NHK ni Youkoso! Vol 1 Chapter 6

Chapter O6
Fond Memories,
Followed by an Oath
Part One
The second Golden Week21 had arrived, I recognized that the rainy
season had ended in a flash.22 The days pa.s.sed and pa.s.sed and pa.s.sed at
an amazing speed.
However, over the course of a month, all sorts of events had
occurred.
For example, one night recently, I happened to run into Misaki at
the convenience store. She handed me a piece of printer paper. It
appeared to be a contract. "Contract" was written on the paper in black
ballpoint pen.
Just a week before that, I'd made plans to meet the girl I'd known my
high school literary club. We went to a café in s.h.i.+buya and had a little 
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chat. I was a bit nervous, but nothing of note happened.
On top of that, my father was laid off during a "restructuring." My
allowance would stop the following month.
 Likewise, my next door neighbor, Yamazaki, also seemed to be
facing all sorts of unexpected hards.h.i.+ps recently. "My father, who works
in the primary sector, has been hospitalized with liver trouble," he
explained. "I'm the eldest son. Should I take over the family business?"
In reality, it seemed like he had no choice. I thought his best decision
would be to go home right away and run his family's dairy farm and
winery. Apparently, he had some deep issues with his parents.
"Even though they have money, they wouldn't help me continue my
education. They sent an application to a dairy school without even
asking me. And so I worked part time for a year at convenience stores
and as a security guard to earn my tuition for Yoyogi Animation
Inst.i.tute. They've got to be kidding, coming to me with this now!"
I didn't really understand Yamazaki's anger, but becoming furious
allowed him to put off thinking about these problems. He acted as
though he would simply not commit to anything, even if everything
caved in around him. I decided to follow his example and just avoid
reality for the time being.
Speaking of avoiding reality, there was still the issue of the erotic
game we'd been planning. We were trying to push forward, even now, at
a time when our project was almost utterly meaningless.
Truthfully, I should escape from my hikikomori life as quickly as
possible and focus on trying to get a legitimate job; but for some reason, I
put on a smile and told Yamazaki, "I'd like you to just leave me alone
about the Lolita stuff, okay?" 
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"Sure. We can work with your tastes, Satou. I honestly though we
would be arrested at our little elementary school picture-taking event
the other day."
I don't care about anything like that; I have to find a job now or I'm
finished! I wanted to scream, but once again, I smiled and went along
with him. "I'll write the scenarios today."
"I'm counting on you. The quality of the game all depends on your
scenarios, Satou."
"I know. I'll do my best when writing them. I'll put all my energy into
making this erotic game!"
Yeah, this is the peak. Bravo! Or rather, that's awful!
Nothing is better suited for escaping from reality than making an erotic
game. After all, the genre itself aspires toward limitless escapism.
Yamazaki, seated at his two huge computer towers, started another
speech. "That's right. Escapism is the very essence of the erotic game. As
creators, we have to offer the player an enjoyable escape from reality.
The real world is overflowing with painful things: girls who make a.s.ses
out of guys like us, girls who make fun of guys like us, that b.i.t.c.h who
cheated on me with the manager of the convenience store, the
community college student who toyed with my adolescence. . . all those
painful things make this world a difficult place."
The second half of his speech had described pretty concrete
situations specific only to him, but I let him continue. Pausing briefly
drink his oolong tea, Yamazaki raised his voice even higher, intoning, "In 
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short, real women are worthless. They are incredibly close to monster.
And so. . . "
"So?"
"So, as erotic game creators, we have to create perfectly convenient
female characters, the kind that don't exist in reality."
Convenient female characters. . .
"I mean, characters who start liking the protagonist without any real
reason, ones who get close to the protagonist out of pure good will, those
kinds of characters," Yamazaki explained. "Characters without any
hidden motives whatsoever, who would absolutely never betray the
protagonist. The kinds of characters who could never exist in the real
world."
"If you introduce characters so far removed from actual life, won't
the overall realism of the game be compromised?"
"It doesn't matter. Players aren't looking for realism in erotic game.
Even if we stupidly tried to introduce realism, players would just sick of
it, eventually. If someone wanted to fall in love with a realistic character,
they could go speak to a real woman and not have to play erotic games."
"I see."
"There are still techniques you should use to create characters," he
warned.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, if you just stick in a regular female character and announce
'she is a perfectly ideal heroine!' there's no ring of truth to that claim.
You have to use strategies in terms of situational and character-based set
ups to reinforce the fact that your 'ideal heroine' is, indeed ideal.
"For example, one technique is to make her a childhood friend. If 
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you make the main character's childhood friend into a heroine, you can
develop a believable bond, because they've been close to each other from
youth. From this fantasy, you get a convincing argument for her as a
perfectly convenient, ideal heroine.
"The second technique is to make her a maid. If you make a maid
your heroine, then, due to the nature of her job, a master-servant
relations.h.i.+p develops. From this fantasy, you again get a convincing
argument for her as a perfectly convenient, ideal heroine.
"Finally, the third technique is to make her a robot. You make a
robot into the heroine. Because robots cannot oppose humans, the sense
that she cannot have ulterior motives or that she cannot betray owner,
making a convincing argument for her as a perfectly convenient, ideal—"
"B-by robots, you mean. . . ?" I interrupted.
"I mean a regular robot. You make a robot the heroine of your erotic
game." It was a fairly surreal conversation, but Yamazaki's expression
suggested that this was all completely natural.
"In short, the main goal when creating erotic game characters is to
set up a reason why the heroine cannot defy the main character. You do
this when you define the initial situation. She must obey any order from
the main character, she must listen, and she must love the main
character unconditionally. These techniques can help you fulfill these
requirements as much as possible."
I thought it was best not to think too deeply about this.
In utter desperation, I asked, "Well, what about a cla.s.smate who is
both a childhood friend and a robot maid?"
"That's a great set up!" Yamazaki answered, a sincere look on his
face. 
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"Well, how about the additional scenario that she was the main
character's lover in her previous life?"
"Th-that's amazing!"
"On top of that, she's sickly and blind and can't speak, either. The
only person she can rely on is the main character. How about that?"
"That's absolutely perfect, isn't it?!"
"Also, she's got Alzheimer's."
"Good choice!"
"Not to mention suffering from multiple personality disorder!"
"Perfect!"
"She's actually an alien."
"Great!"
This discussion continued for several hours; as a result, we finally
decided on the set up for the heroine of the erotic game I was to write.
"She's the protagonist's childhood friend as well as a robot maid.
She's blind, deaf, and sickly; on top of that, she's an alien with
Alzheimer's and multiple personality disorder. However, she's actually a
ghost with a connection to the main character from their past lives. And
her true form is really a fox spirit."
"Wow, amazing! It's perfect! It's moe moe!”
“Hm. . . "
"What is it, Satou? You can start writing the scenario right away."
"Uh. . . Uh. . . "
"Uh?"
"How the h.e.l.l can I write something like this? I'll do it my own way!"
I kicked Yamazaki and went back to my own room.
It was already two o'clock in the morning. 
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What the h.e.l.l has happened to us? I tried worrying about this, but in
the end, we were just two no-good hikikomori types, after all. I decided
to continue my escape from reality.
That's right! Speaking of escapism, the best thing would be to create
an erotic game.
That's why I'd write the scenario right away!
Part Two
Several days pa.s.sed quickly.
"A journey through love and youth made by soldiers taking a stand
against a giant, evil organization. . . " This was the story that I scribbled,
as it seemed apropos. In the beginning, it went surprisingly well. The
words came fluidly. I was struck by my own literary talent.
Unfortunately, I had encountered a large problem already: The
story I was writing was supposed to be an erotic game scenario—and as
an erotic game scenario, it needed erotic scenes. In short, to write erotic
story, I had to fully describe lewd scenes. I had to write love scenes
thoroughly. It was painful. It was tragic that I, at twenty-two years of
age, had to write a wanna-be erotic story. It was too painful.
I had been locked up in my room for three days.
My work was becoming extremely difficult. My scenarios weren't
even moving along at a line an hour. The vocabulary. . . I have no
vocabulary. My brain simply wasn't equipped with the particular
metamorphs used in erotic fiction. I had no idea what to do. It took 
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forever just to choose a single word.
More than anything, it was mortifying. What in the world was I
thinking, writing such embarra.s.sing sentences? There's a limit even to
escapism. I'd blush, sitting alone in my dark room. My heart would race,
I'd break into a cold sweat, my fingers would stop on the keyboard as I
typed. . . I couldn't take it any longer. I didn't want to write erotic
scenarios.
Man, I was sick of it. Really, truly sick of it.
I screwed up all my courage, though, and built sentences with the
entire focus of my being because I feared that the second I stopped
writing the erotic game, the real problems I desperately was trying to
ignore would come back in full force. I would have to look straight at the
painful truth, and that would be no good. It would, in fact, be bad.
That's why I used the France Shoin23 books I had bought as
examples as I focused on writing the scenarios. Look for the right
vocabulary! Find the metaphor! It was a tiring ordeal. I'd write and
delete. . . Write and delete. My brain was about to unhinge.
"The man unzips his pants and drops his jeans to his knees."
"Ah, ah, oh no!"
"Sister, sister, sister!"
"And her soft b.r.e.a.s.t.s. . . "
". . . beating off. . . "
No good. Delete.
"Swollen."
No. Delete.
"It rose high in a manly way."
Wrong! Delete, delete! 
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'Piercing the sky."
Are you kidding?! Delete, delete, delete!
"Soaking wet."
Wrong!
"Salmon pink."
I said, 'wrong!'
"s.h.i.+ning wetly."
No!
"Stuck wetly to the lower abdomen."
Stop it!
"Slimy."
No more!
"Heartbeat."
I can’t take any more!
"The l.a.b.i.a."
What the h.e.l.l is wrong with me?
"Sh.e.l.l pink."
I said, 'what's wrong with me?'
"Milky white."
What's wrong with me. . . ?
"Small b.r.e.a.s.t.s. . . "
". . . fresh and young. . . "
". . . sweating. . . "
". . . harder. . . "
"N-no!"
". . . sweet sigh. . . "
". . . rubbing up against her. . . " 
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". . . slightly pointed. . . "
Other words came to me: "grope". . . "undulation". . . "insertion". . .
"hips". . . "from her lis". . . "grinding". . . "sweet". . . "like a kitten". . .
"female body". . . "tensed". . .
What's wrong with me. . . ?
"Swollen". . . "to the crotch". . . "cute". . . "urgent". . . "hardened". . .
"light pink". . . "want to see". . . "okay, it's fine". . . "completely naked". . .
"nothing left covering her". . . "an oval-shaped stain". . . "mound". . .
"slit". . .
No more.
"Right below the belly b.u.t.ton". . . "the private parts". . . "make your
chest pound". . .
I'm done for.
"Swollen". . . "breathing quietly". . . "simple". . . "the bush". . .
"overflowing honey". . . "with her pointer finger". . . "it's almost like you
wet yourself". . . "impatiently". . . "indecent". . . "of the membrane". . .
What about my life. . . ?
"Swollen". . . "piston". . . "vulgar". . . "crack". . .
I can’t see my future.
"Swollen". . . "sticky sound". . . "wet". . . "hot". . . "mire". . . "plunge
in". . . "foreskin". . . "soft flesh". . . "blus.h.i.+ng just a little". . . "licentious". . .
It's better if I just die.
"Swollen". . . "swollen". . . "piercing the sky". . . "rising high."
"Swollen". . . "swollen". . . "swollen". . . "swollen". . . "swollen!"
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I scratched my head.
Delete all, delete all, delete all. . . 
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Using a France Shoin book as a model was a mistake from the start.
When fiction becomes the reference for fiction, it's natural that the
descriptions get stranger and stranger. I felt like I was going crazy.
I'm okay. Calm down.
Taking a deep breath to soothe myself, I decided to start over from
the beginning, using my own real experiences for reference. If I did that,
I should be able to draw realistic erotic scenes based on my own
nonfiction experiences.
Real experiences, real experiences. . .
When it came to real-life experiences I could use in an erotic game; I
had no choice but to think far back into the past. I needed to remember
that distant time, five years earlier. . . that fun time from five years ago. . .
my high school years.
I closed my eyes and thought back. Doing so, I soon realized that
those memories would move in an emotionally difficult direction. I
hurriedly opened my eyes and tried to stop thinking about it. However,
the vector of my thoughts, once given a direction, could no longer be
stopped.
My bright, optimistic high school years. . . my refres.h.i.+ng youth.
"High school" suggests slightly bitter romances, and society generally
agrees with this conventional wisdom. I, too, had been in a romance;
every day had been filled with excitement, like in a love simulation game.
For example, I had liked that older girl in my literary club.
As might be expected from someone in the literary club, she was 
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quite an avid reader. Because of that, she was a huge idiot. She once read
The Complete Manual of Suicide in front of me.
I had thought, You should stop because that kind of behavior is
unbecoming. You're cute, so why can’t you just act normally?
The girl hadn't shown any sign of noticing at all.
"Why are you reading that book?" I asked her, feeling I had no
choice.
Laughing self-consciously, she answered, "Don't you think that
suicide seems kind of cool?" At the time, she'd just had a terrible breakup
with her boyfriend, and she seemed depressed over it.
"Hey, Satou. What do you think of people who commit suicide?"
She'd asked me.
"I guess it's all right, isn't it? If people want to commit suicide, I guess
they ought to be free to do so. It's probably not right for others to judge."
"Hm." She didn't seem impressed by my boring answer; as though
deflated, she dropped her eyes once more to the book on her lap.
After school, on another day, just when I had gotten sick of playing:
cards with her, she said, "Hey."
"What?"
"Satou, after all this time, if I died or something would you be sad?"
No matter how I've tried, I cannot remember how I answered that
sudden question. All I remember clearly is that several days later she
came to school with white bandages wrapped around her slender wrists.
Come on, give me a break. I have no idea how serious you were about
wanting to die, but you should at least be a little embarra.s.sed by melodrama.
"You're not just a stupid middle school girl."
She replied, "Because I'm a stupid high school girl." 
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She was the kind of girl who openly said this sort of thing though
she wanted to go to the highly compet.i.tive Waseda University. Proudly,
she'd drop non sequiturs like, "By the way, our problem is that there are
no villains anywhere."
She continued her explanation. "n.o.body is to blame. Not
Mizuguchi from the basketball team, or me, or you, Satou—none of us is
to blame. For some reason, all sorts of things seem to be heading in a bad
direction. It's strange."
"The only strange thing is your mind."
"Don't say such a cold thing to a girl who just got out of the
emergency room. By the way, Satou, did you notice that even though
none of it's our fault, a lot of casually painful things happen all around
us? It's because a huge organization is planning a terrible conspiracy
against us."
"Yeah, yeah."
"It's true. A little bird told me."
"Yeah, yeah." She was the kind of girl who liked to pretend she was
crazy. Despite that—and because she was beautiful—I liked her. A few
days before graduation, she even let me do her once.
It moved me deeply to think that the payoff for having kept on her
good side over two whole years was that one single act. It was randomly
exciting, yet it was also sad. In the end, I was able to do it just that once.
I felt like I should have done it a few more times. But then, I also felt
it might have been better for me not to have done it even that one time. I
wondered which would have been right.
Ahhh. . .
At a trendy café in s.h.i.+buya, I asked her, "Well, what do you think?" 
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It was the first time I'd seen her in several years.
The previous Sunday, without any warning whatsoever, I had
gotten a phone call. "Let's get together," she'd said.
I left the house without worrying about it.
We were to meet in front of the Moai Statue. It was a bit touristy,
but as we were from another town, there wasn't any real problem. As
soon as we greeted each other, the girl said, "I called your family home,
Satou, to try and get your current contact information, but your mom
mistook me for a salesman and was suspicious of me."
"Oh yeah, that happens a lot. Those solicitors pretend to be a
cla.s.smate when they're trying to collect a register of names. . . " It was
kind of depressing that after not seeing each other for several years, this
was our first discussion.
My memories hadn't deceived me: She really was cute, after all. And
so, I was a bit nervous. In addition, I suffered from the fear of eye
contact and agoraphobia—neuroses peculiar to hikikomori. Even after
entering the café, I couldn't stop sweating.
Seated against the window, the girl stirred her ice coffee with a
straw. "Satou, what are you doing now?"
I answered truthfully, without hiding anything. I had a smile on face.
She laughed. "I predicted that you might end up like this."
"Oh, I've currently been shut in for four years," I bragged. "I'm a
professional hikikomori!"
"Even now, you have trouble going outside?"
I nodded.
"Well then, I have something that'll be good for you."
The girl withdrew what looked to be a pill box from her small bag 
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and handed me some capsules. "This is Ritalin."
"What's that?"
"It's a drug that's kind of related to stimulants. It really, really works.
With this, you can be full of energy whenever you want!"
 She was still a strange person, even after all this time. Evidently, she
was seeing about three psychiatrists. Even so, her thoughtfulness pleased
me, so I took one of the questionable pills gratefully.
After that, I became energetic. In fact, we exchanged an
unnecessarily upbeat conversation.
"You were so normal during our high school years, Satou. . . Well,
no, I guess not."
"And what are you doing now?"
"I'm unemployed."
"You graduated from college, right?"
"I did, but now I'm unemployed. I'll become a housewife soon,
though."
"Hm, you're getting married?" A young wife of twenty-four. Moe moe. . .
"You're surprised?"
"In a way."
"You're sad?"
"Not at all."
"Why not?"
"Why do you think?"
We left the café. The girl skipped around me, laughing brightly.
Then, she said, "I'm really happy right now."
She boasted that she was marrying a hard-working, national
government employee who was rich and, at the same time, good looking. 
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Basically, she was marrying the best person possible!
"Don't think too hard about this. Don't think about anything too
complicated. I'm happy." Her tone was upbeat; it seemed that she, also,
had been helping herself to that drug.
As we pa.s.sed through crowds of people, she asked, "Back then; I
should have gone out with you. You really liked me, didn't you, Satou?"
"I really just wanted someone to let me do her."
"I'm really sorry. Maybe we shouldn't have spent all that time
playing cards every day."
"The fact that the one time we did it, we parted soon afterward. . .
that was rather hard on me."
"Maybe it's my fault that you became a hikikomori."
"There's no connection at all. It was more like some other big kind
of. . . "
"Like the huge organization?"
"Yeah, that's right! The giant, evil organization totally got me."
"Me, too, you know? The evil organization ripped me off, too! There
might be nothing I can do. . . "
Suddenly, she announced that she was pregnant.
"Wow! I'm so amazed! You're going to be a mother!" I was stunned.
"That's why I'm getting married. Now, I've succeeded at life! I've
gotten on the right path. Now, I think I can go forward, all the way, in a
straight line." She was walking quickly, about three feet in front of me. I
couldn't see her expression, but I a.s.sumed from her tone that she was
honestly excited. She was happy. She had to be.
"That's really great. Really great. Really great." I said the same thing
three times in a row to celebrate the start of her new life with 
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appropriate ceremony.
"It doesn't bother you, Satou?" Her steps ceased.
"No, not really." I stopped in place, as well.
"I don't know why, but I'm in pain."
We had arrived at a street lined with hotels. There were several
couples hanging around who had their arms around each other's
shoulders, even though it was the middle of the day. I felt a little s.h.i.+ver
of excitement.
"Shall we have an affair or something?" The girl smiled as she said
this.
"An affair with a young wife! It's like on TV!" I grew even more
excited.
"I only let you do it once, so I feel bad for you."
We stood in front of a hotel, directly facing each other. I really
wanted to stay there with her.
We were both laughing. "You're happy now, aren't you?" I asked.
"That's right."
"You're in a place where the giant organization can no longer reach
you, right?"
"That's right," she repeated.
"Then, I'm going home." Hunching over, I left the spot immediately.
As I pa.s.sed her, I stole a quick look. She was crying. It seemed
impossible. It should have been easy for someone as cute and friendly is
she was to find a happy, healthy, and gentle life—something that anyone
would envy. Someone that beautiful should be able to live a carefree life.
In actuality, there's nothing to do about a useless, recurring
depression. A person could become disconsolate or angry. Even if 
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they're enraged enough to punch something, they won't find a target. A
huge organization. . . They wish that some huge, evil organization
existed. That becomes our dream. . .
Terrible things inundate the world. This world is wrapped in
complex, messed-up, senseless, and incomprehensible misfortune and
sadness.
She told me that her college friend had committed suicide, leaving
behind a stupid will that said something like, "I've been broken by both
dreams and love, and so I shall die now." A cla.s.smate from elementary
school had married and divorced. Yamada was now raising two children
on his own and going gray, which made her laugh. Kazumi, who had
been living with a man, went home to her family. Yuusuke, who was
trying to become a public servant, failed his test. Yamazaki, who was
making erotic games, had all his dreams destroyed.
"I'm testing my own talent. It doesn't have to be an erotic game, but
I'll do. . . I'll do something!" When he proclaimed this, drunk from sake,
his future already was set as a dairy farmer, chasing after cows. I no
longer could see how he could escape it.
At reunions and parties, everyone laughed and made a big fuss.
Those events were fun, as was karaoke. Everyone had a good time and
seemed sure that the future would be perfect: We could become
anything! We could do anything! We could become happy!
These things were true—but steadily, very steadily, at a speed so
terribly slow we didn't even notice it, we were being run down. There
was nothing we could do, even if we were in trouble, defeated, of crying.
Every one of us eventually had some terrible experiences. The only
difference was whether it would happen sooner or later; but in the end, 
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we all would fall into some really unbearable situation.
I was scared. I was scared of all sorts of things.
I thought of my female cla.s.smate. Hey, I'm no good. I'm more than five
hundred times worse than the public servant you managed to meet.
There's nothing I can do for you. I really wanted to go to the hotel with
you, but it would have just made it harder for you. I wasn't just trying to be cool
or anything. Ah, I really did want to have an affair with you. It's impossible,
though. It's obviously impossible. A pathetic hikikomori like me, who can’t even
take care of himself, doesn't have the power to make you happy.
Oh, I wanted to become a strong person, a person who could for
relied upon, who brightened surroundings just by being there. I wanted
to spread good fortune. However, the reality is that I am a hikikomori—
a hikikomori, afraid of the outside world.
I don't know why I'm so frightened, so frightened that I can’t do anything.
I'm no good anymore.
Next month, my allowance would stop. What would I do then? This
lifestyle would have to end soon. Should I just end my life?
I shut down the computer I was using to write the erotic game
scenarios. I decided to call Yamazaki and apologize. "I'm sorry, I can't
write the scenarios anymore."
But he was already on the phone. I could hear his screams of rage
from next door. "Why does it always have to come back to this
discussion?! To start with, I came here with my own money. I'm not
under any obligation to take orders from you!" 
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It sounded like he was fighting with his parents again. Everyone has
their own problems.
I was just about at the point of truly losing the courage to go on. A
line from a poem popped into my head: The end of the rainy season,
refres.h.i.+ng, suicide.
I shook my head. For now, I decided to sleep. Changing into my
pajamas, I tried lying down in bed. As I did, the sc.r.a.p or paper on top of
the TV caught my eye. It was the contract I had received from Misaki.
One evening, I had been reading manga in the convenience store's
magazine corner when, all of a sudden, Misaki was standing behind me.
"By the next time we meet, make sure to sign and stamp this, okay?" she
said, extracting a piece of paper from her bag. She pa.s.sed it to me; by the
look of it, she'd been walking around with it for a while.
That sc.r.a.p of paper. . .
I'd already read it several times, but I picked it up and read again. It
was, of course, an unendingly incomprehensible doc.u.ment, so utterly
ridiculous that it made my head ache. However, with my emotions at
their lowest, it also appealed to me in some strange way. So, I finally
signed and stamped the contract.
Shoving it into my pocket, I headed toward the neighborhood park.
It was night, and the moon was out. Somewhere, a dog howled. Seated
on the bench next to the swings, I looked dreamily up at the night sky.
Unexpectedly, Misaki showed up, again wearing normal clothing
rather than her religious garb. She joined me on the park bench and
began making excuses for something I hadn't even mentioned. "This
doesn't mean I watch the park entrance from my window every night."
I laughed. After my laugh had evaporated, the distant baying of the 
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dog had ceased, and the only sound left was an ambulance's far-off siren,
Misaki asked, "Did you finish making your game?"
"Ah, yeah, the erotic game got canceled in the end. How did you
know about it, though?"
"When Yamazaki came to the manga café a few days ago, I happened
to overhear him talking about it. By the way, what's an erotic game?"
"It's a code for EROA and GARIOA.24 EROA stands for Economic
Rehabilitation in Occupied Areas, and GARIOA is Government
Appropriation for Relief in Occupied Areas. They were developed by
the American government to prevent social problems, such as disease
and famine, in the areas occupied by the U.S. after World War II."
"That's a huge lie, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"You being a creator was a lie, too, right?"
"Yeah."
"In reality, you're an unemployed hikikomori, aren't you?"
"Yeah."
I held out the contract. Quickly s.n.a.t.c.hing it from my hands, Misaki
jumped up. "You finally felt like signing it! You'll be all right now, Satou.
You can travel off into the wide world after just a little training."
"Misaki, who are you, really?"
"I told you before, didn't I? I'm a kind girl who rescues young people
in pain. This activity is, of course, a part of my project. Please, rest
a.s.sured, nothing bad will happen. Okay?"
It was a dubious explanation. Still. . .
"Anyway, with this, our contract is in force! If you break it, the
penalty is a million yen, okay?" Misaki pocketed the contract and smiled 
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blindingly. Right then, I started getting nervous. I had the feeling I had
made some gigantic mistake.
Just how much legal force did this contract have? I should have asked
my friend from college who had studied law.
Contract for Escape from Hikikomori Life and
Support Therein
Name of hikikomori: Satou Tatsuhiro.
Name of escape supporter: Misaki Nakahara.
Defining the hikikomori as party A and the supporter as party B, the
following has been contracted between the two parties.
A will confess to B all anguish, complication, complaints, whines,
and every other inward thought concerning escape from hikikomori life.
B will do everything in his or her power to aid As escape from
hikikomori life and to make his or her return to society (noted as C)
succeed. Additionally, during the process toward C, B will attempt in
preserve the emotional stability of A.
Conversely, A will speak politely to B.
A will obediently do anything that B instructs.
Furthermore, A will not treat B as an obnoxious person. A will not
treat B cruelly.
Naturally, violent acts, such as. .h.i.tting or kicking, shall not be
performed.
Counseling shall take place every evening at the Mita Fourth 
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District park. Come after eating dinner.
If A observes the contract, A should move toward C.
If A breaks the contract, the penalty is one million yen.
Remembering the contract's contents, I was attacked by severe anxiety.
"Forget about it! Give me back the contract!"
But Misaki had long since departed.
I had been left alone, at my absolute limit.