|
|
Irony
Ironic, really.
I stare at the little container on my desk, letting my emotions sweep over me. Pain, grief, anger, the usual. And irony, of course.
Baka, baka, baka.
Why'd you make me feel this way?
In the midst of my tears, an idea comes to me. Crazy, but then, aren't our lives always crazy? This wouldn't hurt anything.
I snatch up the plastic cylinder and run out the door. I'll make him see the irony in this, I will.
Even though he's dead.
It's cold and damp outside, much like the day we held his funeral, as if the earth also mourns his passing. My steps lead me to the far corner of the cemetery, to a small sakura tree. The bright colors of the blossoms are muted and dull, keeping in sync with the gray theme of the day.
There's a small grave in the shade—if the sun was out, that is—of the tree. Grass grows long here, spotted with wildflowers. The stone monument at the head of the plot has a simple carving on it, a line of flowers and birds that curl elegantly around the inscribed kanji.
My mother's grave.
I pause in front of it for a moment, feeling the old pain, now dulled with time, rise up again in my heart. I haven't felt like this ever since she went away. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, though; the circumstances are basically the same.
After awhile, I shake my head and proceed to the next grave. This one is freshly dug, the scent of damp earth heady in my nostrils. There's a simple granite monument at the head of the dark rectangle. This one is unadorned but for his name, reflecting the person it represents; for all his ego, his tendency to show off, he was in reality a very basic person. All he truly cared about was getting enough food in his stomach, finding a warm place to sleep, and the Art.
And me.
Ironic. I only realized it as he was slipping away in my arms, when he told me himself. I only realized my feelings for him after those beautiful prussian blue eyes closed for the last time.
I never got a chance to tell him I loved him.
Ironic.
I kneel before the patch of disturbed dirt, the bottle clutched tightly in my hand. Choking back my tears, I frantically search for the words to express my thoughts, but finding none, I settle for a single, simple question.
"Why?"
The wind whips the solitary word from my lips, the mournful sound flying through the air. Likewise, my tears are swept away by a cold hand, leaving my cheeks scoured and raw with icy pain. I notice almost none of it; after all, what mere physical wound could compare with the agony of a broken heart?
Winner of so many battles, victor of fights that would leave your ordinary man begging for mercy. Except he wasn't ordinary.
The great martial artist, taken down in his youth, not by another, but from his own hand. If he'd ever died, he would have, should have, gone down in fighting, a blaze of glory, one last stand. Never giving up.
But far from it, his end was the very act of surrender, of one who had already lost everything.
But you didn't, I cry silently, making my way to the headstone, heedless of the streaks of dirt on my clothing. How could you have lost, you had your whole life ahead of you! You didn't lose . . .
But it was too late for those types of words, far too late. I press my cheek against the cold, hard stone, feeling the grooves of the engraved lettering under my skin. My tears wet the unforgiving coolness as the empty pill bottle drops from my lifeless fingers.
Ironic.
~owari~