What Is The Ending Of 'Earthlings' Explained?

The ending of 'earthlings' is a brutal, surreal punch to the gut. Natsuki, the protagonist, completely snaps after years of societal pressure and abuse. In the final chapters, she and her cousin Yuu descend into madness, believing they're aliens disconnected from human morality. Their violent 'liberation' culminates in murder and cannibalism—a grotesque metaphor for rejecting oppressive norms. The novel doesn't offer redemption; it leaves them frolicking naked in the mountains, utterly detached from humanity. It's not a happy resolution but a disturbing climax that forces readers to confront the extremes of alienation. The imagery of their 'planet'—a shared delusion—linger like scars.

the ending is a masterclass in psychological horror masking as liberation. Natsuki's breakdown isn't sudden; it's the inevitable result of childhood sexual abuse, familial neglect, and society's obsession with conformity. The so-called 'happy ending' where she and Yuu 'return to their planet' is actually terrifying. They butcher Natsuki's husband Tomoya—not out of malice, but as a ritual shedding of human ties. The cannibalism isn’t literal sustenance; it’s symbolic consumption of the systems that failed them.

What haunts me is the ambiguity. Are they truly mad, or is this the only rational response to a world that treats trauma survivors like broken appliances? The mountain setting contrasts sharply with earlier claustrophobic scenes, suggesting freedom through insanity. Sayaka Murata doesn’t justify their actions but forces us to acknowledge the rot beneath polite society. The final lines about 'Piyyut'—their stuffed animal 'alien advisor'—being their only family twist the knife deeper. It’s not closure; it’s a scream frozen in text.

For those who want to explore similar themes, 'Convenience Store Woman' by the same author offers a tamer but equally sharp critique of societal expectations. The contrast between the two endings shows Murata’s range—one quietly rebellious, the other violently unhinged.

Let’s cut to the chase: 'Earthlings' ends with its characters embracing monstrosity as salvation. Natsuki and Yuu don’t 'win'—they escape. Their shared delusion of being aliens justifies horrifying acts, but Murata’s genius lies in making you empathize even as they cross lines. The husband’s murder isn’t framed as tragedy but liberation, his body becoming mere 'meat' in their new worldview. The stuffed animal Piyyut’s final role as their 'child' is darkly hilarious and tragic—a makeshift family built on carnage.

What unsettled me most was the pacing. The violence isn’t sensationalized; it’s mundane, almost clinical. When Natsuki describes skinning Tomoya with Yuu, it reads like a cooking manual. This banality makes the ending stick like glue in your brain. It’s not about shock value but the logical extreme of dehumanization. Compared to other body horror like 'Metamorphosis' by Franz Kafka, 'Earthlings' feels more personal—a rejection of humanity rather than a transformation. The last image of them dancing under the stars, free from society’s chains, will haunt you long after closing the book.