I'd like to think that I'm a good man. I've never caused an accidents. Never had bouts of road rage. I've always tried to be nice and kind to people I talk to. I don't have a criminal record either, of course. That would have prevented me from coming to Japan and getting this job I love, teaching English to my wonderful students. I cook, clean, greet and say hi to everyone on the street when I can. I try to be a pleasant human being in general.
I've learned to speak the language too, so people aren't as scared to talk to me as they were before. I engage with the community, I hang out at local bars, clean the neighborhood with the association, and in general I am an upstanding member of society. A foreign one of course, but still a member of this community.
I've been here for 4 years now, in this small island town in central Japan. The fish is fresh, the sun is bright, and the days are calm. The 20,000+ people in this town have gotten used to the 4 English teachers here, and I'd like to think I'm the most friendly. At least I get the most vegetables left on my door, and coworkers and friends invite me out for dinner and excursions more than the others.
Why? Because I'm a good man.
Tonight is one of those nights. I've been invited to dinner by the Kuriki family down in Akahama port, on the north side of the island. I met them through one of the hiking excursions and they've been very friendly ever since, giving me homemade pickles, vegetables, and freshly caught (and trimmed, thank god) fish for the last few months. We've gotten very close over this period of time and this isn't the first time they've invited me for dinner, nor the first time they've asked me to come over an afternoon and talk to their daughter and give her English conversation practice.
Today was special though. The Kuriki parents were out on the mainland and would only come back with the ferry at 4pm, but it was delayed, and I only learned about it once I arrived at their house when their daughter eagerly let me know that mom and dad would come back late.
Which was fine! I didn't mind waiting for them and giving a few English tips while Netflix is on with a subtitled American cartoon. They're friends, and it doesn't happen often so it's not like I would charge them a babysitting fee. I'm a good man.
But good men can make mistakes. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, as they say, but it's not like people don't know they're heading down the wrong path. So how did this happen? How did this mistake happen, and why didn't I stop it?
These are the thoughts racing through my mind as 8-year old Chinatsu Kuriki slowly unzips my pants revealing the bulge I've been trying to contain, along with urges that had been languishing there in the dark, ready to be unleashed