Time reads one o'clock in the morning. I toss and turn and toss for the umpteenth time in a single hour. The winds, hostile and uneasy, continue to blow so aggressively outside, causing branches and twigs to scrape against glass window.
I turn once more, stare up at the dark ceiling walls -multiple thoughts swirling, multiple thoughts crossing the front of my mind. The red that spewed upon surface of table. The broken arm. The penknife that tore through flesh.
How can one man harbor such ease towards death and blood and havoc? Did the punishment truly fit the crime? Am I overthinking it all? I blink before the thoughts consume me entirely. I sigh in fatigue. From a distance, a great distance, my ears pick the soft sound of violin playing.
The sweet harmonies act as an intoxicating drug and I find myself sitting up against the softness of the bed, intently listening, shutting eyes, swaying head, ravishing. I have no idea for how long I just sit there taking unfathomable pleasures in hearing the instrument string on and on.
Then, everything turns into an eery quietness. The melodies cease, the winds continue to bellow violently, swinging trees and snapping branches. A few minutes in, and a knock on the door -the repeated rapping of knuckles against wooden barriers- has me arching brows in questioning. I sit put and stay still only for the urgency of the knocks to heighten.
And so, I get from under the covers, switch the lampshade on, tread lightly against carpeted grounds, slide the doors open. Man staggers forth, his head resting upon my bossom causing me to stumble a couple of feet back. He reeks of strong alcohol. His hairs are a disheveled mess. His upper body is completely nude and lower body in a pair of light white trousers.
"Tsumibito, my goodness, what is all this?" I inquire with worry and a hint of agitation and the man lifts bloodshot eyes to gaze upon me.
"Can I...let me spend the night, Rosa, please," he slurs, smiles as he squints, his left dimple popping.
"You have your own room."
He draws back entirely, moves around me and towards my bed, falls onto the mattress with a hefty bounce. I simply stare at him whilst pinching the bridge of my nose in exasperation. I blow out one long breath and finally glide the doors shut, locking them then proceeding towards the bed where the man lays.
His breaths are shallow. His eyes remain shut, obscured by the tiny hairs that pour down to just below his forehead. His back is littered with healing scars and healed slits. Could he have already fallen to sleep?
"Tsumibito," I begin, tapping and poking his shoulder repetitively, "Tsumibito, my goodness, wake up," I speak lowly.
He groans, turns to look the other way. And so, summoning every ounce of strength still clinging to my muscles, I make attempts to flip his buff figure over. It takes a good while -say five minutes or so- to rest him by his backside against the pillows. I adjust the blouse I have on, sighing in surrender.
What should I do with this man?
Looking down upon him, just staring down at the peaceful nature he so effortlessly exudes in this moment, emotions begin to rear their ugly heads, a lump in my throat begins to choke, my chest begins to constrict. Yes, I can never truly forgive him for the hell he's brought upon me. I feel for the duvet covers, bring them over his body only for his palm to grip my wrist all too suddenly.
His eyes tenderly flutter open and the lad just lays there, looking into my own with such intensity -scrutinizing, studying, roaming as though in quiet communication. One millisecond, two nanoseconds, three seconds fleet by, yet he utters not a single word. Why does my heart thrum so horribly in my chest? Why does my pulse quicken in my temples?
"You must truly hate me, Rosa," a low whisper from his lips.
And just like that, his hold falters, loosens. His arm limply falls back onto the bed, his eyes fluttering shut. I bring the covers all the way to his chest, but my efforts only prove futile because the man in his drunkenness pushes them as far away from himself as humanly possible.
I furrow brows down at him, fold arms, exhale slowly. Well, if he wishes to sleep that way then his wish prevails. I take hold of the spare covers at the foot of the bed, pad over to where the chaise is plastered, lay my fatigued self down under the warmness of light duvet. More minutes converts into excruciating hours yet no sleep comes to me.
The soft noise of body shifting against sheets coupled with the grunts and low groans that resonate have me sitting up instantaneously. There on the bed, Tsumibito appears to be battling against pursuing demons, seems to be struggling for breath of life. His body glistens with sweat under the gleaming moonlight that partially floods through high window.
My feet move on their own accord and I find myself by his side, looking down upon the man as he seemingly fights against the unseen. He simmers down, yet his breathes remain ragged. I reach for the little strands that caress his face, push them to the side gently.
What draws in my attention, what piques my curiosity is the single stream that rolls down the skin of his temple, a single tear that wets the sheets where his head is lain.
I reach for the rigidity of his chest with trembling fingers -working to wake him from whatever hell hole his mind drags him through.
Another tear trickles down his temple and the sight of it causes my heart to somewhat clench. No, I should not feel empathy for him, heavens I shouldn't! Gradually, slowly, his eyelids flutter open once again, his irises searching his surroundings. He lands his gaze on me, sits up slowly. As though in silent pleading, he softly pulls me to his body by the waist -causing me to straddle him.
He brings his forehead to rest against my bossom, slithers arms of muscle around the small of my back giving a little squeeze. Then comes the wetness that drenches the front of my shirt, his tears. He weeps in quietness, conceals the rivers of agony that roll.
"Tsumibito..."
"Just for tonight, Rosa," comes the fragile voice that quivers.
He never begs, never requests, just takes.
And so, tentatively, cautiously, I lift my arms, cup the back of his head with a single palm while the other, I snake around his broad shoulders. I keep mute for beautiful minutes, hold onto the silence of the chamber while he presses his face into the crook of my neck. Yes, when the morning comes I should live to regret my actions. Grace, what am I even doing? It is one thing to seduce my way to freedom. But to hold so closely an enemy who put me through the deepest pits of the abyss? Then...
"What is love, Obal?" Comes the partially muffled question and a hiccup.
It takes me aback, takes me a good while before I can conjure up a response. What is this question, dear grace? And to come from him of all people? Still, I try...
"Love is...love is wishing somebody all the happiness in the world even when you are not the source of it, even when you are coerced to witness from afar, even when it is another who faithfully offers it to the one you love because you cannot afford them that sort of happiness."
Again, the atmosphere laces with the quiet. Until...
"Love is foolishness, it is to give up some semblance of control to another so voluntarily."
I listen to the man as he pours out his heart for the very first time since I met him.
"I disagree, Tsumibito. Love is not foolishness, it is courage. Courage to give one's self so selflessly to another. It is salvation, perhaps the strongest emotion. Starts battles, ends wars."
He pulls away carefully, his palms holding my sides. He lifts teary eyes to me, sniffs through pink nose. And in that moment, I see the frailness, I witness the brokenness first-hand, I feel the turmoils behind the barricades and walls the man has worked with effort to erect.
I furrow brows and scrutinize his facial features. Is this he who kills and spills blood without thought? Is this he who murders without rue or remorse? This brokenness of a man is the so-called Yakuza leader? Grace, how did he come to be this way? What moulded him into what he has now become? What is his past and what lays ahead in his future?
And the rains begin to slap so harshly against the earth outside...
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Red As Snow...(BWAM, Yakuza Romance, 18+)
Romance"Growing up, my mama always told me one thing; bad company did corrupt good morals. I did not believe her, did not believe those words she'd said to me with such conviction. That was until I crossed paths with a man so lethal, a man so utterly consu...
