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The morning train is packed with school kids and office workers. In the corner of my eye, someone is wiping his neck with a handkerchief. It's only June, but the heat wave has struck hard. Although well, I guess I'm lucky, I don't feel overheated. The breeze from the air conditioner cools my wrist as I clutch the strap.

And luckily (or unluckily), the space around me stands is empty as if there's an invisible wall. I said this train is packed, but people are trying their best to get as far away from me as possible. Everyone is trying not to draw my attention by accident. They are all trying to hide their breath, looking away from me.

"D-d1ck..."

This short, sudden obscene utterance put people on edge. Their bodies stiffen uncomfortably. I'm sure, in their heads, they must be thinking, "What an unlucky morning to be trapped in a train with a freak!" Oh, how I wish I could have felt the same way too. But I can't.

Because it is my voice.

"D-d..."

I am about to let out another gush of shameful words from my throat. I hold back. I desperately try hard to swallow them back.

People look at me.

"Big, fat, erect!"

Da*n, da*n, da*n, da*n! Fvck, fvck, fvck!

Unfortunately, some sounds succeed to slip out through the gap between my fingers. It has always been like this. I am well aware of that. More than aware that I would definitely never be able to endure those shameful obscene words.

Instead, those extremely vulgar words just chill the air inside the train.

Oh, I can't do this anymore. Why, why, why. Why?

I close my eyes tightly. I want to disappear. I want to run and clutch each passenger's shirt and shout, "NO, IT WASN'T ME!!!"

Not me, huh? Yes, it is me.

"I'm sorry, I'm...sorry, I'm...sorry, I'm...not a d1ck."

I turn my face down and desperately apologize. Over and over like a mantra. Careful not to make eye contact with anyone. But the space around me widens even more as obscenities pour out of my mouth.

The train stops. The doors open, and with a rustle, a new crowd of passengers board. I am frightened. Fatty sweat trickles down my temples.

Someone grumbles, "There's an empty space over there, why don't you all squeeze in more?"

"T1ts."

Silence.

New passengers probably widen their eyes in shock.

"What, a pervert?" Someone exclaims.

I should have gotten used to this kind of pointing, but still, it is too much to bear. My shoulders feel heavy.

Oh, I can feel my diaphragm twitching. It's coming. I will not be able to control it. It's coming.

"Tits fvcking...bukkake...breeding sh*t..."

An old lady standing closest to me turns her body around awkwardly. Poor old woman, no, I didn't mean to bombard you with those torrents of epithets! God, I feel like I'm going to die of apology. No matter how many times I experience this, I can't help but never stop asking myself why my life has to be this pathetic?

Right.

Of course, I know the answer.

It is no other than a curse placed on me.

I was born into an ancient family that has been engaged in shamanism. Now, while working as a folklore researcher at a university, I also earn my living by taking on work as an exorcist through a family friend. Of course, it is not my dream job but considering my circumstances, it is beyond difficult to get a normal one.

So, as an expert in exorcism, several days ago the police asked me to help them with their investigation. I am now on my way to the Metropolitan Police Department.

Why do I take the train?

Well, I usually drive a car. Of course, I never wanted to take a train during rush hours on weekdays, but I was told by the other party that today, I had to avoid coming to the office by private car. I could not find anyone who could pick me up and drop me off too.

So here I am.

I thought about taking a taxi, but then remembered a time when I had to get off in the middle of nowhere. Thrown out by the taxi driver because of my obscenity. I also thought about riding a bicycle, but the recent weather is unusually hot―my aunt stopped me.

This da*n curse makes me unable to stop myself from uttering obscene words. When I was a child, most of my words were about excrement and fecal matter, but ever since puberty hit, my mouth has been uttering s*xual slvrs.

Most of the time, the words are unconnected. They are often simple associations, like a play on words. But things would get a whole lot worse when I happened to be in a rut, or simply having dirty thoughts. The more I felt ashamed of a certain dirty word, the more easily it would come out of my mouth.

Yes, the obscene words that easily flowed from my mouth does not reflect my personality at all. Although of course, people wouldn't believe it.

In my extended family, I am not the only one who suffered from curses. They come in many forms, not only words but also actions. Sometimes even both.

Mental conditions can at times affect how good or bad the curse is, but the root of the problem is not that at all. Nor is it due to abnormalities when the cursed one was still in the womb.

My parents were very distressed at first. They thought my condition was their fault. They thought their upbringing was too rigid and harsh. They tried hard to change my attitude and also took me to a specialist.

"This has nothing to do with his mental state or biological abnormalities," the specialist said.

At that, my parents were at a loss. They became even more frustrated. Luckily, around that time too, my father finally recalled a special situation in his family.

The roots lie there. My father's family has been under a curse for generations. It is said that long ago, a high priest of my ancestor quelled a curse to save people from plague, disease, and hunger. It was hard to believe at first, even though there is already a case example. My great aunt, my distant cousin, and his sister are cursed in a different way.

So, after consulting with my great aunt, my parents finally believed and came to the conclusion that my condition is due to a family curse.

Both then stopped visiting hospitals, changing their efforts to break the curse. Sadly, none of those attempts were successful. There is no way amateurs like us, who had only studied a little, can break the curse that has existed for over a thousand years by the best practitioners in the family. It remains unbreakable.

So, my days in elementary school were filled with bullying. In middle school, it was even worse. In high school, the kids didn't think I existed. And in college, despite I was not overtly harassed, I was unable to make any close friends. It must be really creepy just to hear me mumbling obscene words in our daily conversation. In other words, I've never been normal.

All alone, with no close friends, not knowing what to do to go through hard times then made me seek s*xual pleasures. I gave in to lust. I locked myself up in my room, scoured the Internet for a lot of videos of that kind, and rubbed my pubic hair like a monkey.

Because I thought that if I keep enduring it, my penis or scrotal sac could explode and I would die. Though remembering back about it now, I think it was just an excuse to pamper myself.

Which then of course, I immediately regretted it.

And if I have to choose between childish profanity or pornographic stuff, of course I prefer the first one.

It feels too heartless if I say I don't care what people think of me. Not only they would feel suspicious and uncomfortable, but there are also kids and maybe even victims of s*xual crimes in this train. I wonder how much fear they feel toward me.

"......!"

My head suddenly jerks up. Just now, somewhere in the crowd, I think I hear someone screaming. But the people whose eyes meet mine only look away in a panic and don’t seem to notice anything unusual. I quickly bury my head in horror seeing their reaction. Only for a moment because I am unable to resist looking up again and searching around the train. That voice sounded quite frightened.

Besides the da*n curse, though, on the other hand, I'm also blessed with slightly better hearing than most people and more sensitive to signs of life.

Where are you? Who is it? I ask.

I twist my head, looking around for the owner of the scream. But the people around me instantly scrunches up their faces.

"What in the world is this pervert doing now? Give me a break," one of them says.

I apologize for scaring them, but I'm too curious to find out where that scream is coming from. Until my eyes finally fall around the door. The distance from me is only a few meters, and the place is packed―I can almost only see people's heads. Between them, a short girl is standing facing the door. I can barely see the shoulders of her white shirt. Behind her is a man. He is a businessman in a suit. A young one.

Something is strange. His movements are unnatural. When the train shakes and people's bodies move to the side. I can clearly see the man's hand burrowing into the girl's skirt.

A molester.

My body stiffens. But it seems I am the only one on the train who cares about them. People's attention is only stuck on the man who's making vulgar and strange noises. Me, that is.

What should I do? I need to call out to the man. I need to get in between those two.

Gathering the courage I learned from the internet, I take a deep breath.

"P-pvssy..."


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