Saint Katsuhiko, the founder of Karekatur's religion, a religion that is based on the prime structure of the Old Congregation of Zagi, has been killed by his ex-boyfriend with a spoon in the name of Heavenly Father.

The church had not even been allowed to mourn the old man. They were told, with no real emotion in their voices, that he was dead before they could even get there and had been so for more than thirty years. The priest at the time had said it as if it weren't even worth mentioning, like someone else's death wouldn't have happened at all.

He had known it then. There had always been something cold about these people. Not just the way they spoke but also that something which seemed unreadable, but which you could feel in your bones. They were not human beings. They were monsters. He hadn't felt anything when those rumors had reached him; he still didn't know whether to hate them or fear them. He knew better now, though. It wasn't hard to figure out that this was the end of a road not even they had taken.

It would be easier if it weren't for the fact that these people kept coming back, each and every time, with some new story to tell. He wonders whether they ever stop asking questions, trying to find out what exactly happened. He wonders if they ever stop pretending to feel sorry for themselves, feeling guilty or angry or guilty and apologetic. They never stop telling stories, stories which, unlike the last one, never seem to end.

They say the man who killed the Saint lived on after his death; that he must have found a place where he belonged and died with an angel guiding him through the afterlife. And yet, they ask him whether he really thought so. Whether he believed this story, which they say makes him sound like such a nice person, that he'd die peacefully in his bed, surrounded by love. If he really didn't believe in any of this, why did he take his own life?

And yet, they always continue. It gets so much worse every time, because every single time somebody dies, there are more rumors. Every single time one of the people whose stories they listen to tells another story, they tell them that Saint Katsuhiko is gone from the world forever. But he knows the truth. Saint Katsuhiko is not anywhere; neither is he in that strange land, with the angels and demons and spirits. Saint Katsuhiko died. He went to Heaven.

He stayed there, and he lived there until he decided that Heaven was not enough, that God was not right. And so he took his own life, in order to free himself from everything that he couldn't stand anymore.

They call him a martyr, a saint. They don't know him. He hated everyone and everything, he wanted nothing to do with God, and he had long since lost hope in everything.

They call him Saint Katsuhiko, and he pretends he agrees with them. He doesn't know what to think about anything anymore.

He goes to church once a week now, for the old man, who taught him all he learned, and now lies sleeping on the ground, forgotten. Sometimes, he thinks that maybe he is dreaming. That he isn't living anymore. Maybe the old man is waiting for him, somewhere, waiting for him to come back. Maybe the old man will be disappointed in him. Maybe the old man won't want him back.

And sometimes, he dreams of home. Of the old house with the white walls, built with the same wood used in the church itself, and all its many rooms filled with family members and friends and food cooked by his followers. He dreamed of the garden in the middle of the house and of the little wooden bench by the window and of the smell of herbs, freshly cut flowers, and cooked meat. He dreamed of walking along those familiar paths, of sitting down under the tree and playing hide and seek with his mother.

He had dreamed of all this and more. He remembers it all perfectly. Even the times when he didn't remember.

But that doesn't matter. It doesn't. The memories mean nothing anyway. What matters is that the old priest called him Saint Katsuhiko, and now Saint Katsuhiko cannot go back to that place without hurting.

He can't go back there because he can't live there again.

There will be no more days spent on that bench, watching the sunlight in the garden. There will be no more walks by the riverbank. No more cooking by the fireplace. There will only be memories, painful ones.

Because, even though the church has given up believing in Saint Katsuhiko and everything associated with him, he has still been remembered. His death made the people believe that his sacrifice had meaning. They still believe in his existence. And they keep hoping that they'll hear the news again.

So he tries to pretend that he wants them to be happy; that he believes in his memory. Because he knows that they wouldn't be able to survive without that belief. He knows how fragile humans are, and how easily they break under the smallest blow. And, in spite of everything he has done to try to change things, they have turned on him too, and have betrayed him too.

In a way, his suicide wasn't as selfless as he had hoped for, nor as noble as it sounded to most people. When he saw his father and brother in tears, his body bleeding and unable to move, he wished that he could be like them, to be able to die without regret or grief, just to have the pain and sorrow go away with it. He wanted to give them peace of mind and let them forget that he existed. But even though he could not make it happen, he did not regret it. He knew then that death had no use for him anymore; it had destroyed him, and nothing he might've done would save him from the damage. All he cared about was making sure that his father and brother knew it, that they accepted the situation and moved on with their lives.

The last few months had taught him that nothing was ever going to come between his father and his son. Nothing had changed; they loved him more than any other being in the universe, and they would do whatever was necessary, and gladly, to keep him alive. They deserved the happiness that would come with it. They did not need to mourn his passing. It would not make him happy.

If they had been there, they probably would have refused to accept the idea. The last thing they wanted was for their child to leave them behind and suffer on his own, but neither of them had been able to convince them otherwise, despite all of their arguments. Neither of them had been strong enough to refuse it anymore. They had been scared of losing him again; terrified of the thought that, after all these years of caring for his son, they had finally lost him for good. It was too dangerous to let go of him. Too cruel, too cruel. But they had no choice. They couldn't stay in the house anymore; it was suffocating, even if it was only two floors below the ground. They had already sold everything they could bring with them – all of the furniture, all of the books, all of the clothes, almost everything they owned, including the piano that his mother had played so often when he was younger.

Even though he understood what had been asked of him, he had still tried to persuade them to stay at least one night. Just one day was worth staying here for, even if only for one night, even if there was no possibility of having a peaceful night's sleep. He had tried, he really had, but they had refused every single offer. It would not help anyone if they stayed longer than absolutely necessary, they had said if it would end with a broken heart. They had been kind enough to tell him what to expect when he returned to Japan, but still, he couldn't help feeling nervous.

Now, it is time to finally leave, and he looks around the empty room where his mother had stood to bid farewell to her husband when she first met the boy named Saint Katsuhiko. She had left the apartment with him while his father had packed and later had sent her goodbyes to his sister too. They had said their goodbyes in secret before heading off together, with the promise of going back soon, but he never expected that it would actually become the final moment for them both.

He sits on the edge of the bed, his head bowed low as he tries to compose himself before leaving; trying to get rid of all emotions before he has to face the pain again. Everything he feels is a pain, after all, especially the ones he can't control, like sadness. Like longing. He wishes he could cry. He should, he thinks, since his mother wouldn't, since the rest of them hadn't cried either when he died. It was just like his father, that much he can understand, so he decides not to shed a tear. Crying is for people who truly care; people who are weak and who will fall apart if they're forced to cry. People who are not allowed to feel, who are simply expected to smile and not show anything at all.

Forget it. Why should I bother crying over something that happened hundreds of thousands of years ago? He shakes his head and leaves the room.

It's time to get ready for today's journey. There's nothing else for him to do, and he would rather spend the time thinking than letting his mind wander elsewhere. So, he does the first thing that comes to mind: he takes some cigarettes. If someone had told him that a mere few hours earlier he wouldn't dare to smoke again, he would have laughed at them. Now, he doesn't care anymore what people think of him. They may laugh if they want. Let them laugh. He has seen too many of them believe that such things can change.

He lights the cigarette and takes a drag from it, letting the taste of nicotine flood his senses. He closes his eyes for a second and lets the warmth and the smoke fill him, bringing back so many wonderful moments of happiness, and he opens them slowly and inhales deeply again. He takes another drag from his cigarette and exhales softly through his nose; slowly, carefully, like he does when he holds one of his mother's chamomile tea cups. It has always been the same way when he smokes: it relaxes him and helps him to think. It also makes him forget. Forget everything. And yet it's the most important thing to remember, he says to himself, smiling faintly.

The smile disappears as quickly as it came, and he puts out the cigarette and places the lighter next to the tobacco box.

He grabs his backpack and starts taking things out of it, looking for a new pair of boots. After putting one on, he takes another and starts walking toward the door. On the other side of the small hallway leading outside the bedroom, he finds his mother and sister waiting patiently. They must have heard him moving around. He smiles gently at them and greets them with a quiet, "Good morning." His voice sounds weak, hoarse even to himself; perhaps because he hasn't used it for quite a long time.

"Good morning," they reply quietly.

The walk to the station is quick and silent. He doesn't talk and they don't try to speak. They exchange glances once or twice but don't say anything. He knows exactly what they're both thinking. He knows what they feel about him, and he understands, but there is nothing he can do about that right now. For now, he needs to focus on the present, the simple task of finding an empty ticket booth.

When the train arrives, they take their seats. His sister falls asleep almost immediately on her seat and his mother starts telling stories about the childhood she and her husband had lived until he died, and he doesn't stop her. Instead, he leans against the window and stares at the fields passing by outside; he wonders why it is so easy to see everything through the windows now. It seems like a different world altogether, with a whole new sun shining bright and full of light. He watches the sky gradually grow dark and eventually turns into purple. The sun disappears behind the horizon as his sister starts snoring lightly, and he smiles lightly; his mother laughs loudly at that, and the sound reaches him through the glass.

And then, suddenly, everything changes. Suddenly the world stops turning and turns upside down. It isn't the usual way of falling; the train has stopped moving, instead, it is rolling along the tracks and stopping on its track. A horrible sound fills his ears, louder than any noise he has ever made before, and suddenly his entire world becomes black, white, and red.

He remembers screaming, yelling, and begging his sister to wake up and tell her what was happening. He remembers running around frantically until everything turns upside down and the train falls apart. He remembers the explosion that follows afterwards, deafening and terrifying. In fact, he remembers everything, which makes him feel even more alone. There is nothing he can do. He remembers that he is sitting here on this cold metal bench, staring at the darkness of the train cars outside, trying to process what he had just experienced and wondering what would have happened if he had just run faster. Maybe he would have been able to avoid it, he wouldn't be dead, and he would still be with them. Maybe... Maybe he should have. Because everything else would have been easier. At least then he wouldn't have suffered as much as he is suffering now, and he doesn't know how long he would have been able to hold onto life without help.

In spite of the fact that everything seems so much darker than normal and darker still if you look at your feet while standing on the train tracks, he feels like he isn't seeing anything at all. Everything is blurry, distorted, and strange. He feels confused and scared. This cannot happen, he thinks. What is happening to me? What is happening to my body? My mind and soul are fighting against themselves. He doesn't understand what is going on around him. Something is wrong with his brain and his body and his soul. He needs to wake up from this nightmare and come back home, where everything will be okay, where his parents are waiting for him, where everyone is safe, and where nobody died or has hurt anybody. Where he will never have to go through what he had gone through because the world is going to end and he won't live to see it happen and then they'll go away forever, far away. He needs to wake up, wake up, wake up!

Then everything starts to turn into colors. White, green, black, red, blue, yellow, and finally orange. Everything that surrounds him gets brighter and clearer. He realizes that he can see, that his vision finally started working again, though he cannot see clearly. Everything is so blurry, though. He can barely recognize his surroundings or even his own breathing. When did I start hyperventilating? He tries to breathe, tries desperately to take a deep breath to calm his racing mind, but the air he inhales causes him to choke. He gasps and starts coughing, trying to get oxygen into his system again, and his lungs hurt. They burn and they ache. They hurt, hurt, hurts. He wants to cry, but there aren't tears coming from his eyes, and so they stay stuck.

Suddenly everything is clear again. His vision is returning, and he finally manages to open his eyes completely and stare at his surroundings. The train is still there, in the place he was supposed to go to, and he realizes he didn't manage to get to the terminal before it arrived. He doesn't want to panic and ask to leave, so he just sits there and waits. He doesn't know how long he will have to wait. Hours? Days? Weeks? He's not sure; he just needs to be patient, to keep living in a world of color and brightness and nothing else. Even if it will be difficult. It will be hard, but he will be strong.

He stays sitting on the seat of the train for what seems like an eternity. Time moves differently here than anywhere he's ever been. No amount of thinking could've made him realize that, yet here he is, waiting for the train to arrive, sitting on the edge of his seat, unable to move or close his eyes. He wants to sleep, but there isn't enough time, so he keeps them open.

Time passes.

Eventually, the train arrives, and he stands up, stretching, and prepares to walk off the train after bidding farewell to his family and promising himself that he'll be back soon. He'll come back. He'll find a way to make it all better; they'll be alright again. He can't do anything, really, no matter how much he wishes he could.

He walks towards the exit and steps into the street, looking both ways, hoping to see his siblings waiting somewhere, but he doesn't. He turns and walks back to where the train had arrived. Nothing. There's nothing. Not even a hint of his sister, of course, or his mother. He sighs, and goes back inside, not bothering to check if anyone is there or waiting. It won't matter anyways.

He doesn't want to go into his apartment anymore. That place is too small, his brother and sister don't like being alone together, and he doesn't want to go back. He doesn't want to face it right now. So, rather than go into his office where he can sit at the desk and look through all of his work again, he sits down on the floor near his bed. He closes his eyes for a few seconds and lets his head rest against the wooden frame, and he feels a rush of relief overcome him. His chest finally relaxes. His breathing becomes steadier. He takes one deep breath, two, three. Finally, after what feels like hours, but is probably closer to minutes, he sits back up. Now he knows what to expect. All of these memories of what happened to him will haunt him until death do us part. But he won't give up hope. He won't allow that kind of weakness to consume him again. He has to keep fighting. For what reason he doesn't know.

His eyes land on the little notebook lying on his bedside table. He hadn't remembered writing it, but now it seems as obvious to him as day after day of the past week. He has filled the pages with words. Things he's said, things he hasn't, things he thought about, things he wishes, everything he wrote. He picks up the pen and writes something quickly on the top page and underlines every word, making sure that it's legible. Then he puts the pen aside once again. The next thing to write is:

The last thing he hears before he drifts off is the distant sounds of the station announcer saying that the train has stopped, and that the conductor just announced that they will be arriving at their stop in a couple of minutes. He closes his eyes, waiting. He waits and listens to the silence for a moment, before letting out a heavy sigh. He will be here for some time yet. And when he opens his eyes, he sees only darkness, except for the faint outlines of objects and shapes, that pass in front of his eyes, almost like they're dancing, disappearing and reappearing over and over again. Soon, however, all of those shadows disappear entirely and everything returns to normal, and he feels relieved. At first, he does feel slightly guilty about what he did. The worst thing about all of this is that he has taken a step back and let his guard down. But that won't happen again. If he has learned anything from experience, it is that nothing lasts forever. The good times always pass, but he will never forget everything, never get used to it. He will never fully trust himself. He will never stop having nightmares. The pain will always remain within him, as fresh as it was twenty years ago. As painful as it always was. As painful as the title Saint Katsuhiko

Hallelujah...

Hallelujah... Hallelujah...

Hallelujah... Hallelujah... Hallelujah...

Hallelujah... Hallelujah... Hallelujah... Hallelujah...

Hallelujah... Hallelujah... Hallelujah... Hallelujah... Hallelujah...

"He's been like that since he killed his ex-boyfriend," said one of the guards while peeking through the gap in the prison door.