The day he left, I
It was never like me to show much emotion, I guess. Just like on the day he proposed, I couldn't smile.
It was never as though I could point to a certain day or even month and say, "That's when I fell in love with Akira." I guess it's sort of the same thing; I couldn't find a time about which I could say, "This is when my happiness began."
But I was happy. He made me happy, even though I couldn't recognize that feeling as happiness. I couldn't name that feeling, and I certainly couldn't express it, so he thought I was unhappy. With him, even.The day he left, he must have thought I wouldn't miss him.
When he left, I couldn't identify that feeling as sorrow. Surely that would be enough to make me cry? I felt cold, and empty, but the tears didn't come. I wonder why that was?
The day the news of
his death came, I couldn't cry. It might sound terrible, but I wasn't
even surprised.It was as though the pit of my stomach had
dropped into a neverending black well that had formed inside of me. I
had been a terrible woman. I couldn't tell the man I loved that he
made me happy, and I couldn't stop him from rushing to his death.
But I needed something to fill that enormous void inside of me. I'd gone numb. I felt no sensation, not heat or cold, neither hunger nor pain. Flowers had no scent, food had no taste, all the color had drained out of the world. The man I loved was dead, and in that moment I realized just how much I had treasured him. Why had I been so stupid? Why couldn't I have seen this before?
Something had to fill that void.
I chose him.The man who had ended my
I couldn't feel grief, or sorrow, and no tears would come. But the hatred flowed readily. Hatred was the only thing that filled the emptiness inside of me.
He had taken my future away. Along with Akira, he murdered my happiness.
And since there was nothing left, and all that I could feel was hatred, I knew the only thing left for me was to destroy this man with my own hands.
For robbing me of my love, my life, even my tears, I would destroy the Hitokiri Battousai.
The redheaded youth
half-conciously traced the scar on his cheek with one finger.
"It must have been some swordsman who wounded your face like that," his companion commented. "That scar's as visible as ever."
"He was average at best. Some strong feeling left this."
Perhaps there was someone waiting for his return...