There are a lot of holes to fall into around here. That was the way I, at least, came to see the world.

Small holes, big holes, shallow holes, deep holes, easily-seen holes, hard-to-see holes, holes no one had yet fallen in, holes many had fallen in. Truly, a wide variety. Thinking about each and every one of them made me too uneasy to take a single step.
When I was young, I liked stories that let me forget about the holes. And not just I, but everyone seemed to like writing stories that described a safe world, where all the holes had covers put over them. We might call them “sterilized stories.”

Of course, the protagonists don’t have only good things happening to them, and in fact experience an above-average amount of suffering and hardship. But ultimately, it all helps them to mature, and give them a reassuring feeling that “people can accept anything and live.” That’s the way of those stories. I think that we don’t wish to induce sadness in our fiction as well.

But one day, I suddenly realized I was in a dark hole. I fell in most irrationally, without any prior warning. It was an extremely small and hard-to-see hole, so I couldn’t hope for others’ help. Yet luckily, the hole was not deep enough that I couldn’t crawl out, so over a long period of time, I made it out by my own power.
Once back on the surface, basking in the warm sun and clean wind again, I thought. No matter how careful people are, they never know when they’ll run into a pitfall. That’s the way of our world. And perhaps the next hole I fall into could be a deeper one. Deep enough that I’d never make it back here again. What, in that case, am I to do?
Following that, I stopped earnestly reading those “stories that plug up the holes” I described previously. Instead, I came to prefer stories that portrayed “people getting along happily in holes.” Because I thought, I want to hear the story of the person who, in a dark, deep, narrow, cold hole, can smile without it being a bluff. To me, there might not be anything more consoling than that.
“Pain, Pain, Go Away” was the story of people who fell into a hole they could never again escape. Yet I wrote it intending it not to be purely a gloomy story, but a cheerful one too. It really may not appear that way, but it is. It is.

"What I'm talking about is a more emotional, romantic love. That "thing" often seen in movies and books, but which I've never seen in reality, an entirely different thing from familial or s*xual love." (Mizuho)

"I'm still dubious about the actual existence of that "thing, " myself. But if the "love" you speak of doesn't exist, then someone must have come up with it, which is a stunning thought. For many ages, love has been the cause of many beautiful paintings, songs, and stories. If it's only made-up, "love" may be humanity's greatest invention, or perhaps the world's kindest lie." (Kiriko)

- Chapter 1

"Oh, come to think of it, " Kiriko said just as we were about to kiss. "It seems "that thing" didn't exist after all."

"Way to remember letters from such a long time ago."

"So you're saying you remember it too, Mizuho?"

"Yeah, " I nodded. "And I guess "it" isn't just a kind lie."

"So it seems, " Kiriko smiled. "I'm glad to know that in the end."

- Chapter 10

Mizuho closed the curtains, turned off the light, and went to leave, but I stopped him.

"Um, can you stay here until I fall asleep?"

He replied somewhat nervously. "I don't mind at all, personally, but... What do you intend to do if I get any funny ideas?"

"If that happens, I'll pretend to be opposed, " I answered.

"That's not good enough, " he laughed with embarrassment. "If I try to do anything to you, you can give me a good punch between the eyes. That'll bring a coward like me back to my senses right away."

"Understood. I'll remember that." I committed it to memory: I'll be sure to never punch him between the eyes.

- Chapter 9

Without her weapon, the girl was now almost powerless.

I thought about what would happen if I stabbed her right here. If I stabbed her right in the chest, showing nicely through the unbuttoned parts of the gown she was wearing. Or if I stabbed her throat, that made a comfortable voice like a glass harp. Or if I stabbed her soft belly with hardly any fat and shook it around inside.

It seemed the girl's scissors had given me the same urge to kill.

I put my index finger in one of the holes and spun the scissors around.

She hurriedly reached out and said "Please give them back, " but I didn't stop spinning. I enjoyed my sadistic fantasies. If she says the same thing two more times, I'll hand them back, I decided - by which time the girl's eyes had already changed color. Clouded, I should say. It was a familiar expression. The one she wore while confronting her revenge targets.

I felt a hard impact. My vision flashed, and I fell back onto the bed. I felt pain like my forehead had split.

From the smell of ash on my head, I realized she'd hit me with the ashtray.

- Chapter 5