I Am A Truck Driver 12 A Hero's Story 2

Her parents had both pa.s.sed away when she was going. Her uncle and aunt paid for her and fed her, but otherwise neglected her. She focused on her studies, but was always average.

It happened suddenly. Walking home from the library late in the evening, she heard the sound of a large vehicle rushing towards her as she crossed the street. It came out of nowhere, and it didn't slow desite the light being red. She tried to run, but the truck was moving too quickly. It hit her squarely. She died.

It was then that she met a G.o.d.

...

I opened up my alb.u.m and looked at the picture of the girl. She was actually smiling in the picture, which made her look quite cute. She probably wouldn't have been a loner if she smiled more.

"She liked dancing, though she was too ashamed to show anyone."

I recalled the scene. She had locked her bedroom door. She played a piece of cla.s.sical music softly. The air around her changed as she began to dance.

She started with slow, nervous movements, matching the time if the music. Then she went faster and faster, until she wasn't dancing to the song that was playing, but was dancing to the melody that sang within her. Even as she danced and euphoria overcame her, she kept her feet light, making almost no sound.

Well, almost didn't mean she didn't make any. Her uncle and aunt could hear her m.u.f.fled flurry of footsteps. They kept quiet about it, and began to work extra shifts to save up money.

They never got to use that money for her, because I killed her the next day.

...

- Aren't you tired of watching the same story happen over and over again?

It was only up to Five, but I couldn't help but agree with his sentiment just a little.

"I am. A little bit," I admitted. "But it's still worth watching."

Because they were different, no matter how similar thet were. Even if their stories were bland, even if everyone else would consider them garbage, I would not. I would remember even if everyone else would forget.

I refuse to treat them as just characters of a story. They were real people living real lives.

Therefore, I would remember.

Besides, I had a lot of time to think now. And there was a lot I had to think about.

I started having suspicions recently, but my mental state was not the best. The time I spent in prison was actually the time I got most of my thinking done.

I reviewed the facts.
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Five was the first victim who I killed before a month was up. I was scared that I wouldn't be able to do it if I saw her begin to open up to get uncle and aunt.

Eight was the last whose name I learned. The contrasting feelings of her ecstasy and her family's anguish was too much for me to handle. [It] suggested that I never learn the names of my targets again, and I agreed.

I settled into my pattern of killing after exactly one week of observation starting from Nine. I began do to things other than watching my targets. At the recommendation of [It], I started reading all sorts of books. I slowly began to relearn the school material which I had long forgotten. Killing was no longer my main focus; it was just a routine exercise I practiced. Until it suddenly wasn't.

Nine through Twenty were all orphans with no friends or close relations. Even though Thirteen's favorite color was pale turquoise and Fifteen visited the same cafe every Wednesday to order a cup of black tea and nothing else; although Sixteen had a collection of good luck charms from all the shrines he visited and Twenty fed a stray cat that always waited for him near his apartment. Despite the fact that I knew these things that made them unique, I wasn't aware that I knew. The me at that time didn't see them as human. They were just beings I had to eliminate.

Perhaps it had to do with the book of philosophy [It] gave me that I had just finished. Twenty-one was the beginning of my increasingly difficult moral dilemmas. Because Twenty-one lived with his father.

That was when I began taking to [It] about my thoughts. The trolley problem which I had originally thought was similar to my situation was always weighing on my mind. Everything became much harder to justify since then.

As I thought. This was too much to be a coincidence.

[It] had been manipulating the process the entire time.

...

I thought about it for a long time as the days pa.s.sed.

What did [It] gain from this? I could vaguely guess.

[It] gave me a purpose. The me who only knew how to kill and had lost the will to live. [It] gave me targets to give me a purpose.

The effects of Empathy might have been outside of [It]'s calculations. The skill was almost like a drug to me, because of the joy I felt after each death. That is why [It] gave me Eight.

All the books I read and the things I learned were selected by [It]. The focus of my studies seemed to be on the four topics of history, literature, psychology, philosophy.

I also slowly learned many miscellaneous things about society. Things such as what to do at a grocery store or how to drive a motorcycle. These were all done at the urging of [It].

There were many other suspicious moments. [It] discouraged my use of Empathy and often filtered out people's names for me, both visually and verbally. There were eleven exceptions. Each of those times, I saved someone.

And now, it was clear that [It] wanted me to stop killing. The conversations we had and the conditions of my targets made that obvious.

To put it all together, these past four years, with a track record of 27 murders and 11 interventions, were a ma.s.sive plot to help me adjust into society. That was my hunch.

How confusing. I didn't know what to feel. Grateful? But to use lives as chess pieces... It might seem alright for a G.o.d, but I couldn't accept that.

Then, should I feel angry? Being manipulated was never a pleasant experience once your are aware of the manipulation. Yet my anger weakens at the thought that I wouldn't be able to think this way were it not for the manipulation. [It] saved me this way.

I didn't know how to feel, so I remained calm.

Well, all of this was just a hunch, but it would be easy to confirm.

"Isn't that right?"

- ...

"As the one who understood me well enough to come up with this plan, you should be at least somewhat aware of what I'm thinking now."

- Did you realize?

"You didn't try to hide it."

- That is true.

Then, there was only one question left to ask.

"Why did you do it?"

[It] remained silent, probably calculating the best response.

The day after I visited the Twenty-seventh grave, I received my answer.