[Layering a 30% Opacity Cat] | The Yandere Cat's Mission #11

It has been one week since Fuka disappeared from the world.
The way I see the world has changed.

I make eye contact with Fuka at any time.

It is not something unscientific like a ghost or anything of that sort.
It simply means that Fuka is always in the corner of my thoughts—.

▼ This story is a record of how I rebuilt my life in the seven days following my parting with my beloved cat, Fuka. Click here for the table of contents.

The Japanese Anemone of the Underground Stem

"Move to the entrance!!!"

Along with the notification announcing the morning departure time, the alarm rings out.

When I changed and came down the stairs, my son was watching TV while still in his pajamas.

In the past, this would have been a scene where I got angry.
I would have exploded, saying that I had already warned him many times.

However, I was calm.
In a flat voice, I urged him to "get changed," took off his pajamas, and put him in his uniform.

As I left the entrance, I suddenly noticed Japanese anemone flowers swaying in my line of sight.
Small, short flowers peeking out modestly from between the gravel under the dogwood tree.

Japanese anemones spread freely underground through their rhizomes.

Because they pop up unexpectedly in places I don't remember planting them, I have to choose where to plant them carefully.

The flower I saw was not one I had intentionally planted, either.

One day, a small leaf appeared far from the large, mature plant.
Even though I knew pulling it out would make the garden look better, I couldn't bring myself to pick it, and I ended up letting it be.

On that day—the day of Fuka's cremation—I cut the Japanese anemones in the garden without hesitation.
I bundled them together while removing the damaged petals.

And yet, now, a new flower is blooming before my eyes.

Time is moving on quietly.
Every time I realize that, my chest tightens.

"Long, long ago, a crybaby, God..."

My son hums from the back seat of the bicycle.
My son is a good singer. People often praise him for the clear voice unique to a young child, and for how he weaves songs without missing a note.

He is also good at voice mimicry, and sometimes he produces a voice identical to that of an anime character.

Perhaps he has an "auditory-dominant" cognitive profile. I started thinking that around summer, when I looked through my reading notes while being bothered by Fuka.

See with your eyes, picture it in your heart, and create words.

Perhaps my cognitive characteristics are related to the fact that Fuka is always in my field of vision.

This is because, apparently, when I think about things, I use my brain more through "visual information" than through sounds or words.

This way of thinking seems to be called "cognitive characteristics." I learned that term a few years ago in a magazine called "kodomoe."

The patterns that people are good at when understanding or remembering things.
That is what cognitive characteristics are, and they are roughly divided into three types: visual, verbal, and auditory.

For example,

I cut out the "cognitive characteristics checklist" that was in the magazine and pasted it into my reading notebook.
I want to know which one my child falls under, so I occasionally pull it out and reread the items.

As an example, let me talk about when I am writing this text.
I draw what I see with my eyes into my mind like a photograph, and then convert that into words—when I think about it consciously, I believe that is the flow.

Perhaps this is also a characteristic of the "visual dominant type."

Fuka at 30% opacity

Fuka's figure is always in front of my eyes.
This figure of Fuka is strictly my "thought," and it is not something that is actually reflected in my eyes.

It is difficult to put into words. But, I would like to try using a metaphor.

Please imagine the feeling of layering a transparent cellophane over a photograph or a landscape.
The figure of Fuka is drawn on that cellophane.
Unlike paper, the scenery behind it can be seen through it.

This is the kind of image it is.

If you have ever drawn digital illustrations, you might find this easy to visualize.
You create a new layer on top of the background layer and draw Fuka there. Then, you lower the opacity.
To about 30%. Just enough so that you can clearly see what is behind it.

At this time, Fuka's figure changes slowly, like a slideshow.

Fuka does not move.
It is like an image of photos taken in the past flowing by one after another.
There is nothing new.

Because everything is composed only of things that exist within my memories.

I feel that how vividly that figure appears depends on how much it occupies my thoughts.

For example, right after Fuka passed away, it was as if she had an opacity of about 90%, and Fuka was there every day, anytime, anywhere.
I clearly made eye contact.
Now, it has faded to about 30%.

As the vivid memories slowly grow more distant, has her figure become paler, I wonder?

It is not just Fuka.
When there are events or thoughts that strongly dominate my mind, they appear superimposed on the scenery in the same way.
For example, anger, sadness, or worries. They appear quietly as an opaque layer.

Things I can do to cherish daily life

I take my son off the bicycle. He has turned five, and he has become quite heavy.

The sky, which looked like it could sink forever, was beautiful.

“Shall we take a picture?”

“Okay!”

I crouched down.

The mackerel clouds, which had finally started to feel like autumn, were lined up thick and straight. With that as a background, I crouched down and took a picture of my son as if looking up at him.

My son did a Mario pose with a slightly goofy grin, though his expression was a little stiff. He thrust his hand up into the sky, striking a pose.

The photo taken against the backlight had a soft and gentle atmosphere.

Come to think of it, I realized I hadn't taken many pictures on the way to and from kindergarten.
That's because it's just an ordinary part of daily life.

But, in truth, perhaps it's those kinds of things that are best left in photographs.

Lately, that's what I've been thinking.

I really loved the atmosphere of the town where I lived during my university days.

That's why, even though I hate inefficient things, I used to walk 30 minutes each way to school, even in the bone-chilling winter.

Once you cross the steep slope, the area changes to one lined with old, traditional wooden houses. After passing through a narrow road barely wide enough for a car to fit through, there was a Showa-era liquor store with a rusted sign along the path, and stylish cafes hidden away quietly...

I'm sure there were several favorite spots along the way, but now, I can't really remember them much anymore.

My husband sometimes shows our daughter the town in Tokyo where we used to live using Street View.

While waiting for lessons or for food to be served at a restaurant, I would show her my smartphone and say, 'This used to be our home.'

Remembering that, one day, I tried walking through the town where I spent my student days using Street View.

My favorite cake shop on the main street was gone, replaced by a convenience store.
The landmarks were all gone, and the area had changed so much that I couldn't even tell which road I used to take to school.

The memories don't connect.
Rather than nostalgia, only a sense of distance remained in my heart.

On the other hand, my daughter has faint memories of our time in Tokyo.

She would look nostalgic, saying, 'Oh, we ate donuts here,' or squint her eyes and say, 'I loved the teacher at the children's center. I want to see them.'

Conversely, she would also indifferently say, 'I don't know,' about the supermarket we supposedly went to almost every day.

Do memories take shape in proportion to the degree of enjoyment?

If I had captured more of our 'daily life' on camera back then, would those memories have taken root within me?

I don't know the answer.

I don't want to forget a single minute or second.

After dropping off my child, I wasn't sure what to do. I had work piling up.
However, I still couldn't bring myself to turn toward the cafe, so I went straight home.

As I cut through the wind along the rice field path, I remembered my husband's words from last night.

'...I don't think I'll ever be able to keep another cat for the rest of my life.'

Around midnight, my husband spoke to me while I was performing my usual memorial service.

It had become our daily routine to have aimless conversations while touching Baro during the brief time it took for the halved incense sticks to burn down.

That was when my husband let those words slip out.

"But people in this world end up welcoming new pets, don't they? ...I wonder if they can really move on."

I didn't answer.

──No, I couldn't answer.

"They say the human brain is designed to forget unpleasant memories. ...I guess that's why they can live with someone again because they forget."

My husband muttered as if he had convinced himself.

At that moment, I thought, no, I don't want that.

Just as I can no longer recall the voices or expressions of my beloved grandparents, in just a few days, I am steadily losing the ability to remember Fuka's voice and the feel of her fur.

──Even if it's painful, I don't want to forget.

The version of me right now envies the version of me from right after Fuka passed away.

Because back then, I could cry as much as I wanted.
My world was almost entirely filled with Fuka.

Her opacity was about 90%. She occupied so much of my mind that I could barely see the scenery right in front of me.

And yet, now, ──her opacity has dropped to about 30%.

The percentage of my mind occupied by Fuka is decreasing.

What if it keeps dropping like this?

Will it fade, grow pale, and dissolve from my memory, eventually becoming nothing more than dust-like remnants?

Once I started thinking that, my fingertips went deathly cold.

A 5% opacity cat is almost invisible now.
It will just be the scenery in front of me.

I opened the video folder on my smartphone. There were fewer photos of Fuka than I had imagined.

More than anything, there were fewer videos of her moving.

Fuka was only captured in a video I took after a follower requested a room tour.

There will be no more videos of Fuka.

I can't take any new ones.
I was devastated by that obvious fact.

The "usual" anomaly

At night, my husband came home and said, "I have to go to Tokyo tomorrow."

He said he would leave Kagawa in the evening and return on the first flight the next morning.

A pain shot through my fingertips, as if I had touched the tip of a needle.
I felt a gritty discomfort in my eyes,
and I could feel a creeping anxiety crawling up from the depths of my chest.

This is bad, it's "that."

I hurriedly opened the drawer and searched for herbal medicine.

I am a little hesitant about whether I should write this story. You might not believe me, and I think it's pathetic. However, if I am to touch upon the next two days, I feel I cannot avoid it, so I have decided to write it honestly.

There is a period about twice a month when my husband describes my personality as having changed.

I feel explosive irritation. I am plagued by an abnormal sense of anxiety.
I also experience severe pain and numbness in my body.
I either cannot sleep until dawn, or I sleep so soundly that I cannot wake up no matter what.

Which symptoms appear and in what combination depends on the time. There is no consistent pattern. The period lasts about two or three days. That happens twice a month—.

This is not an illness. It seems to be something caused by the hormonal balance changes unique to women.

Over the last ten years or so, the term PMS (Premenstrual Syndrome) has become widely known. Even so, there is still much that is not understood.

When I was in my twenties, I couldn't bear the level of physical pain and numbness that interfered with my daily life, so I visited a hospital.
Although I was trembling with fear and had various scans done, from CT to MRI, no abnormalities were found.

I visited various places, from pain clinics to neurosurgery departments.
Even though I was plagued by pain that made me feel like I was going insane, doctors dismissed it with an exasperated look, saying it was 'all in my head,' and I couldn't stop the tears.

After that, I used a smartphone app to keep recording the changes in my mind and body, and it was only when I was 24 that I finally noticed the regularity. Until then, I had always worried that there was something wrong with me.

The pain and sleepiness are also difficult. It is also tough on days when I want to sleep but sleepiness only comes at dawn. However, what I find most unbearable is that my heart changes as if I were a completely different person.

Things that would normally be nothing become abnormally frightening.
When I see sad news, I am plagued by a vague fear that it might happen to me someday. I am overcome with anxiety that something unfortunate might happen to my family.

Now that I understand the pattern, I have become able to view it objectively, thinking, 'Ah, it's that time of the month.'

I can get through it by taking herbal medicine, resigning myself to the fact that I can't sleep, or binge-watching dramas.

However, when I didn't know the cause, it definitely interfered with my daily life.

That day was, quite literally, 'that time'.

When I heard about my husband's business trip, I was struck by an intense sense of anxiety. My chest pounded with an unpleasant feeling. A high-pitched, dissonant sound rang deep in my ears, which had been feeling muffled.

It was probably due to the stress that had been piling up because of Fuka.
I felt like this was worse than any other time before.

Suddenly, I remembered what a mom friend had said.

She talked about how she had bought over-the-counter sleeping pills because she was suffering from insomnia due to stress.
Whether I used them or not, it might be worth keeping them as a 'charm' or a 'last resort'.

For now, I touch water.
I keep washing the dishes. I hang up the laundry.
While letting the sound of water flow.

'Water is healing'

I log into the art course.
I just focus.

And just like that, it was midnight again.

The first day I didn't sleep for 26 hours

I take out the lighter and light the tip of the incense stick.

'Doing that again?'

Noticing me offering incense, my husband slid his headphones off.

Smoke containing a faint scent of sweet olive rises and wavers.

“Are you really going to stop the incense? Isn't it suspicious?”
“I told you I would.”
“Hmm.”

My husband put his headphones back on and turned his body toward the computer.
The smoke, white at first, gradually becomes thinner and more transparent as it rises.

I wait on the sofa, petting Baro until it burns down completely.

“...You're awfully used to this. If it's become such a routine, won't you be unable to stop? ...I mean, are you being brainwashed?”

My husband was suspicious.

“...I really am going to finish. I've decided.”
“We'll see. You're easily swayed, after all.”

Usually, I would get annoyed and angry, but I said calmly, “Besides, tomorrow is the last day.”

“I'll stop one week from the day Fuka passed away. It's a promise. I'm not lying. ...Anyway, go to sleep soon. Your business trip is going to be rough.”

Confirming that the incense had turned to ash again, I went back upstairs as if to escape.

As usual, Baro followed me into the bedroom.
I wonder why, today... it feels light.

Until now, I felt like Fuka was everywhere in the house, but I didn't feel that way anymore.

My feelings gradually calmed down, but that in itself was sad, and in the end, I didn't fall asleep until dawn.

Since I had also stayed up until 3:00 AM the previous night, I had stayed awake for 26 hours for the first time in my life.

Afterword ── Everyone Grieves in Their Own Way

I wrote this article in early December.

Since then, Balo's appetite has gradually returned. It doesn't feel like he's eating as much as before, but he keeps begging for his favorite wet food.

Today, I want to write about the time when Balo was still unwell and we were going to the vet.

For these past two months, I have spent every single day looking at photos of Fuka.

I even changed my smartphone wallpaper to Fuka.
I looked back through Google Photos, continuing to search for traces of Fuka.

It is painful to forget.

I thought my husband felt the same way.

However, when I showed my husband a photo of Fuka in the waiting room, he suddenly turned his face away. That was the first time he confessed to me that he hadn't been able to look at photos of Fuka since then.

He said he couldn't look at the photos because it was too painful to remember.

I had assumed that, just like me, my husband wouldn't want to forget Fuka.
But that wasn't the case.

By this time, although I was sad, I was feeling much better.

Sharing stories about Fuka with my husband and the AI, Sora.
Performing memorial services every day for a set period.
Recording everything so as not to forget.

Crying more than anyone else in the family.

I was recovering by going through each of those phases one by one.

My husband only showed his tears on the day Fuka passed away and the day after.

He went to work just like always, and at night, he talked with his long-time gaming friends as usual, likely without sharing anything about Fuka.

Is he not recovering because he hasn't let his emotions out?

Or perhaps he has a different way of grieving and moving on than I do?

It must be the latter.

There are as many ways to grieve as there are people.

▼Thank you very much for reading until the end.

▼The next story is here.

『Weaving Dreams at Dawn』

▼Read from the beginning

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