𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
My name is Isaji Shōta, a corporate slave with no social life.
Well, I might not be as much of a corporate slave as everyone says.
At least, I was able to finish all my work for the year by noon on December 31st.
“Hyahha!! December is hell!! I’m so worried that the year might not really end!”
Those were the words of my senior when I was in my first year of joining the company.
My senior has already embarked on a journey to a new world (he just went back to his hometown and changed jobs.)
Indeed, it might not be a bad idea to embark on a journey to a different world (industry). . .
Every year, as December approaches, I start to think this way.
Christmas. . .? I don’t know that kid.
But!!
The New Year is just around the corner!!
Because this year, there were no unfortunate or unusual events.
It’s eerily quiet.
Even during the big clean-up, no documents for year-end processing came out of the department head’s desk drawer.
All that came out was a bag of half-eaten, expired Kabuki-age.
“This hasn’t happened in about 10 years.” The chief was surprised. It was a perfect end to the work year.
While it was still light out, I escaped from the workplace and returned to my cheap apartment, where only my address exists, under the cold sky.
The town, which is completely in New Year’s holiday mode and has no popularity, is quite lonely.
On the way, I bought a few things that seemed somewhat New Year’s-like at the convenience store.
Cup noodles soba & cut mochi (bag) and a few cans of sweet red bean soup.
With this, I’ll welcome the New Year.
Of course, I have absolutely no intention of going back to my hometown.
Well, I guess it’s okay if I pay back the New Year’s gift money I owe to my nephews, who my mother and father have been covering for, during Golden Week.
I unlock the front door and say “I’m home.” to an empty room.
I haven’t cleaned at all.
Well, this won’t be happening for a few more years.
“Let’s do a big clean-up.”
A large amount of unread books and unopened games (games that I bought but haven’t opened)
I, who had become motivated, gathered the trash and wondered whether to throw away the accumulated magazines.
I flipped over the perennial floor bed and vacuumed.
Normally, I might get a complaint from the tenant below.
But the tenant below is a student.
They’re probably back at their parents’ house.
The bath that I only use for showers and the toilet that I use a lot.
After cleaning the kitchen and the exhaust fan, and excavating the gruesome remains in the back of the refrigerator, half of the narrow entrance was occupied by garbage.
“Is this going to stay like this until the collection after New Year’s. . .”
No, I’ll put the food waste out on the balcony.
It won’t rot because it’s cold, right?
Should I spray some insecticide just in case?
If I cover it, the crows won’t come, right?
But, I’m in trouble.
The only things in the refrigerator are ice cream, Ki○ko, and barbecue sauce.
What should I eat tomorrow?
I have mochi and emergency food stock (mainly cup noodles and packed rice), so I’ll manage somehow.
The unread books and the Dark Tower of piled-up games.
“Let’s finish these guys (Dark Tower) by sunrise. Tomorrow, I’ll sleep until noon and go eat something New Year’s-like.”
When you live alone, you talk to yourself a lot.
The sun has long since set.
In just over an hour, it will be next year.
I put a can of sweet red bean soup into a bowl filled with hot water in the kitchen.
I take a shower, and wash my clothes that are covered in sweat and dust.
Once I hang this up, it’s all over.
While wiping my sweat with a towel, I take out the warmed can of sweet red bean soup.
I throw away the hot water in the bowl, put in two pieces of cut mochi, and put it in the microwave.
In the meantime, I pour hot water from the pot into the cup noodles soba.
“I see, raw noodle soup for New Year’s Eve soba. . .”
I’ve already experienced that recent cup noodles can become terrifying if you don’t read the instructions carefully.
This convenience store limited cup New Year’s Eve soba seems to be a type where you add the ingredients later.
I warm the noodle soup bag on top of the cup noodle lid.
I take out the bowl with the electronic sound of the microwave, and pour the contents of the sweet red bean soup can over the melted and swollen mochi.
I sit in my usual spot at the casual kotatsu, which serves as a table, holding two bowls.
I’ve been doing nothing but cleaning since the afternoon without eating dinner.
There’s a strange sense of accomplishment, so I have no regrets.
On TV, a live broadcast of a monk about to start ringing the bell is starting.
“Alright! Let’s eat!!”
Looking back at the situation.
My cause of death was mechanical mochi pounding.
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