Scars

Shinta closed his eyes. He clenched his fists into his tiny hands. Nande? This time no one would comfort him. He would never again see his mother's gentle smile or his father's strong grip. Shinta was alone, and now one would wipe away his tears or fight away his fears. His mother and father were dead, as they had been for a year. Now Sakura, Kasumi, and Akane, were dead too. Hot tears pooled down the child's cheeks as he thought of every loved one who he lost. His mother and father had met their death from cholera, and his three oneechan died at the hand of a sword. Now it was dusk, the boy saw, and a blood-red sky hovered over him. Blood, he thought solemnly beyond his tender years, I've seen blood far too much lately. He had seen blood coated on his parent's lips as they breathed their lasts breaths, and saw Sakura's throat become thick with blood as a sword pierced through. There were many others, nameless ones, who had died, and whose dark blood stained the ground. Shinta, the soon-to-be-prostitute orphan, was the only one who had survived. He didn't understand how it happened, of how he had survived when other people more worthy of life – Sakura, Kasumi, Akane, and his parents – had simply died, becoming ghosts to him. Do yatte? Shinta thought again, remembering the pale and cool feel of the sword as he tried to defend those he loved. It was all in vain. They weren't alive anymore.

Shinta remembered his mother's and father's last moments. They had only contracted cholera a week ago, from the soggy and insufficient rice that they had been given by their lord. Somehow, Shinta hadn't succumbed. Instead of waking up early in the morning from the sound of his father's scythe, he heard his father's groans of pain. Vomit and excretion covered the dirt floor, and Shinta looked across the modest hut to see his mother wiping her worn kimono over his father's face. His father had his eyes closed, and his breathing was labored.

"Hiro..." his mother whispered in despair. Her long red hair was now soaked in perspiration, and a couple of strands lingered in her eyes. Her beautiful face was now strained in tension. She suddenly saw her small son standing beside her, motionless. "Shinta!" She had cracked. "Tasukute!"

His mother had then succumbed to the disease as well. Shinta had to nurse his ailing mother and father. Vomit, excretion, urine, and bowels stained his green kimono, and the boy didn't complain. This was the only family that he had. These were the only people who gave him a shred of kindness, and who unconditionally loved him. And now he was about to lose them. Shinta wiped his mother's pale face with his hands. She, like his father, was barely breathing. Shinta felt a lump in his throat watching them. They were both going to die, and leave him alone. Silently, the child began to cry. Tears slowly flowed down his cheeks, and dribbled onto his mother's bed. Suddenly, he felt a hand touch his cheek. The touch was gentle, and he recognized those coarse hands. His mother was smiling at him. Her eyes were bloodshot, her mouth was coated with dried blood and mucus, and she had tears in her eyes too.

"Shinta…" she whispered. "I know…you don't know…happiness. But…promise me…that you will…find it. Promise me…my son. You must…" Her breath became shallow, and she closed her eyes. Against his will, tears emerged from Shinta's eyes. "Don't…cry…Shinta. Promise me…promise me…" she whispered, "that…you will live and find happiness. Promise me, Shinta."

"I – I will," Shinta promised. His father had become still hours before, and his mother would soon too be frozen. The child couldn't help but look away.

"Live, Shinta." His mother whispered, and then she died.

The slave traders had come after that. They had wanted all three of the peasants, and were sadly disappointed when they were told two of them, Hiro and his wife, Yasu, had died. Their young son, however, the lord told them, had not succumbed to the disease and still lived. Shinta had his hands bound in chains, listless after his parents' deaths hours before. He watched dully with indifference as the slave traders burnt his only home he knew with flames. Now his home and his family were gone. Shinta was very small and delicate for his age, but he wasn't prepared for being sold into prostitution. Countless of dirty hands had fondled him in deep places, and each night, the child was cold and didn't cry. The men were not gentle, and had beaten him bloody a number of times. Every time, Shinta wasn't taken, and had to become a different sort of slave once again.

Days and weeks turned into years. Shinta was now ten years old. His parent's faces now had become blurred, and he couldn't even remember his father's voice. He could only remember that he promised his dying mother that he would live and find happiness. Sakura, Kasumi, and Akane, had appeared then. Somehow they had a soft spot for the young child, and treated him as if they were his own. Kasumi gave him her only treasure one day. A top outlined with yellow and red. "Kono wa kawaitai imasu, Kasumi-san." Kasumi had only smiled, and it was then that Shinta was reminded of his beloved mother, Yasu. Somehow the three women had filled in her place. There was something else, too. Shinta had felt happy. Happiness had eluded the child growing up in poverty. His mother and father were always wondering every day if they would have enough to eat the next day. The fields took up most of their times, and only rarely did Hiro and Yasu give affection to their only son. Shinta now felt fullness within him, a fullness that hadn't been there before. He had felt safe with Sakura, Kasumi, and Akane. He had felt loved. He had felt cherished.

And now that happiness was gone. It had been taken away from him as his mother and father were. Kasumi and Akane had sacrificed their lives for him. "You must not die now. You must live. Life a full life for the sake of those who died tonight. Please live. Live, Shinta. Live for me." Sakura had pleaded with him to live, as his mother had. Those words had pained him so. "The dead will not be brought back to life by mourning or hatred. If you go to the village at the top of the mountain…and tell them your story, they will care for you." The swordsman's words echoed in his ears, but they had no meaning. Shinta didn't want to run away anymore. He didn't want to hate. He wanted to live, and to be happy, as they had asked. That was the only way he could be happy in this world.