5 Minute Reads | Anthology

Sweet Poison By Lujayna

Sweet Poison

By Lujayna

I've been watching him for many days but I've never seen him cry.

He sits under the sakura tree, moon-kissed tears streaming down his tanned face. His hand is wrapped around the tsuba, thumb flicking the katana up and down as though he can't decide whether to unsheathe it or not. A waft of wind tosses the sakura up in the air and they fall on his hands and legs. It is the most beautiful sight-watching him pour out his misery to the world, unseen by all but me, the pink blossoms forming a cocoon around him. And the tears. Especially the tears.

In all my life, and I've lived a long life, I've never shed a tear. It is something so foreign to me, a thing as impossible as Amaterasu descending from the skies or Izanami leaving the depths of Yomi. Perhaps this beautiful sight will move me to tears. Perhaps not.

My eyes remain dry as strings as thin as strands of hair shoot from the tips of my fingers, curling around his wrists and feet. They are invisible under the moonlight. There's a slight pinch when they pierce his skin and he jerks a little, the wooden cup in his hand spilling sake on the ground. He shakes his head, closes his eyes and downs the drink, dismissing the pinch for his own imagination. Sweet poison trickles into his bloodstream. When he opens his eyes, they've become glassy.

I abandon the cover of leaves, make my way into the clearing. He draws out his katana, hesitant at first, a move unfamiliar among the warriors. They never hesitate. Not in the thrill of battle where one moment of hesitation decides the victors and the losers. My strings lower his hand slowly, slowly, slowly, like a feather-soft touch. He sheathes the blade. Victory is mine.

Our eyes meet. His grow wild at the sight of me. Long black hair. Skin as white as snow. Full lips painted red. His throat bobs, his sorrow forgotten.

"Come," I say, beckoning him with a finger. "Let me play you a song."

I turn to face the river, a bubbling stream of indigo that glistens by the light of the moon and the stars. Discarding my wooden sandals, I wade through it. The water is warm and soothing. Polished stones tickle my fingers and my kimono flutters around me in a pool of gold.

Behind me, my warrior moves in silence, a puppet following its master. When he stumbles, my strings steady his feet and when he pauses, they give him a gentle push on the back. I picture his future unfolding before my eyes. It is something I like to do. There are thousands and thousands of possibilities and outcomes, a maze of paths that intertwine or part ways. In one life, I see a noble samurai rising through the ranks to become a legend, a wife to cherish him and children to bear his legacy. In another life, I see a man on the cusp of despair, drowning in alcohol and madness.

"Come closer," I say to him. He hastens his pace, ignoring the weight of his soaked armor. "Good. Leave that here. You won't need it." I tug my strings. He drops the katana into the water. It sinks with a loud plop before hitting the river bed. His armor is next.

We pass through a waterfall that gushes in swift torrents. My drenched kimono hugs my curves. I hear a soft release of breath and a moment later, calloused fingers tickle my neck. My warrior will wait no more.

I take his hand and lead him into a dark cave. Forgotten cave. My sweet sweet home. He gropes in the darkness, trips on a piece of bone and teeters on his feet. I hold his arm, halting his fall. I make him sit on the ground, light a candle and then I play my biwa. My strings curl and twist to the beat of my song, rising up his hands and legs, hardening to form a crisscrossed web. I sing him a song of promised lies and wicked monsters, half-truths and broken futures. They thicken around his body, covering his torso and his neck. And as his mouth is at last, sealed shut by my web, the glassy sheen in his eyes fades. Terror contorts his features. He squirms and squirms like a caterpillar on the grooves of a maize cob but the web remains strong.

"Shhhhh!" I hiss. "Stop struggling and listen."

I sing him a song of hushed screams and cruel fate, relentless hunts and filled bellies. And as my voice lowers to a soft hum, his face blanches.

I settle my biwa on the floor and then rise to my full height. Bones pop and scrunch. Flesh tears and reforms. My pale hands darken and elongate into claws. My feet become claws too. My eight beady eyes see better than ever. He lets out a muffled scream, struggling to free himself.

Humans call me a Jorōgumo, a monster born from the darkness. That is a lie. I am no monster. They are. They poison the lands and the rivers with their smog and waste, trample the ground to squash the plants and burn the trees to make way for cities. And me? Is it wrong to want to live? To carve out a life from the harsh realities of our world? I think not.

My claws reach for my warrior, my mouth twisting into a smile. Tonight, I will not sleep hungry.