insisted.

“You didn’t wait for me to answer,” the ice maiden insisted. Sensei raised her hands in irritation and dropped that argument, moving on. I have noticed that women hate each other. They constantly fight. This is just another example of reality denying propaganda.

“So how are things going? Can you fix him?” asked Sensei of this Yukino girl. The girl merely pointed to the board and sensei slowly translated and then frowned.

“That’s hardly a good motto for a Service Club, Hikigaya.” She then erased my preferred motto from existence. This is okay. I wear that motto in my heart. And Yukinoshita wouldn’t forget it. “I’ll see about bringing you someone to help, shall I?” she promised.

I wrote further on my essay. I polished here and there, replaced certain words. Eventually came up with something I was content with. I would type it up at home for my collection, and post it to my blog online. That would be satisfying.

Eventually the hour for clubs ended and we packed up our things and left for the day, parting without a word.

Bicycling home through the late afternoon rush hour traffic I was careful to get onto slower side streets with little traffic. I was thinking about words. I never talk about the word Hope. That word is dead to me. In middle school I worked up the courage to confess my feelings to my crush, and she utterly destroyed me with the friend zone rejection, denying any feelings for me at all. I learned she was friendly with everyone, and it was my fault that I’d read more into our exchanges than that. It could have died then, but her rotten followers had witnessed this. They saw an opportunity to protect her honor, and began their campaign of bullying. They sabotaged my desk, wrote filthy messages in the bathroom stalls and put tacks in my shoes and left threatening letters. All of their actions were protected by the school, because administrators always protect bullies and insure the victims suffer twice, first by the bully and again to clean up the damage. The victims suffers the bruises when things escalate, but fighting back against bullies will get YOU expelled, not the violent ones. This was my realization. Those in power exist to oppress and destroy everyone else. There is no justice, no truth but what others decide for their own callous needs. There is only spite of people competing for resources, and those who take joy in the suffering of others.

Helping? That’s just another kind of arrogance. I rescued a dog from being run over in a momentary bout of insanity, and ruined my health with a broken leg, and any hope of friendship in this school of shallow children. That is reality. These forced obligations are the same kind of thing which drives my parents to work nights and weekends, and my sister to cry when I’m home late. Which she predictably does, because I am home late.

“I thought you got hit by a car again,” Komachi cried. I held her, the only girl in the world that actually likes me as a person, and waited for her tears to run dry. I let her drift off to sleep on the couch and prepared dinner in the kitchen for us.

She woke up to the smell of cooking oil filling the air and joined me for dinner, groggy and exhausted. I’ve been looking after Komachi since mother took that promotion at work back when we were both in elementary school. Komachi is a sweet girl, but careless much of the time. She needed me to look after her. Lately she’s taken on more household chores and has learned to cook.

“So where were you, anyway?” she finally asked.

“I have been forced to join a club after school,” I explained.

“What does that mean? Did your rude mouth get you into trouble?” she questioned, giving me the eye.

“My Modern Japanese teacher did not like my essay on Youth,” I answered. “She has forced me to associate with a girl with a very condescending attitude, probably one of those rich girls like in your magazines.”

“And this is totally NOT your fault, right Niisan?” Komachi taunted with full sarcasm. Unfortunately, due to raising my sister myself she has picked up my bad habit. “So what is this club called?”

“The Service Club. I’m expected to help other people,” I complained.

“How dreadful,” she mocked with an English accent. “My own brother, forced to associate with his peers.”

I glared at my sister, who grinned in response. She’s learned terrible habits from me. I sighed.

“So I’m going to be late home from school at least an hour every day. Make yourself a snack and do your homework or something. If you need something from the market, text me and I’ll see what I can do,” I offered. She agreed to this, in principle.

I cleaned up the dishes and retreated upstairs to work on homework, typed up my essay on social constructs and uploaded that to my blog, and called it a day. Sleep came quickly.