Image credit: Jonah
Once stone-faced and stoic, I see the statue of a man appear to crack at the seams as crow’s feet land by his eyes. He is smiling, the swordsman among the flowers. Father warned me about disowned retainers such as him. How these leftovers of war run from town to town, seeking to satiate their unfocused bloodlust. Devilish beasts no better than the gamblers that accost the constable, burn our fields, and rape our women. No master, no income, no home. Always running. I spare a glance at the swordsman's knuckles, each of them gilded with gold scuffs and faint scars. I observe as my fingers explore the valleys between them, and a bashful laugh escapes him. What is wrong with running? Man was designed to run, to trek, to cross continents be they made of land or memories. The Son sent his apostles to make disciples across all the nations. Man was designed to run until their prey collapsed, till all others collapsed in exhaustion. His hands slip from my grasp and return their attention to the picked red spider lilies scattered across the sand before us. Mirroring him, I turn once again to the ocean, eyes tracing the line where sky and water meet. The sun had just set and the round white moon now mingles comfortably among its glittering subjects. The heavens above boast their cosmic arrangements, and like an elaborate pantomime between mother and child, mentor and student, the seas glitter and shimmer in reply with a reverence that is all too familiar to me. Yet it wavers, unsure in its mimicry before the stars. What will he teach me tomorrow? And the day after? And the day after that? The way of the warrior encompasses many dimensions: the sword, the bow, the polearm, calligraphy, incense, tea. All of these paths he had weaved elaborate tales of simply to allow me a taste. And still, I hunger for what may come next. I lay down on the sand and roll over to my side, studying the swordsman as he weaves the fragile stems together. Those thick arms adorned with pulsing vessels; those broad shoulders embellished with countless stories etched onto skin; the flat chest that hides within it the drumming song of a cavalcade; the rumbling timbre of his voice, heavy as the fog that rolls down the river. These are the colours of man, the colours my creator denied me. When will I have these qualities for my own? When will I finally be seen as wakashū? When will he teach me the way of youth? To be honest, I am not completely innocent when it comes to sex. Please understand, I do not mean to say that I have slept around nor have I ever peddled myself as the riparian women of pleasure do. I am still a virgin. Little else is valued in a mere peasant girl after all. But my brother once seized my arm and forced my hand to please him when we were children. And thus, I think I know what the male appendage feels like and how it responds. It is not the most ideal way, I agree, and it is not a fond memory to recall. However, though tears may hang from my lashes now like leaves starved on a lifeless branch, the memory of the event itself is not foggy enough for me to have forgotten the state of my mind the morning after. In fact, it is as clear as a cloudless summer sky. I definitely remember, and I remember that I felt no shame. Even though I initially resisted on several occasions, I failed to summon any mortification at the moment of the crime itself. Rather, my eyes were lulled into a claustrophobic darkness and my brain had already drowned in tender indifference as palm moved lethargically along flesh. The night my arm was gripped within that brutish vice, I was not pulled, I think. I sauntered downwards out of my own will to human depravity, to sins of sex and hedonism. Every titillation I sought held me by the roots of my hair and drove me deeper into desolation. God, I ask you, cleanse this soul. God, I ask you of this more than anything, baptize me again. Purify and consecrate this weary body. Wipe me clean. But I know such a thing cannot happen, and never will it happen solely due to this addiction of mine—this sickness of the mind—to cling to the obscene. I admit it. I confess I want him badly. I want him to be the one that marks me and defines me henceforth. The swordsman among the flowers. Or am I just exaggerating? I’ve been told I have a tendency towards hyperbole that breaks out as a rash often does. Surely, the honest brother was simply perplexed about the mechanics of his own body and turned to a trusted family member—the compassionate sister—to help satiate such curiosity. Am I just mad? Again? Already I have been accused of such when my mother caught me cutting my hair. I feel like a delicate doll placed by the family shrine that one day gained the miracle of consciousness somehow. Extraordinary, and yet, all it can do with such a gift is to weep. I am tired. Tired of this ill-fitting body, tired of this oppressive place, but the burdens placed upon my fractured back have stayed my feet. Truly, I am bound. By thinned blood and mismatched flesh, I am chained to this very spot. Every day I stand on the precipice and stare at the ocean below. I watch the black waves withdraw from my moaning presence but never for my sake. I watch the sinister tide lift just enough to show me alien bones, that is, our everyday niceties eroding away and the deceit of our obligations, filial or otherwise, exposed. I see it, the potential of human hideousness. I see it, the shadow of the grotesque, twisted deformity that is our species’ attempts to love distinctly reflected in the water. I refuse to believe it—that it exists in this abhorrent state—but I know it is coming. I can never leave this nameless, forgotten village. I can never get away, neither as a castaway to some far off island, nor as an offering for spare heirs of higher castes. Alone, I am damned to stay here. The fate of Chiyo has been decided, and it is a pitiful one. God, you already know. I long for him. The swordsman among the flowers. If I cannot walk away from this town then let my fingers walk along the contours of his chest, my breath dance madly at his temple, and my tongue run across his lips. May the seed in my breast finally burst into bloom under his artistic touch, the vibrant explosion of red blossoms heralding a long-awaited rebirth. Let sunlight filter through petals and bathe our cheeks with the warm blush of azaleas. The sweet fragrances of infatuation shall intoxicate and cling to our skin like frost upon tombstones. May he receive my selfish advances as the frozen welcome sleep and—please—paint me anew with the colours of man before the east wind blows what remains of me away to the ends of the earth. Through him, I will move at last. I will be beautiful. I will forget. Through him, I will be free. At least for a little while. Is that too much to ask? “Master.” His neck creaks like a worn sliding door as his head tilts to the side, his jugular bare and inviting like soft folds of linen sheets. I watch him tie the few remaining stems together—he is smiling, the swordsman among the flowers—and I reach for the hem of his garment.
Author Bio: Jonah is a medical student, illustrator, samurai cinema buff, and hobbyist writer. Inspired by his studies in matters thanatological, his fascination with the macabre fuels his persistence in digging through the rank flesh and fluff, manipulating fractured shards of bone and pride aside, and foraging 'neath the blackish blood to extract the incomprehensible beauty present in every character that he beholds. After years of casually roleplaying online, weaving aimless plot-hole ridden narratives with other like-minded masochists, and delving deep into the vulnerabilities and deep-seated insecurities of his grotesque characters, he decided to take a stab at writing something entirely on his own. What a terrible mistake that was.