The art is just ominous, like those Japanese urban legends about haunted library books. It's actually why I picked it up in the first place, the volume 1 cover looked... off. Just look at it.
I actually introduced this manga series to my Welsh friend while we lived together and I got to experience his accusatory/indignant glances as he went through it, like I'm to blame for writing and publishing such a profound sanity debuff. I relished the experience with an emotional high not unlike showing someone a powerful cursed image.
Yes, it's Chi no Wadachi
, or Trail of Blood
in English. Now I'm not a terribly invested horror manga fan. Junji Ito and Masaaki Nakayama are great but they're rarities, diamonds in the rough, the gleaming hulls of corn in your stool. Some trashy rags will fall under my view with gratuitous gore or unneccesary torture scenes, and I come away with a yearning curiosity about the author rather than any judgement about the material. What compells someone to take hundreds of hours out of their lives in order to draw something like this?
Surely it was more fun to make than it is to read. Chi no Wadachi
is fascinating because it's so deviant from the author's other campy schoolboy stories, it feels deliberate and personal. Flying vampire boys
sounds like early 2000's boys love, not horror. Yet here we are, with easily one of the best horror series I've ever read. It really ramps up the suspense to 11 and all that's required for that enveloping tension are the presence of two characters.
And my god does discomfort sum up this series well. The fact it's not reliant on page-turning shockers is why I hold it in such high regard. Even while reading volume 1 I felt this prevailing sense of anxiety, like every negligible event is a calculated, deliberate build-up to sometime else later. If you omit the endpages inbetween chapters, ominous artstyle, and forget that it's a horror manga, it almost resembles Watamote through the main character's bumbling awkwardness. It's a stream of seemingly normal occurances that you continue to tell yourself surely aren't normal.
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At it's core the plot is brilliant, the dissonance of loving and fearing your mother, balancing your own desires and autonomy with her control. Such a novel plot device, so simple, so brilliant, so achingly uncomfortable.
Symbolism with the cat
And the family photos that trail every volume is utterly perfect.
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