My name is Makoto Kubota, and I do not exist.

I am a ghost, an apparition, a figment of the imagination of a woman's body. I move, breathe and speak; I watch those around me live, but I do not. As butterflies pinned to cardboard, they are specimens for my study. They spread their wings before me and I drain their colors of mystery, discarding the transparent and uninteresting grey husks.

I hold nothing sacred; neither human nor animal, love nor hatred, life nor death. I do not feel tenderness or affection, attachment or connection. I tried once and walked away covered in blood, but it didn't save either of us. I have beat and been beaten, and always the itch of dried blood makes my skin tingle, but I feel nothing. I have killed without fear, reservation or hesitation. Taking life holds no fascination and no remorse for me; I do not fear my own death because I am not truly alive.

There are words to describe people like me, but none for me; there are no words that are real for a person who is not real. I continue to move forward, day after day, waiting for the universe to strike me down, but it never does. Surely, it can't suffer such a creature to continue. Thus, it has become a game, and I wonder how long it will take before I lose. It is inevitable, and it is the only thing that interests me at all, except…

…the other day, I took in a cat.

I wonder if it exists?