Marie's Proof of Love

People believe, Marie thinks, even when there’s no proof. You believe because you imagine. But is imagination enough to live by?

- Mieko Kawakami

Die. This is what Marie had always been told not to say to anyone from a young age. Though she could have said it secretly when no one was around—for who would know?—she never once allowed herself to say it or even feel that way. She generally kept all thoughts of death out of her mind.

But all around her, people talked about dying like it was no big deal. It was everywhere, even after she moved. People joked about it on TV, not to mention the internet, which she occasionally perused. Telling someone to die was so common that it seemed like an everyday greeting. No one actually died because someone told them to—in fact, people died from all sorts of reasons. It was just a meaningless joke. But every time she would hear the word, Marie’s body would tense up. She imagined her father coming toward her—her father who berated her for hours for every little mistake she made, grabbing her with his large hands that seemed disproportionate to his small body. She braced herself in terror. Of course, he never appeared in the music room, the common room, the telephone room, or the courtyard with the camphor tree. I’m not at home anymore, this is Mia dormitory. She would repeat the phrase to herself whenever she felt threatened by her father’s presence, as if she were saying a prayer. I’m not at home anymore. Those days were over; they died along with the cells that had made up her body back then. Her hair and fingernails were all fresh and new. She hugged her renewed self and covered her cheeks with both hands as if the gesture would somehow protect her. Still, in the middle of the night, Marie would hear the whispers in her ear.