Choice, a thing we must all succumb to, a thing we have to face with every day that passes. I made one in the wee hours of the morning, outrightly chose to save a monster from the scorching fires of hell's inferno. And from the moment I crawled back under warm covers of bed at nightfall, a good three hours back, I have simply laid atop the softness of mattress in deep thought.
Death sees no power, recognizes not fame, dominance or the prominence. She simply handpicks her choice; the ripest fruit from her garden. As I stood there by his side; the front of his shirt drenched in a deep crimson, bloody droplets on the skin of his face, wrists and palms -watching, eyes roaming, contemplating, eyes searching- I yearned to let death have his life in exchange for some sort of liberty for myself.
The urge to let him slip into oblivion was one overwhelming, like a wave that so nearly swept me off my feet. I have never resented a human as I do him, but even so, in leaving him for the dead, wouldn't that have made me just as evil as he?
I am not cold-blooded, I feel. And I did that which I deemed fit. But at what cost? Would they have released me upon his death? They've all made it clear as crystal that there is no refuge for me, no returning to my past life, no escape from hell's pits. Is there good in the knowledge that I -in a manner- helped save him? Should they be more lenient with me henceforth?
Too many thoughts, too many plunging thoughts and inquiries.
I breathe in, exhale, tossing for the umpteenth time in the past hour. Rains continue to mercilessly pour and beat against the earth, thunder crashes, lightning spears its beams through the curtained windows, the winds furiously blow.
I shut eyes, reminisce about a time when all was peace, when I was wrapped in the safety of Cush's embrace, smothered in my mother's affection, a time when I laughed at my twin's jokes -ones funny and ones not. They still continue to seek, to search, and I continue to despair.
I sigh in exasperation, sigh heavily at the insomnia that keeps me company so faithfully. I sit up straight and reach for the lampshade by the side of the bed. Illuminations flood the left of the room, and I lift eyes to gaze up at the wall clock; only milliseconds past five thirty, only minutes to the inevitable.
Luckily or unluckily for me, my formerly injured knuckles now barely sting. And thus, at six, I should be sat by the tables of the dining arena in readiness for breakfast. Shortly after, I collect garment and linen from occupants of each pagoda, including the maidens' kimonos, and I am merrily on my way to the laundry room.
Then comes evening, and I have to fetch clean clothing, fold, and deliver to each doorstep of every pagoda -a sanction for the sins of my father.
Discarding thoughts, I sigh, slip a palm into the drawers on my right, retrieve a thick, leathery novel, perusing pages till I come up to the point I left off.
Books have been a magnificent partner in the period of my stay, have assisted to numb pains, to shush demons, to block out memories for temporary, blissful hours, helped me travel from my harsh reality and into a universe where torments and turmoils are no longer a party....
†††††††††
A day, three days, two solid weeks go by, and not once have I crossed paths or stumbled upon Tsumibito, thank the heavens. He lays in his chamber -a floor below mine- at all times, and I dare not tread on unpurified grounds, inquire or question the maidens on his well being.
Still, word gets out, the maidens gather to gossip, and they say he woke -for the first time since that unholy morning- only two nights ago.
I hardly feel a thing at the knowledge of his waking in all truth.
Now, now I am fatigued by the day's tasks as I remain sat against fluffy cushions in the dining arena, in the company of his subordinates -bulky, thoroughly-tattooed men that bicker about one thing or the other, chuckle and cackle, hotly converse in their language, while others gobble down foods and drink.
Each man holds a peculiar tribal flaming-dragon tattoo on the skin of their right forearm; a symbol of sorts, perhaps. The only reason I sit to eat with them is because Tsumibito demanded that I do so on the night before his ordeal. Perhaps his way of keeping a keen eye on me.
Looking at these people so joyous, so cheerful, one should never guess them to be members of a gang so highly dangerous.
It is now early evening, six o'clock, and the maidens, all dressed in fancy uniform kimonos of a shimmering golden, remain glued in every corner and against each of the four walls of the extensive arena, heads bowed, eyes fixated on the marble grounds in humility. I continue to sate my appetite, almost moaning at the divine taste of exquisite flavors on my taste buds.
These people operate in harmonious unison. Meals are per taken at six in the mornings, at exactly mid-day, and at six in evenings, no earlier, no later. Each member assembles in the Oyabun's pagoda to eat, to discuss business when called upon by Tsumibito, and that is as far as being in the man's home is concerned.
Tuning to the present, I keep to myself whilst I munch, feeling left out entirely, drowning in the lonely. Therefore, I let my mind wander to places, glance upon faces, pondering why anyone who's sane should voluntarily work for or under Tsumibito, why my own father would dare do such a thing.
I'd happened to discover multiple truths from Karai; that he'd been the attorney of both Tsumibito and his father before him, for long decades. The knowledge explains a lot, explains his sudden one to two week trips, explains why during his travels, he'd only call during peculiar hours of day or night time, explains the single tribal tattoo on his right arm, as well.
The sudden quietness is the only force I need to draw back to agonizing reality, and instantaneously, my gaze travels to look up at the occupants of the table. Each one seems to be glancing in my direction, but not necessarily at me. And so, resting chopsticks against platter tenderly, I turn to face my back. Cold sweat breaks, icy chills jolt, beads of perspiration roll down the spine of my back.
Tsumibito is stood and strong, upper body buff and nude with thick bandages slithered around his abdomen area, his lower body in a pair of light off-white trousers. His hairs are a wet disheveled mess, draping down to his eyes which harshly train on only mine. And his exposed skin? Paler than pale, unhealthy. To his left is stood a lass, Asian no doubt, who aids him in making his way to the tables.
She's a pretty petite with hairs the colour of ravens, lips a burning pink, skin flawless as a baby's bottom, a woman taller than most of the females present and clad in a kimono too. Only, hers is of a screaming amber hue.
I avert my gaze after long minutes of just sitting and staring, returning to my feasting instead. Heavens, where have such dishes been all my life! One of the maidens -Karai- is by my side in a heartbeat, leaning in to whisper lowly into my ear.
"Miss, we bow to the Oyabun, until he takes his position at the head of the table."
Ah yes, the shame that meets me once my eyes lifts, the hard glowers they all faithfully and graciously grant me at my own obliviousness.
If glares could kill, my soul should have levitated by now.
I bow my head begrudgingly, cussing in quietness, watching from my peripheral vision as both Tsumibito and his mistress make themselves comfortable against cushions by the far end of the table -directly facing where I am perched. Banter and argument resumes, laughter and gladness takes the place of the quiet.
Maidens flock the tables once more, dishing foods onto platters, working harmoniously, boisterously, and skirting away once done with their commissions.
"Silence," the abruptness of the monotone employed causes me nearly choke on the stew I sip.
"Weeks ago, my Kumichô title was challenged. As we are all familiar, it is a fight to the death, no mercy, no remorse. Because of this, Okabi is no longer with us. The funeral shall be conducted in the heart of the night, body cremated and his ashes I shall pour into the waters of the Okama crater on the Zao Mountain. Anyone who so wishes to challenge my title, speak now."
Mouths go mute at the authority held in Tsumibito's speech, while I, on the other hand, continue to chew on some dumplings without apology, without batting an eyelash. He is his people's Oyabun, not mine, and death is but a journey I should eventually take, so I fear less. What more have I to lose?
"Fine, you may proceed."
After dinner, each man rises, bows curtly before their leader, exiting the vicinity in readiness for their nightly routine; to train.
With each eve, I've had the privilege to peek through windows, to watch from a safe distance, as the kobun tirelessly sharpen their skills in the greenery of the fields -sword fighting, katanas, tantos and wakizashis clashing one against the other, arm wrestling and engaging in martial arts, in archery, and even in the use of firearms and modern day weaponry.
And watching them keenly, I finally comprehended why civilians are so petrified by the mere name of them; the Yakuza. They are like a poisonous unit. Tsumibito hardly touches his platters, much as the maiden attempts to convince him otherwise.
Every once in a while, he spares me a few seconds worth a glance, his eyes glassy, void, and every nanosecond he does, I gaze back at him with just as much venom, unfazed, arching a brow when his eyes refute to avert.
Finally, he gathers himself on his feet after long minutes of just eyeing me with a sheet of blankness caking his face. The lass is by his side with an arm snaked around his shoulders, of course. As he works to tread past me, he halts, side eyes me, clears his throat in readiness for speech.
The remaining members who still sit shush to intently listen.
"A life for a life, Rosa. Still, it changes nothing. I still loath your guts."
And with those words having been spoken with a face straighter than an arrow, he takes precious time to exit the arena.
Well, the feeling is mutual, you bloody fuck! What the actual hell?
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