Akumu to reimu
I sit, watching the purpling bruises on my arm, the darkness spreads slowly. Like all darkness, it is insidious.
When I rise at last, I miss my servants. I feel weak. It is difficult to dress without their aid. Even my traveling kimono is an effort to don. I do not even attempt to dress my hair. Instead, I twist it, tie it in a knot to hang down my back like a peasant's, the long rope of hair is heavy between my shoulders.
How does he feel, I wonder, when he dresses himself in his victims' skins? As he pushes their spirits out into the void and fills their flesh with himself? Does he don their memories along with their likenesses? Are their lovers, wives, and children, his as well? Bile rises in my throat at such a thought. I square my shoulders against the nausea. I will not be sick.
I do not like the sensation of emotion, unchecked, coursing through me. I catalog it. I name it. Anger and relief at Yama-san daring such familiarity. Frustration with my weakness. And the overwhelming sense of helplessness edged with sharp despair that twists in my gut. Yama-san will be dealt with. The blue-eyed man must be stopped. And myself? I alone am able to marshal my feelings. I take control once more.
I cross to the low table that is my desk and kneel. I can feel the weave of the tatami on my knees through the cloth stretched across them. There is comfort in the familiar and tranquility lies in routine. My fingers know the shape of everything before me. I put my thoughts and emotions in order along with my papers. As soon as they are neatly sorted, ranked, and stacked I rise from my desk and cross toward the doorway.
My progress is halted by the quiet sound of someone in the hall.
When I rise at last, I miss my servants. I feel weak. It is difficult to dress without their aid. Even my traveling kimono is an effort to don. I do not even attempt to dress my hair. Instead, I twist it, tie it in a knot to hang down my back like a peasant's, the long rope of hair is heavy between my shoulders.
How does he feel, I wonder, when he dresses himself in his victims' skins? As he pushes their spirits out into the void and fills their flesh with himself? Does he don their memories along with their likenesses? Are their lovers, wives, and children, his as well? Bile rises in my throat at such a thought. I square my shoulders against the nausea. I will not be sick.
I do not like the sensation of emotion, unchecked, coursing through me. I catalog it. I name it. Anger and relief at Yama-san daring such familiarity. Frustration with my weakness. And the overwhelming sense of helplessness edged with sharp despair that twists in my gut. Yama-san will be dealt with. The blue-eyed man must be stopped. And myself? I alone am able to marshal my feelings. I take control once more.
I cross to the low table that is my desk and kneel. I can feel the weave of the tatami on my knees through the cloth stretched across them. There is comfort in the familiar and tranquility lies in routine. My fingers know the shape of everything before me. I put my thoughts and emotions in order along with my papers. As soon as they are neatly sorted, ranked, and stacked I rise from my desk and cross toward the doorway.
My progress is halted by the quiet sound of someone in the hall.