Chapter Text
Yes, as the title would suggest, this is the tale of my own life. It truly is remarkable how things happen the way they do, and thus, I had to write a story about my own circumstance.
If you’re reading this now, you’re likely half-fae yourself as to how things have changed these past years, but I still believe it is a good idea to introduce my story with a description of the world of then’s current situation. In my opinion, exposition, although rather boring, is most certainly necessary in order to introduce the setting, lest it confuse the reader. So, alas, I must write it. But since this is an autobiography after all, I’ll be able to write about the past myself in as much detail as I would like. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get through my own introduction far easier than I would when writing a novel. Note that after I finish introducing the setting, I’ll be moving to the present tense. I never did quite master the language intricacies of Japanese, and the present tense is popular enough in novels anyhow.
The year was 2037 when my tale took place, I believe. About fifteen years prior, human scientists discovered the connection between their dimension and mine. Us fae had lived among them since we exited. However, we were invisible to them as we were protected by a barrier set by the shielding species after coming across the age of witch trials. It was better to be forgotten than dead, said our historians. The only downside was that due to the shield being created by fae far older than the ones that wanted to reopen the seal after those trials were regarded as idiotic and useless, the task simply couldn’t be done. No person could use magic, thought the forgetful people, that was ridiculous. So we lived in solitude until that day.
Once the seams were split, we were accepted with open arms and eyes. Eventually, a fae married a human. That event is now commonly known as the Union of Natural and Supernatural. Not long after, a child was born to them, and to the doctor’s surprise, she possessed all the traits for an ideal human. She hadn’t a single imperfection on her skin nor her body, her health beat off every illness that came her way with impeccable ease, her intellect wasn’t a mark below genius, and she was completely and endlessly beautiful. After she turned five, it became clear she possessed all the powers he mother did, and other half-fae children proved that all had the same ceaseless perfection and abilities of their fae parent. This began the age of supernatural-natural unions. As time passed on, the circumstances continued to intensify.
I had witnessed twenty-three winters by the time my story begins, so I was close to the age most of my species married at. Needless to say that I knew I’d be forced to wed myself to someone soon. With marriages came arranged ones as well as ones only for money and genetics. What could be more valuable than having a magic-tainted bloodline, or even just a spouse that had magical abilities to show off? And for the fae, human currency granted them a place in a society they’d shunned themselves from for so long. Most of those I knew had a wife or husband.
I wasn’t half as excited to be a part of the Natural world as most Supernaturals were. Meeting new people absolutely terrified me, and besides that, I’d dreamed my entire life that I would marry someone I loved. I only had two things that could protect me from a fate I did not desire. The first: my easy camouflage. My species looked just like Naturals, and most of them were female. If I kept my head down and pretended to act powerless, I needn’t worry about being forced to marry. It wasn’t exactly a glamorous lifestyle, but I’d been young enough when the seam ripped to be able to gain enough Natural currency to sustain myself and escape the outcome I so terribly wanted to avoid. The second condolence came from my power. When I was a child, it’d been regarded as weak yet deadly. I knew where those words were coming from. As a species whose powers came from writing, it was very limiting to have a power that only worked when I wrote mystery stories. On the other hand, if the reader died or failed to solve the mystery, they would be trapped in my writing forever. That’s how I am able to write this autobiography in the first place. It’s not a mystery.
With that out of the way, I can finally end this prelude and get to the the first chapter.
Chapter One~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My obnoxiously bright red alarm clock rings as loud as ever. I roll onto my side, scowling when I see that it’s rung thirty minutes too early. I would go back to bed, but with only thirty minutes until I usually wake, I decide that I may as well just get ready for work early. I like having some extra time to myself anyway, without having to cover my eyes with my bangs to disguise my overly attractive face, for Naturals that was. I wouldn’t ever think so highly of myself. I’m the farthest thing one could get from egotistical. For Supernatural standards, I wouldn’t look like much, but I never understood how hideous some Naturals could look when they refused to groom themselves.
That could be a result of working at a small run-down used bookstore where most people only ever came to donate old books so they could get some extra money from books they didn’t read anymore, but I digress. One would think of me as mad for working at a place centered around literature, but I believe that because I am not writing anything myself, it’s the perfect place to hide from people looking for my type of magic. They would assume that because I am handling books without any magic going on, I couldn’t be a Supernatural with word-themed abilities.
After dressing and grooming myself, I prepare some breakfast. It’s the same old cheap chemical-filled rubbish I force myself to eat thanks to my low pay. I don’t really mind, though. As long as I’m avoiding people, I should be fine. And in the meantime, if I met someone who thought of me as human and loved me for me and not my genetics, then I could be truly happy. What kind of gold-digger would romance a young man with barely enough money to feed himself? That’d be anything but gold-digging, or more accurately, species-digging. One can only find the purest of people in the grittiest of situations. A diamond in the rough, if you will.
Most Supernaturals can give themselves all the substances they need to live with their abilities, but I can’t solve my own mystery. So I force the dishwasher-tasting rice and the chunky pre-packaged noodles down my throat. It’s not that bad when I’m used to it, at least. And luckily, Supernaturals can’t be harmed by the death fuel Naturals put in some of their foods.
I look in the mirror one last time before leaving the door. My eyes slither over my loose-fitting black t-shirt with the name of a rock band I don’t listen to and my faded torn jeans. Shoulder-length violet-black hair tumbles around my face and my neck in messy curls. Such a color would have been thought odd if I hadn’t worn the whole goth getup to match. Who would look twice at some violet-haired man if he looked like he still hadn’t gotten over his edgy teenager phase?
I glance at my own sharp-lashed but tired ice blue eyes one more before combing my hair over them. Although I can see mostly fine thanks to my hair being relatively thin, it’s still a bit of a handicap.
Before I leave, I grab my brown leather single-strapped work bag and check to make sure I put my phone and wallet in it. Once I’m satisfied, I put on my black high-top sneakers with white laces and go on my way as usual.
I arrive at the train stop and wait for the train I need to get here. It should be less than a minute now, based on its past arrivals. I tap my foot against the gritty gum-coated pavement while I put in my earbuds. The familiar jazzy old detective film-like tune begins to play, and I continue tapping my foot to the beat.
“Haikara na minato-machi hishimeku hito no mure kazu shirenai aizougeki, ” I sing along. Suddenly the words disappear from my mouth, and the earbuds shut off, since they can sense I want to pause the music.
Time seems to stop as a man with the most intensely green eyes I have ever seen on a human passes me by. He blinks at me in what feels like slow motion.
After the event ends, I wonder why him passing me by strikes me as such an important thing. Something in my body tells me that he’s important. Perhaps my sense of finding small details is activating again. It’s something that comes as a given with the genre I use to write.
The strange moment ends, and I hear the robotic voice declare that my ride is here. I shake the buzz of thoughts out of my mind and head to the glass automatic door.
My earbuds are still silent. Once I have my hand secured on a sweaty yellow polyester strap to hold while I travel, I use my other hand to fish for my phone in my bag. I press play on my song again and try to ignore whatever happened just now. The melody swells around me again, and I can almost forget how unsettled I felt. After a while, I am able to completely banish the instance from my memory.
I reach the old little building with no further delay. In my opinion, it’s rather charming, in a cottage-in-the-forest way. Its roof is covered in a traditional triangle-shaped roof, like one you’d see in a child’s drawing. The walls are off-white, though that is due to their age and all the weather the building has gone through. Windows line the front to display the wide amount of books inside, below the windows are flowerbeds of succulents. Its aesthetic is a bit out of place, though, considering the stores around it are much more modern.
I open the sea green door on the right side of the front wall and hear the familiar bell ring. I’m instantly greeted with the usual smell of paper and air fresheners. “Hello, Mr. Hāfusaito,” I greet my boss politely. Even if I hate him, it’s good to be mannerly. Not to mention that if I told him my true opinion about him, I’d get fired.
It’s not like I just dislike him for being my boss or anything like that, though. That old man just creeps me out. No matter how many times I tell him not to get involved with my personal life, he’s always pestering me about it. I know he means well, but I can’t stand the eerie way he looks at me with that one cloudy white-glazed lazy eye of his. If I could, I’d make him read a mystery story by me. But I can’t blow my cover, so I just have to deal with him.
“Poe,” he responds and points to the stack of books on the polished wood counter. “These got donated yesterday, and Chigau decided to sort them by color instead of series.”
Chigau is a young, skittish boy, and his job at Storytellers’ Book Nook is his first. He procrastinates more than he should, but when he tries, he does his best, though that isn’t much. The only reason he hasn’t been fired yet is because there aren’t any other employees besides me. Besides, when he has some assistance, he can do his tasks correctly. I don’t like or dislike him, and I relate to the boy’s nerves. Except that his worries are far more trivial than avoiding people that only want him for his genes and powers.
I begin looking at the covers of them to discern the genre and series. I notice ten minutes though sorting the latest installment of Ace Detective Vincent Heathering. It’s not a very popular series, since the books are self-published and therefore not sold in any major bookstores. Despite that, I enjoy reading them. Since I write my own mysteries, it’s fun to read works by fellow authors. Maybe I’ll buy it later.
I put the new one next to the rest of the picked through collection of the books. Next I move on to the teen romances. Some of the titles seem like they’re trying far too hard to appeal to their audience, like Love Under the Full Moon, or Fantastically Handsome, or Halfblooded Dreams. I can’t help but laugh at how ridiculously edgy they sound. Hāfusaito raises an eyebrow in the corner of my eye, and I hastily return to my work.
Lastly come the children’s books. Most of them come from a series I haven’t read but have heard of before. Something or other about Greek goddesses and gods, if I remember correctly. I shelf them next to each other in number order in the short navy blue bookshelf in the primary school age section, smiling at the arrangement of eighteen pastel covers all in a line.
I move to the empty burgundy cashier desk and sit in the plush revolving chair. As I close my eyes for a few seconds to mentally pat my back for a job well done, I hear the bell on the door ring, right after my phone does. Luckily it’s just a prank call. Hastily I get up and make sure my face is still covered with my hair.
“Welcome to Storytellers’ Book Nook,” I parrot our run-of-the-mill introduction. “Have a swell time looking through our special collection.”
I turn to see who I’m talking to. I’d recognize those eyes from anywhere. Miraculously, it’s the man that stopped time when I saw him. In a way, the situation is comedic. My sense of discovering things that happen later on truly was impeccable.
With the better lighting from the bookstore, I get a full look of his appearance and his attitude. Off the bat I can tell he’s the prideful type with a dash of high intelligence. What a shame such a memorable trait is a portion of that type, I sigh to myself. Then again, it’s common knowledge that you can’t judge a book by its cover. I should know that. I work at a bookstore, for goodness sake!
His spiky hair ends right below his round chin and slices down between his oh so memorable nearly shut pure emerald eyes that lack even a hint of brown or blue. He wears a pale tan cap that matches his sea-green-striped flannel with sleeves that have been rolled up to his elbows. Underneath his flannel lays a plain white t-shirt, and below that are baby blue jean shorts that cut off just below his knees.
“Do you have the newest book in the Vincent Heathering series?” he asks nonchalantly. “I’ve heard that there’s a guy that donates them here a lot.”
My eyebrows raise. A fellow fan, too? He’s going to take the book I wanted, though. I’d buy it, but I’m living on scraps already. Thanks to their unpopularity, those books are expensive. I keep my mouth shut despite my jealousy. I don’t want to endanger my safety, after all, even if he doesn’t look like the type that would sell me out. Book covers only relay surface information, I remind myself. “Is this what you’re looking for?” I mumble in a monotone voice, lifting up the paperback.
“You wanted to read this before I bought it, didn’t you? But you can’t, because from the looks of it, you’re living on minimum wage.”
I nearly drop the book, startled by his accuracy. “I.… What?” is all I can respond with.
He shrugs and pulls a lollipop from his pocket. As he puts the red candy in his mouth, he explains, “I could tell by the way you talk and your demeanor. And you’re from North America without a doubt. I could detect that accent a mile away.” He sounds like he’s telling that I’m an idiot for not knowing how he got all these details. “That’s what comes from being the smartest person within a ten-kilometer-radius, or more likely, all of Japan.”
I really don’t want to continue dealing with him. He’s overly extroverted and is ridiculously egotistical. Never mind those eyes. He keeps them shut most of the time anyway. Plus, he’s taking the installment I’ve been so excited to read. I move to the counter and give him a dirty look, then type the price into the register.
“I hope that there’s finally a somewhat difficult mystery this time,” he laments. “But the characters and the will plot make up for it if not, at least.”
A sense of defeat and anger rushes through me. He doesn’t even enjoy these books that much, and yet he’s taking the one I haven’t read away from me.
“Aw, don’t get mad,” the green eyed man frowns. “I love these books, but I think it’d be more fun if the mysteries were more difficult.” He pays for the book.
“Then you try writing something better,” I hiss, taking the money. At this point I barely care about keeping my shy energy.
“I will if you’ll do the same. Let’s prove who’s the real fan, alright?” He suggests this with a competitive grin.
I hate how much he’s insulted the great Vincent Heathering books. I’d agree to his challenge, but I can’t do it thanks to my ability. I begin to think of the least cowardly way decline his offer. I despise him believing he’s won.
An idea electrocutes my blood. If I wrote the novel but I read it aloud, he wouldn’t be the one that would actually be reading it. I know he wouldn’t get pulled in thanks to previously testing this theory a while back.
I can operate on a little less sleep to write this mystery. I’m a Supernatural. It won’t hurt me, it’s just less than pleasurable.
I narrow my eyes, though he probably can’t see them through my hair. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”
He tips his hat. “May the best author win. I’ll crush you with ease, Edgar Allen Poe.” With that, he grabs his book and pivots to the exit, leaving me dumbfounded on how he knew my name.
I look down at my phone. I realize I must have left my contacts page open after the junk call. His observation abilities are as strong as mine, because of course they are.
The bell rings once more. This time it’s one of our regulars, one of the the ones that never buy anything but return their books for some money. She hands me her very tall stack and tries to make small chat, but I don’t continue the conversation. I’m far too busy brainstorming the setup for the perfect crime.