Tomorrow We'll See Morning

Chapter Four

Uwajima, Ehime. October 3rd, 1934.

Tall, red-leaved maple trees arched over the courtyard, their branches stirring slightly in the breeze. A gentle evening light was streaming through the tall windows, painting the sitting room an even shade of pink. Isamu's chin was tucked close to his chest, his eyes tracing the blurry outline of the tatami mat he was sitting on through the lens of hot tears. He had viciously scrubbed his hands in the kitchen basin for nearly thirty minutes, until the water was pink and his hands were raw, but it changed nothing—Orenji was still gone. There was no taking back what he had done.

     "Isamu..." Fusako sighed, brushing a stray strand of hair out of Isamu's face. "You're so sensitive, all the time. It was just a hare."

     "Orenji was not just a hare," Isamu whispered as he sat stiffly next to his older sister, his fingers digging into his sleeves. His chin quivered as he struggled to choke out, "Why couldn't father do it himself?"

He could still see the knife in his shaking hand; could still hear his father's words; could still feel the firm hand on his shoulder.

     "Go on, Isamu. Don't make me wait."

     Orenji had been so content, nibbling on the hem of Isamu's sleeve and peering up at him with those round, beady black eyes. His little pink nose had twitched as he sniffed the blade, fuzzy ginger ears laid back against his head. That was trust, the trust he had shared with Orenji for two years ever since he had found the abandoned rabbit pup under their porch.

     And then, he had broken that trust. In the most cruel way possible. He could still hear the rabbit's horrible screaming, could still smell the coppery, sickly sweet smell of blood pooling on the cobblestones.

     Isamu broke down into hard, wailing sobbing, twisting his sleeves in his fists.

      Fusako wrapped an arm around his shoulder, her eyebrows furrowed. She pulled him close and whispered softly, "Don't cry anymore, don't cry. It's really no different than killing roosters."

     Isamu clenched his hands into fists and crossed them tightly over his chest. "The roosters didn't have names! Orenji did!" He opened his mouth again, but then faltered, seeing the shock in Fusako's eyes. He never raised his voice, let alone to his elder sister.

     "Why did you give it one, then?" Fukaso snapped. She lowered her voice, continuing. "You're almost ten, you'll be a man sooner than you think."

"I know this."

"Listen to me. Father is wise, you should do as he says. It is not right to be so soft."

Isamu lowered his head again. "I'm sorry, sister. I don't mean to be soft."

"I know you don't. You'll grow out of it in time." Fukaso reassured him with a gentle smile. "I just worry for you."

     Isamu leaned into her embrace and closed his eyes. It was just a hare, he tried to convince himself. Not Orenji—nothing at all.

     "Just a hare," Isamu murmured. "Just a hare."

Fusako smiled softly, giving his shoulder a light pat. "There you go. Don't you feel better? No need to give it a name."

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Attu Island, AK. May 29th, 1943.

Isamu's hands were wrapped around the wood grip of the American's rifle so tightly that the whites of his knuckles were visible through his skin. His heart was pounding frantically in his chest, his arms still numb with adrenaline. Beads of sweat had condensed on his forehead, slowly sliding down his cheeks.
     
     But for all the tensity, the oppressive ice that had crept across his chest was starting to recede. A fire had lit in his heart, and he was not keen to let it go out. He had a goal now, a purpose. This man, this asinine American, could be exactly the proof of his honor that he needed.
    
     See, I have captured a prisoner; I am not useless. I am not a coward. Yes, he's still alive—but that is surely an easy fix.

     The vast, grey expanse of the ocean behind them gradually receded as they trekked further inland, the marshy grass giving way to rock and ice. The American was quiet as they walked, occasionally jolting whenever Isamu accidentally poked him with the tip of the bayonet.