Blood 1: Nogishi Akiko

I dislike myself.

Isn't that obvious?

I’m ugly by appearance, with no redeeming qualities.

I’m bad at sports, and not particularly good at studying.

My family isn’t poor, but our financial situation is slightly below average.

Even if I claimed to like myself, I wouldn’t be normal—no, I don’t have such a peculiar preference.

Especially my appearance.

I hate it more than anything.

Pale skin.

A skeletal frame.

Looking into the mirror, I see a face with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes—like a corpse staring back.

My teeth, uneven and misaligned, show when I open my mouth.

Only my canines stand out, asserting themselves unnaturally.

Because of my zombie-like appearance and long canines, I was given the nickname Vampire.

Since elementary school, boys mocked me. By middle school, they treated me as a nuisance—seriously so.

The bullying began with minor acts of harassment.

Whispers carried on the air, sharp and ill-intentioned.

Individually, these could be endured. But stacked, they press a person to the brink.

In my case, it turned to anger.

Why do those who appear ordinary look so ordinary?

Anger at inherent inequality. Anger and envy toward those who use it as a shield to bully.

That pitch-black emotion settled in my heart like sediment.

Thus, the incident that occurred was inevitable.

The group that has been bullying me—perhaps to them, this was never meant as bullying at all.

I do it because it is interesting.

Just that, a light feeling.

They do not know how deeply they wound others.

They did not understand it until they experienced it firsthand—what would happen when it returned to them.

The trigger was undoubtedly some trivial bullying, as usual.

Something like being hit in the face with a mop during cleaning duty. That was it, I believe.

What had accumulated within me shattered at that moment.

As they wished, I bit down—fully embracing my nature as a vampire.

I do not recall what followed.

The boy I bit went to the hospital and returned to school the next day with a bandage around his shoulder.

One misstep, and he would have severed an artery and died.

Fortunately, the spot I bit was apparently nothing of consequence, and he sustained no serious injury.

I was called to see the teacher individually.

The teacher’s demeanor was unmistakable—open disdain, as if handling a sore.

Even under those circumstances, no penalty was imposed upon me.

The school likely did not wish for the scandal of a victim retaliating against their tormentor to spread.

The male student I bit did not raise any particular fuss either.

In fact, I know nothing about what happened afterward.

At that time, I had already secured admission to Hei-shin High School and fulfilled all graduation requirements, so I did not attend school again afterward.

It was probably improper, but the school never contacted me.

And I did not attend the graduation ceremony. I graduated from middle school.

A fresh start at high school.

That was my resolve. But reality was not so kind.

The personality I had cultivated up to that point did not shift easily, even with a change in environment.

The same self-loathing, craven disposition remained.

My appearance remained unchanged.

The idea that an unattractive person could become beautiful through effort—was only true in two dimensions.

Or perhaps I had the foundation to become beautiful.

In my case, no amount of effort could achieve that.

Only through surgical alteration could it be possible.

While the other girls around me matured and refined their appearances, I remained unchanged—still resembling a zombie.

I knew I was mocked behind my back as "Real Horror Girl," abbreviated as "Rihoko."

Though I had become more reserved since middle school, and tried to ignore it, something still boiled fiercely within me.

The sight that pricked my spirit most was Wakaba-hime's color.

She, like me, rarely sought interaction with others.

Yet she received the exact opposite reception from those around her.

The difference lay in appearance.

Some girls, displeased by this, spat out hateful remarks laced with envy.

Each time I saw them, it felt as though I were being forced to look into a mirror.

Am I as ugly as they are?

The answer is already known.

Not only in appearance, but in essence as well.

Yet what can be done about it?

Then what should have been done?

Would life have been different if I had been born with a beautiful face?

That would mean my life was flawed from the moment of birth.

It is not because I am ugly in appearance that I am ugly in spirit.

It is because I am ugly in appearance that the environment shapes me into something ugly.

Those who claim not to care about appearance are merely hypocrites.

That is my conclusion.

I wish to be reborn.

This time, with a proper appearance.

Not necessarily beautiful.

At least something resembling an ordinary face.

I never thought such a fantasy could become reality.

I have low blood pressure and am weak in the mornings.

I often cannot stay awake during the first period of school.

On this day, I could not support my heavy body and collapsed face-down onto my desk.

The voice reading classical Japanese from Mr. Okazaki sounded like a lullaby.

Mr. Okazaki was different from my middle school homeroom teacher. He looked at me too—kind.

As I listened, I let go of consciousness.

When I opened my eyes again, the ceiling was unfamiliar.

Not the classroom.

Not the infirmary.

I had collapsed from anemia before and visited the infirmary several times, but this ceiling was not the same.

I tried to sit up and look around to determine where I was—but could not.

My body would not respond.

No strength remained.

In a state of confusion, something suddenly entered my vision.

A hand.

Small. Tiny.

It looked like a baby’s hand.

I was disoriented.