Kami

Shame

What is this petulance? Have I not paid you back in full for your offerings? I do not live off of your measly scraps. It is not the rabbit you bring me that feeds me. It is the act. Do you not understand this? The worship? Where you not coveted by a lover once? Did you not yourself feel the reverence? The love and affection flowing through your very being, exceeding that earthly sustenance. Just like the loss of it will exceed the most venomous poison. Yes, you surely must have felt this. And yet, you are nothing like me. A human. That is all. A rabbit.

You bend down. You bow. The voiceless dictate pushes you forward towards the cloth covered blade. The sword you were given once. Your own sword. The white linen is unblemished. Straight. A muscle in your lower back is trembling. It is a welcome focus away from the inevitable pain. Your seiza is near perfect. The light bow lets you reach the cool blade. You lay your right hand on the tsuka. In a smooth move, you draw the sword out from under the cloth. A mild breeze blows across your face as you blink. This was always your favourite blade. The katana was beautiful and light but this was dear to you in some profound way. You said once that the hamon reminds you of the mountains near the sea. It doesn't anymore, I am sure. It extends onto the kissaki. That most wonderfully polished tip. The poem you drew lies on the small stool in front of you. You put a lot of effort into it but I don't think anyone will read it. Oh, is that a tear in your eye? It is, isn't it? You child! Behind you to the right, Kohaku is breathing lightly. He had been kaishakunin before. You know that Kohaku possesses the skill; that he may perform the dakikubi even if you should falter in your seiza. But you wouldn't, would you? Falter. I will be there to guide your hand. Make sure that I get my prize. My rabbit.

Many had guessed at your motives to pick your wakizashi and not a tanto as everybody else. It is not unheard of, I am aware of that, but certainly not the usual choice either. But you love that blade. I can see it in your eyes when you wield it. You so loved the happo biraki and really believed it to shield you from attack. In reality, it was I who did that. Shielded you. Surely you can count. Eight sides? There is a ninth, but I think you are beginning to realize that now.

Behind you, you can hear Kohaku make a quiet step back with his right foot. You can't see him but you know that his sword will be drawn within seconds now. Once he does, it will be held upwards in his right hand, his left kept at his side. There it stays until the final movement. The left hand has only one purpose here. To stop at the dakikubi. Precisely there and not cut all the way through. You draw your left arm out of the kimono sleeve and part the front. Such a pity. The plain white fabric is like the camellia flowers growing in the courtyard near the wall. Faultless. Your thoughts wander. The oil on your sword smells faintly of the camellia seeds it was pressed from. A closing circle? Your white kimono will soon be of the colour of the other camellias. Yes, a circle. Reaching out from within your kimono, you pick up the linen cloth from the stool and fold it gently around the blade near the habaki. You pray... How dare you!? You so happily accepted my gifts and now you pray to another god! You insolent prick! As you thrust the sword into your abdomen, I nudge your hand slightly. Instead of penetrating the skin and sever the liver, the kissaki hits the underside of the rib cage and tears through your diaphragm; and I can tell you know I did it. You will not scream but as the bottom of your left lung is punctured, you very nearly do. Then you drag. I have no other word for it, really. You drag the blade across your stomach. The elegance is not in you. It fizzled out of your lung a second ago. That tiny nudge spilt it, didn't it? You are so easy to control. Then I do it again. I nudge. This time the kissaki grazes the spine. There is a large artery there. You didn't know that. You do now! As it severs, the heart immediately loses its counter pressure. Blood pumps into the abdomen and spews out through the lash you have not even finished cutting. Blood literally gushes out of the wound and your right hand slips on the tsuka. Only your left still finds traction through the blood-soaked linen wrapped around the blade. Your vision is blurry, almost sightless, but you can still make out the woman in front of you. She smiles. The woman you wronged. She shouldn't smile. Protocol denies that. But I gave her this moment. This puny charade. Shocked by your blunder, Kohaku has become doubtful. Unlike you, however, he possesses actual skill. He straightens his katana and regaining his posture, cuts down at your exposed neck. The blade severs the spine and he stops exactly in time to leave the windpipe intact. Why am I even continuing this? You are dead.