Imagine the "line" between those who will kill and those who will never kill, no matter what. Is it a thin thread that trembles, or is it a chasm that will swallow you up if you try to cross it, like the Tama River that suddenly bares its fangs on a typhoon night?
I think about this while watching the evening news. There are many reports of "killing in a fit of anger." The short phrase "in a fit of anger" barely captures the temperature or smell of the crime scene. I try to imagine it. Somehow, I can't form a clear image of what it would be like to kill someone in a fit of anger.
The reality of losing your temper
So, let's try to consider how to give a sense of reality to the act of killing in a fit of rage. It's a process of slowly reconciling the memories that have quietly settled inside of us. With each touch, the turbidity rises. As if stirring with a muddler, if you shake what has settled at the bottom, only something formless will float to the surface. Along with unfamiliar fragments. Let's take a deep breath.
I recall my memories from elementary school. Only the outline of one girl comes to mind. I can't remember her name. But I clearly remember that she always wore a light yellow hoodie, with the sleeves faded from the sun. I imagine she was what we would call a "neglected child" today, though that term didn't exist back then. It wasn't exactly child abandonment, but even a child could tell that her parents weren't paying her any attention. She would spend her time feeling lost after school.
She had taken a liking to the young female teacher, and would talk to her at length in the classroom after school. Rather than getting excited about a particular topic, their main goal was to keep the teacher company, and the conversations were mostly empty. They talked about the sweets they ate yesterday, or the dog that passed by their house. "I want that game." "I want to go there." The teacher gave short replies, with a hint of lethargy in her voice. I thought that perhaps the teacher should pay more attention to her. As an elementary school student, I almost felt that teachers were a "sacred profession."
I understand now that the young teacher was simply annoying. She must have felt that her unpaid overtime was draining her energy. But for some reason, I also felt uncomfortable with her youth, unable to hide her feelings of reluctance (nor did I feel she tried to hide them). Her voice, as she clung to the teacher like a Scandinavian cat, openly expressing her desire to be loved, traveled in a parabolic arc from the classroom to the hallway. I don't know why, but I've always felt sorry for her.
She also had a side that was clearly a "problem child." She would get up and walk around during class, and even when the teacher scolded her, she would jump up and down without saying a word. The classroom floor would creak and spread like the roar of an animal. I heard from a friend who now works as a teacher at a private high school that classroom breakdowns often start with one problem child. Immature children are easily influenced, and like ripples spreading across the surface of water, a classroom can easily fall apart.
But back then, the girl jumping up and down in the classroom didn't have that same influence. Yes, I think she was an imitation. She didn't look truly angry when she jumped up and down or kicked the desk. The sound of her feet hitting the floor. But deep in her eyes was calm. With each bounce, her hair swayed lazily. It was oily, and always moving in clumps. The swaying looked like a rehearsal for a play. Are people only drawn to genuine anger? What remains stronger than her behavior is the cold stares of those around her. A child's eyes are sharper and more strict than an adult's.
I neither liked nor disliked her. My classmates would say bad things about her and talk about her behind her back. But even saying bad things about her seemed like I was being sucked into a story she was forcing herself to make up, and maybe that's what I didn't like. Her breath stinks. I remember all those kinds of trivial things.
That day, I was wearing mourning clothes. Black pants, a white shirt, and even a tie. I stood out like an outsider among the colorful clothes of the other children around me. My parents were supposed to pick me up after school and we would go to a funeral. It was a relative's funeral. I thought that sometimes children have to go to funerals of people they don't know, that I wanted to become an adult, so I could choose the funeral, but adults can't choose the funerals they attend. I didn't understand that until I became an adult. There seems to be a continuous line between the me I was as a child and the me I am now, but there is also a disconnect. She asked me this question after seeing how I was dressed.
"Why are you dressed like that?"
I answered briefly, "There's a funeral." I looked at her and saw that with her mouth slightly open, she was pressing her tongue against the back of her upper teeth. With each press, the tip of her tongue peeked out slightly. At that moment, I thought I saw the depths of her pupils slowly move. She tilted her head and said,
"Is he dead?"
"Yes," she simply replied, taking a small breath before saying.
"That's reverse sex."
The end of her sentence had a slight bounce to it, and she tapped her fingernails against the top of the desk to match. I tried to ask her what she meant, but she didn't answer. Instead, she lined up the contents of her pencil case on the desk, then put them back one by one. It was only when she put the eraser away that she seemed to smile slightly. The laugh was silent, and only the corners of her mouth moved after a delay.
It took me a while to understand the meaning of those words. Sex is the act of creating life, and death is the opposite of sex. It was a word I had just learned in health class. Something that had been sealed away like a taboo had been altered and placed on my desk. It was like a rusty nail had fallen into the depths of my chest and I couldn't get it out. My vision was shaking.
At that time, I thought she was an existence that only brought negativity to this world. When she brought up the taboo word "sex" in reverse, her voice sounded both innocent and insensitive. And then I realized I was feeling something that was neither anger nor resignation, something akin to murderous intent. After that, her voice echoed in the depths of my ears for a while. Reverse sex.
The next day, while gazing out the window (as she often did), she saw a yellow back nearby, humming "Tabidachi no Hi" (On the Day of Departure). Surrounded by white light. It felt as though it would fall if she pushed it too hard. But she didn't push it. She even forgot that she had made the choice not to push it.
That must be what reality feels like. Even if I can't explain the reason or meaning later, the weight of the moment I come into contact with it never fades. Before I can decide on the boundaries between fake and true, things survive within me simply because of their weight.
One answer I have to the question of "the reality of killing in a fit of anger" is that it is the emotion that wells up inside you (there is a momentary pause of being taken aback) after someone you have unconsciously looked down on does something that makes you feel like they are belittling you.
When I make fake documentaries, I feel like I'm searching for the weight of these past memories. Rather than consistency, it's the sound that sticks in your heart like a nail, the moment when you wonder whether to give someone a push, the warmth of words you don't understand. When these things quietly pile up and take shape, the fiction slowly takes on the contours of reality.
I'd love to hear your own real-life experiences of "killing in a fit of anger." I can't hear your voices (obviously), but I'd be very happy if you would read this series as if you were having a conversation.
