Red As Snow...(BWAM, Yakuza Romance, 18+)

Chapter Seven

Choice, a thing we must all succumb to, a thing we have to face with every day that passes. I made one in the wee hours of the morning, outrightly chose to save a monster from the scorching fires of hell's inferno. And from the moment I crawled back under warm covers of bed at nightfall, a good three hours back, I have simply laid atop the softness of mattress in deep thought.

Death sees no power, recognizes not fame, dominance or the prominence. She simply handpicks her choice; the ripest fruit from her garden. As I stood there by his side; the front of his shirt drenched in a deep crimson, bloody droplets on the skin of his face, wrists and palms -watching, eyes roaming, contemplating, eyes searching- I yearned to let death have his life in exchange for some sort of liberty for myself.

The urge to let him slip into oblivion was one overwhelming, like a wave that so nearly swept me off my feet. I have never resented a human as I do him, but even so, in leaving him for the dead, wouldn't that have made me just as evil as he?

I am not cold-blooded, I feel. And I did that which I deemed fit. But at what cost? Would they have released me upon his death? They've all made it clear as crystal that there is no refuge for me, no returning to my past life, no escape from hell's pits. Is there good in the knowledge that I -in a manner- helped save him? Should they be more lenient with me henceforth?

Too many thoughts, too many plunging thoughts and inquiries.

I breathe in, exhale, tossing for the umpteenth time in the past hour. Rains continue to mercilessly pour and beat against the earth, thunder crashes, lightning spears its beams through the curtained windows, the winds furiously blow.

I shut eyes, reminisce about a time when all was peace, when I was wrapped in the safety of Cush's embrace, smothered in my mother's affection, a time when I laughed at my twin's jokes -ones funny and ones not. They still continue to seek, to search, and I continue to despair.

I sigh in exasperation, sigh heavily at the insomnia that keeps me company so faithfully. I sit up straight and reach for the lampshade by the side of the bed. Illuminations flood the left of the room, and I lift eyes to gaze up at the wall clock; only milliseconds past five thirty, only minutes to the inevitable.

Luckily or unluckily for me, my formerly injured knuckles now barely sting. And thus, at six, I should be sat by the tables of the dining arena in readiness for breakfast. Shortly after, I collect garment and linen from occupants of each pagoda, including the maidens' kimonos, and I am merrily on my way to the laundry room.

Then comes evening, and I have to fetch clean clothing, fold, and deliver to each doorstep of every pagoda -a sanction for the sins of my father.
Discarding thoughts, I sigh, slip a palm into the drawers on my right, retrieve a thick, leathery novel, perusing pages till I come up to the point I left off.

Books have been a magnificent partner in the period of my stay, have assisted to numb pains, to shush demons, to block out memories for temporary, blissful hours, helped me travel from my harsh reality and into a universe where torments and turmoils are no longer a party....

†††††††††

A day, three days, two solid weeks go by, and not once have I crossed paths or stumbled upon Tsumibito, thank the heavens. He lays in his chamber -a floor below mine- at all times, and I dare not tread on unpurified grounds, inquire or question the maidens on his well being.

Still, word gets out, the maidens gather to gossip, and they say he woke -for the first time since that unholy morning- only two nights ago.
I hardly feel a thing at the knowledge of his waking in all truth.

Now, now I am fatigued by the day's tasks as I remain sat against fluffy cushions in the dining arena, in the company of his subordinates -bulky, thoroughly-tattooed men that bicker about one thing or the other, chuckle and cackle, hotly converse in their language, while others gobble down foods and drink.