1943. Shanghai. A soldier of the Japanese Army happens by a club one night purely out of boredom. What he expects to find are uncouth drunks. He actually meets a beautiful African-American performer by the name of Beatrice. Throughout the next three...
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*explicit battle sequences, death, r*pe. please be warned*
go
five
Rainy days were the worst. When the water fell from the sky and hit the earth, his entire body hurt. Over the years, his wife's presence had been more than simply therapeutic. When they were younger and his leg or back hurt, she'd take him to soak in a large tub filled with some kind of purifying salt. She'd lather her hands with aromatic oils and softly work the knots and kinks out of his muscles until he'd be all but putty beneath her. Sometimes, she'd hum, other times she'd sing... and all the while, the pain in his head too would subside and melt away.
Hands were an interesting thing. It fascinated him how humans took them for granted. Without the muscle, sinew, and bone, one could not eat, reach, grab, pull... It was amazing how the digits served an important purpose for essential living. Thunder now crackled in the dark firmament. Lightning tore the clouds apart, an impressive show of pinkish-red color flashing throughout the atmosphere. Matsuda...His eyes concentrated on his hands. Matsuda...He tried to stretch his fingers but pain made it impossible... Matsuda...Matsuda...MATSU-
***
"-DA! HURRY UP!" Rain pelted them as they filed out of the Army trucks. Blinded by the onslaught, he grit his teeth and ran forward, the call of their superior officer up ahead.
"Assume positions!" Immediately crashing hard into the thick mud, he aligned his machine gun against him, finger on the trigger.
"Damned white baboons! Shoot on sight! Don't allow them to advance!" A uniform cry echoed throughout the forests. Heart beating wildly in his chest, he could see the landscape off in the distance. The fortresses they'd safeguarded. Now being invaded slowly by the enemy forces. The firing squad was all deathly quiet, except for their breath. In mid-July, sweat poured down his face and neck, the slippery moisture making his hands slide a bit against the trigger. His uniform stuck to him like a second skin and the humidity licked his face with red hot flames, making it hard to breathe.
He slowed his breathing, thin streams of sweat dangerously slipping close by his tear ducts. The sound of water sloshing pierced the stillness and the sound of heavy tinkling from equipment rose next and he tightened his position on the trigger. Sharply looking to his left, they all waited for the order to fire. After a little while yet and closer still they came, the Superior Officer lifted his hand. Without warning, bullets began to ring out as they sliced through trees, water, muscle, and bone.
***
She'd had a great evening. Nothing too out of the ordinary. She'd gone out with some girlfriends to a popular eating spot and danced to some swing. By the time she went to sleep, she had been completely exhausted. Deep in slumber, she had been unaware of the chaos that was happening around her. It wasn't until she had been shaken awake by her brother that she grew terrifyingly sober.
