“Don't you want to fall with me?”
She made falling sound beautiful. An intimate act, to fall, and trust the other will catch you. But that's not the part she waxes poetry about; no, instead, what she is in love with is the impact. She talks about it, a lot. Descriptive metaphors, fragmented as they are. Ladened with medical terms interspersed with detailed descriptions of the blood, the guts, the splatter that would be left over. She speaks as if she wants to be that splatter; to be the dead body at someone's feet. (What's more intimate than that?)
Sometimes, she talks like she wants to do the pushing. Sometimes, she talks like she wants her to be the splatter; wants her to fall. Sometimes, she talks like she wants them to fall together —a double suicide, a lover's suicide, twice the despair.
(Sometimes she talks like she wants to kill her, and that's a bit scary, like electricity down her spine.)
And she loves despair; or maybe she hates it; or maybe she loves it because she hates it, hates it because she loves it—either way, it doesn't matter. She seeks it, she wants it, she needs it, she has it; and it is never enough.
“Won't you fall with me, Junko Enoshima?”
Mikan Tsumiki talks to her about despair.
Junko has no choice but to listen.